Everyone Has a Plan Until They Get Hit
Change course northwest. Everyone has a plan. Until they get punched in the face.
Cheong had a perfectly reasonable plan of her own. She had drunk the poisoned wine. For starters, the blame for that little incident could be pinned on the errand boy who had been blackmailed into poisoning her for reasons unknown. After that, the fault lay with the inn for poor customer service and mismanaging its staff. But Cheong didn’t blame the inn. Not yet. She was saving that for tomorrow.
After spending the night and eating a late breakfast before departure, she would order an entire table’s worth of food and drink. Then she would demand compensation for damages and enjoy a free feast before leaving. There was a reason behind this utterly wicked scheme. First, the innkeeper had the gall to keep apologizing without ever offering anything for free. Second, if she demanded compensation right away, there was no telling what the kitchen might do to her breakfast the next morning. She had no desire to eat food laced with spit.
Cheong fell asleep giggling at the thought of tomorrow’s ruined dishes, only to be jolted awake by the sound of clashing steel. What the hell was that? Layered noise complaints? She closed her eyes again. But once something caught her attention, human nature made it impossible to ignore. The cheerful clanging continued. Stomping and crashing followed in rhythm. Something inside Cheong snapped.
Her patience, already worn thinner than overcooked noodles since entering the murim, had finally run out. She grabbed her sword and burst outside.
“You fucking bastards! Let me sleep! Sleep, you—!”
Her roar was cut short. A wave of killing intent slammed into her. Cheong twisted like a bow, the blade grazing her chest. She straightened and drove her left fist into the attacker’s armpit with the momentum. A sickening crack. The man wheezed, his breath caught, and his body folded. In that instant, Wolgwang-geom fell vertically, splitting his skull from crown to philtrum.
“Brother!”
A furious cry. A straight thrust came flying. Cheong seized the corpse by the collar and yanked it forward. The incoming blade punched through the dead man’s solar plexus. She shoved, sending the corpse crashing down atop its killer. Yanking Wolgwang-geom free like an axe from firewood, she watched blood and pale brain matter trickle between the split halves of the skull, mixing into a sickly pink.
The man pinned beneath screamed. Too noisy. Cheong stomped on the corpse’s waist and drove her reversed blade into its back. Two bodies, double the thickness, double the feedback. A few strikes against the floor and the screaming stopped. Spineless bastard.
Cheong clicked her tongue and flicked the blood from her sword. “What the hell is going on here?”
The better inns in the Central Plains were built in a square shape, with guest rooms on the outer ring, a corridor and railing on the inner side, and an open courtyard in the center for light. From the corridor, one could see everything above and below on three sides. And beneath the moonlight, blades clashed in every direction. It was a war of all against all.
What was this? Some cultural event the second-year murim resident didn’t know about? It suddenly occurred to her that the inn had been suspiciously full of unsavory types. Maybe there was a tradition of bad people gathering on a set night to kill each other.
Then—
“Myeong-ah!”
A desperate voice. Cheong’s head snapped toward the first floor. A figure with a child strapped to its back. She sprinted down the corridor and leapt. She landed on two feet and one knee, one hand touching the ground—the classic hero’s entrance. Wolgwang-geom dropped neatly into her outstretched right hand.
Cheong slowly rose beneath the moonlight. “Hoo…” She endured the pain in her knee and palm. Apparently, that was part of being a hero. In truth, it had been a terrible landing with zero shock absorption. Still, it had the desired effect. The kidnapper took a step back, overwhelmed by her presence. He couldn’t gauge her level, but that single move had looked extremely impressive.
“Put the child down and disappear. I’ll spare your life.”
Cheong released sword qi, strands of it coiling and blooming along the blade—a display of force. Even she couldn’t just cut down a kidnapper holding a child. The man hesitated, then suddenly hurled the child away. Cheong lunged in surprise and caught her, only to feel a burning pain shoot through her arm. A throwing knife was buried in her upper arm, the hilt jutting out.
“I did it!” someone shrieked. Cheong’s head whipped around. Her eyes met the man who had thrown the knife. He turned and ran, still shouting. “Kill her! She’s been poisoned with Seven Treasures Toxin—she won’t last long!”
