Chapter 970: It’s Me, You Fuckers (6)

“I wrecked the Heart-Eating Demon Emperor this year, in February, okay?”

“The Heart-Eating Demon Emperor? That Blood Cult bastard who eats hearts? The one they say is in the Transcendent Demon realm?”

“Transcendent Demon, my ass. More like... Transcendent Realm-ish, but not really. Just stupidly huge internal energy and raw output.”

Qing spilled what happened in Liaodong.

Like always, she rambled—looping back, wandering off, hard to follow.

But if the speaker talked like mashed dog food and the listener understood like sticky rice cake, communication worked just fine.

And as he listened, Seolga-nom marveled, and marveled again, and then marveled some more—because how could you not, when it was a hero story like that?

“...Yeah, it does sound like he got his ass beat and then spread pathetic rumors. But that happened in Liaodong around February, right? How can a rumor from there arrive faster than I do? Rumors are fast, sure, but that’s not possible.”

“If they’re using carrier pigeons... hm. Even then, it’s still too fast. Unless they’re doing some kind of thousand-li divine communication...”

Seolga-nom murmured, as if organizing his thoughts.

Qing’s ears perked up.

“Thousand-li divine communication?”

“You don’t know thousand-li divine communication? A divine power that delivers your voice to someone a thousand li away. They say immortals use it when they speak to the mortal world.”

“Divine power? That’s all made up, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s made up. To pack your voice and send it a thousand li—how much internal energy would that take? And besides, how would you even aim it, when you don’t know where the listener is within a thousand li?”

Qing suddenly thought of her hometown.

Hearing it put that way, wireless communication really was an insane technology.

And if she thought about it, the era when individuals could use it freely hadn’t even lasted a full fifty years. Her parents’ generation used some strange machine that delivered only numbers without voice, or something.

But.

This was pseudo–Middle Ages.

Similar to her homeland’s Middle Ages, but not the same.

More than anything, it was a bizarre, primitive era where cosmic mysteries actually existed.

“Couldn’t someone imitate it somehow... with sorcery?”

“That doesn’t sound like you. Sorcery? If that were possible, those sorcery peddlers would be rolling in money. What, can they call lightning and start fires too? If they could, everyone would become a sorcerer—who would bother being a Murim martial artist?”

“Huh? What’s wrong with sorcery? Gathering qi and firing a palm blast is possible, but using spells to transmit a voice isn’t?”

“Martial arts are different.”

“No, why—then what about formations?”

“Formations are techniques that twist the qi of heaven and earth. People categorize them as sorcery, but formations are also a discipline that’s been studied since ancient times.”

“Then—uh—right, there’s stuff like corpse-crafting sorcery too.”

“Corpse-crafting is less ‘sorcery’ and more like a crooked art tied to medicine.”

“What’s the difference between sorcery and crooked arts?”

“Sorcery is sorcery, and crooked arts are crooked arts.”

“Ugh. This is suffocating.”

For a second he looked sharp, like maybe he really was brilliant—then he did this.

No way could he represent “the Three Provinces” like this.

Seolga-nom got demoted again: not “supreme intellect,” but “Hubei Province’s top intellect.”

If the Zhuge Family in Wuhan heard that, they might feel wronged—but fortunately, there was no way to read Qing’s thoughts.

Anyway, that was what Central Plain people’s “understanding” of sorcery amounted to.

They grouped formations and corpse-crafting under the umbrella, but formations were formations, corpse-crafting was corpse-crafting, and “sorcery” wasn’t really the same thing.

Because Qing came from a world where the existence of qi wasn’t clearly proven.

So whether it was martial arts or sorcery, both looked like impossible mysteries to her.

But to Central Plain people?

Martial arts were a craft that had existed since ancient times, naturally.

Sorcery, on the other hand, was suspicious even as a concept.

And the kinds of bastards who went on about sorcery had such rock-bottom credibility to begin with.

So-called sorcerers, shamans, and “alchemists” were basically the same as the scams from Qing’s homeland—Do you know the Way, ma’am? Oh my, your face reads so well, elder! Free performances for seniors! Free duck-meat tasting coupons! If you want to be rich, you have to own my business! Cheap—eat and go!

In other words: pure scammer trash.

“Anyway, what are you going to do? Once a rumor spreads, it’s a headache. A rumor like ‘your breasts are as big as your head’—fine, that’s true, so whatever. But seed-extraction demonic arts? That’s nasty.”

“What can I do. I’ll call it my fate.”

“...You’re just going to leave it?”

“You can’t be a good person to everyone. And people don’t need a reason to dislike someone, either. The ones who’ll believe it will believe it, and the ones who won’t won’t. If I leave it alone, it’ll fade or it won’t.”

Qing’s real question had only been about the unnatural speed of the rumor’s spread.

A stupid rumor like that—she could be confident. Her people weren’t going to believe it.

And even if someone did believe it, it wasn’t like they’d suddenly flip and go, You bitch, you were the villain of all under heaven!

Not the Half-Sword Twin-Blade Society.

Not the Priestess Order people.

And the Martial Alliance too—there was the Alliance Master, and Chunbong, and others she could trust.

So why should she care about idiots who didn’t know her, and didn’t need to?

And it wasn’t all bad, either.

What if someone showed up demanding she hand over the seed-extraction demonic arts?

Anyone craving that wasn’t going to be decent.

And anyone attacking for someone else’s martial art was even less decent.

Meaning: someone she could kill.

A bastard comes looking for you even when you’re doing nothing?

That’s a huge win.

That was Qing’s thinking.

But Seolga-nom’s brows jumped up, then settled again.