That son of a bitch. Had he not seen her drink the poisoned wine? The light faded from Cheong’s eyes. She was going to kill that bastard. She was going to slaughter him. But first, others rushed in, emboldened by the mention of the toxin. Cheong tucked Jin Jangmyeong under her arm and hurled her sword. While one man faltered trying to deflect it, her hand formed the shape of the Buddha’s palm.
Deeng—!
The sound of a temple bell. One nearby head exploded, scattering fragments of scalp, shattered bone, brain matter, and two eyeballs still attached to their stalks. Killing intent surged from the left. Jin Jangmyeong was on that side. Cheong dropped low and spun two and a half times. Her accelerated foot hooked an enemy’s ankle, sending him flying in a straight line from his own momentum. She stomped on his neck and charged forward.
A spearhead flew toward her thigh. She grabbed the shaft, but another blade whistled through the air—a massive saber. Cheong clutched the child and threw herself flat. The saber came down. She rolled frantically, the weapon hammering the floor in her wake. The throwing knife in her arm tore the wound wider. It hurt so much she couldn’t even scream. The world spun. Her arm burned. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.
She seized an ankle. Her fist clenched. Internal energy crushed the joint. Bone ground and splintered, tearing through skin to tickle her palm. A strange warmth bloomed gently from her dantian. The pain eased slightly. She kicked the owner of the ankle away. The man who had been striking the floor tumbled with his flying foot. Cheong sprang up using the rebound and reached out. Her inner energy surged violently.
Deeng—!
Yeorae Shinjang’s brutal palm force blasted outward. A headless body collapsed toward her. She retrieved a sword from the corpse while tucking Jin Jangmyeong back under her arm. Welcome back, Wolgwang-geom.
She gripped Wolgwang-geom (No. 7). The heat in her dantian spread through her entire body. In that moment, Cheong lost herself. A state of no-mind. It was a strange experience. She felt as if she were lying comfortably warm inside her own body while someone else moved it. She soon found the right word for it.
Auto-hunt.
Cheong walked forward. She spun and stepped lightly, dancing as if in a good mood, like a beautiful woman enjoying herself. A streak of silver traced afterimages at her side. Sometimes it curved far to sever wrists, drawing screams while the woman trembled. Circular patterns became whirlpools that pierced hearts, sliced spleens, and sketched intestines. A gentle hand drew a single horizontal stroke connecting ear to ear, and a head opened like a lid. With every light step, blood flowed. Life faded, and the woman smiled.
At last, in the center of the inn, beneath the scattered moonlight, the swordswoman stood alone with the child in her arms. Only then did Cheong return to herself. Crushing fatigue pressed down on her. She nearly staggered. What the—give my body back. It was easier before!
“Myeong-ah!”
Yang Sowol came running, covered in blood. She had been a reliable ally, throwing chopsticks whenever danger struck. It had been far more helpful than any clumsy thrown weapon. She took the child and drew her sword to stand guard beside Cheong. The battle was over.
The inn was a mess of corpses and ownerless limbs. The wounded groaned, clutching their injuries. Some crawled about searching for their own hands and feet. The surviving fighters watched Cheong warily.
“The feast is over. Everyone go home.”
She smiled as she spoke, but it was all bluster—as her good lines usually were. She had no internal energy left. Standing on her trembling legs was already difficult. The power of martial arts generally scaled with internal energy consumption. Wolnyeo Sword was a peerless divine art. Two uses of Yeorae Shinjang had also taken their toll. Though her qi cultivation was originally like this, Yeorae Shinjang was the absolute pinnacle even among them. It was not a technique a mere Peak realm martial artist should be using.
The survivors still hesitated. Cheong spoke again.
“I’m not in the best shape either, honestly. Still, I can take two out of every three of you with me. One in three odds. How about it? Worth a try?”
That settled it.
“We’ll be taking our leave. May we collect the bodies?”
“Leave the dead men’s money pouches.”
“…Thank you for your consideration.”
Some turned away despondently. Others gathered their comrades’ corpses. One man spoke of vengeance.
“I am Choi Beon of the Gangneung Jang Clan. You will pay for this blood someday.”
“Whatever you say.”
Chatty bastard. Under normal circumstances she would have picked a fight, but the situation being what it was, Cheong simply stood her ground until every last enemy had withdrawn.