“Ah. Right. You just arrived, so you wouldn’t know yet. It isn’t that simple.”

Seolga-nom explained.

North of the Yangtze, the Martial Alliance’s influence was strong—really because of the Demonic Cult’s weed-clearing campaigns—so rumors didn’t carry much power.

But south of the river, it wasn’t like that.

And hearing Qing’s story made one thing clear: since it spread so fast and so widely, the rumor didn’t originate from a single point. It started in multiple places.

Which meant the Blood Cult had to be working the angles.

The problem was that people were swarming in the moment they heard “seed-extraction demonic arts.”

Did she see those bastards sprawled outside on the road? They weren’t beggars. They were moths drawn to the flame.

So many people flooded in that there weren’t enough rooms, and they were sleeping in the street—making the whole town look like it had turned into a beggar pit.

For now, they were only gathering and clustering.

Because they were afraid to touch the Priestess Order, famous as an orthodox Daoist sect.

Because Qing hadn’t shown herself yet.

And because the Jagwi County Magistrate was putting on a strict face and running patrols with yamen troops, watching them.

But if it stayed like this, the moment one bastard made the first move, the rest could surge forward and cause an incident.

Someone might incite them into a major disaster.

Or with this many Murim people packed together, all it would take was one small spark for them to start fighting each other and turn everything into chaos.

“An incident like what?”

“If it were me—” Seolga-nom coughed. “I mean, as an example. You could kidnap a Priestess Order disciple. You could try going after your niece. A hostage is one of the most effective tools. You could do both. And if you dress it up right, you could even make it look like there’s a conspirator inside the Priestess Order trying to obtain seed-extraction demonic arts. If you stir up internal strife like that, it becomes even easier to commit atrocities.”

The way he said it felt uncomfortably like experience talking.

But Qing didn’t notice.

Because just imagining it made rage surge up into her throat.

Qing’s expression twisted, and from deep in her eyes an ominous color flared.

What did you just say? These bastards...?

“Then how—no. Seolga-nom, can you make me a list of the dangerous ones first?”

They’d worked together before. Back then, they were the perfect pair.

Seolga-nom pointed at the target, and Qing sliced it clean.

Of course, it was a good memory for Qing.

For Seolga-nom, it was a very, very bad memory.

Seolga-nom waved his hands like he was calming her down.

Whoa, whoa. Easy. Good girl. Whoa, whoa.

Like he was facing an excited dog.

For a moment, Qing’s face deflated from fury into stunned disbelief.

“What—are you—”

“Calm down. The best method is to crush them with authority. At the sect level, declare you won’t forgive anyone who even speaks that absurd slander. If the Great Mother says it, it’ll be even more effective. And with you, you could draw out an official statement from the Martial Alliance. If that happens, who would dare put your filthy rumor in their mouth?”

“That’s... kind of...”

Qing trailed off.

First, she didn’t really want to drag the Priestess Order into it.

Strictly speaking, she wasn’t actually a disciple—more like an honorary member.

And selfishly—no, very selfishly—she’d rather drag in the Martial Alliance than drag in the Priestess Order. She didn’t want that.

Of course, she didn’t really want to drag in the Martial Alliance either.

Doing that over her personal business felt like a huge imposition.

Qing’s bad habit was flaring again.

The rule: handle your own problems yourself.

Seolga-nom slowly shook his head.

Even though Qing was, by nature, a slaughtering demon—she didn’t hesitate to help people, and she picked people up like stray cats.

But when it came to her own business, she got strict, sitting there afraid she might burden others.

That was the kind of evaluation people who knew Qing tended to share—because people’s evaluations were mostly similar, and your behavior always showed it.

“Once the Blood Cult is involved, it isn’t your personal problem. For now, go up and discuss it with the sect elders. When you decide, tell me. I have connections in the trading house too, so I’ll help as much as I can within that.”

“Come on. What power does a trading house even have?”

“Don’t underestimate the merchant world. Merchants have their own ways.”

To be precise, it wasn’t the merchant world so much as a zealot collective.

But Seolga-nom couldn’t exactly say, Actually, the trading house isn’t just a trading house. It’s a den of Demonic Cultists.

Not like he could tell her that.

But Qing, not knowing, felt oddly moved.

Just yesterday, he’d been trembling and cooperating like, Just spare my life.

Now he was saying he’d help.

Wow. Seolga-nom really grew up.

Whether it was Seolga-nom or Seol Garyeon, “size” had been grown for a long time—but thoughts were free.

Anyway.

That was that.

For now, she needed to hurry up the mountain—to the Priestess Order, to home.

*****

For that reason, as Qing climbed the mountain trail, her steps felt heavy and dull.

Normally she’d be basking in the thought of putting the snacks she’d brought one by one into Jayeo’s mouth, being pleased with herself and babbling about how this must be the feeling of a father carrying fried chicken home.

But—

Home was still home.

Home, sweet home—the hometown of the heart everyone carried inside, the warm shelter from the rough world.

Unlike Jagwi County, which changed every time she came and always felt unfamiliar in some subtle way, this steep mountain path up to Priestess Peak hadn’t changed at all. It was the same as ever—familiar because she knew it.

So the higher she climbed, the more it felt like the knot inside her was loosening.

And that ridgeline—

Once she crossed this pass, the Priestess Order’s main gate would come into view up on that height.

For some reason, she could almost picture Yeonseo and Sarang waiting for her.

Qing’s steps up the slope sped up—past fast walking, into something that was almost running, but not quite, a bbol-bbol-bbol-bbol bounce of momentum.

And so—

Seomun Cheong, finally returning.