Chapter 80
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 80
Chapter Title: What the Hell Are You Doing? (1)
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The value of information is proportional to its scarcity and timeliness. The more exclusive knowledge a group possesses, the greater its worth. The Beggars' Sect and the Hao Clan are prime examples of organizations that understand this and exploit it effectively.
There are countless minor intelligence networks scattered about, but few would deny that the Beggars' Sect and Hao Clan represent the pinnacle of information gathering.
Yet if forced to name the absolute best between the two, most would point to the Beggars' Sect.
Why?
Light and shadow.
As everyone knows, the Hao Clan operates in the shadows, with most of its members drawn from the lower classes—courtesans, gamblers, fortune-tellers, night soil men, and the like. Their activities aren't exactly something to boast about in the open.
The Beggars' Sect, by contrast, forms one of the pillars of the Nine Great Sects. It stands as a righteous martial faction and a symbol of justice in the martial world.
One might argue there's little difference between beggars and other lowly folk.
But no one dares belittle the Beggars' Sect.
No sect that earns their enmity lasts long. Even without direct intervention, they ensure some form of misfortune befalls the offender, making it impossible to dismiss them as mere vagrants.
To reach their current stature, the Beggars' Sect must relentlessly gather intelligence and maintain superiority over rivals.
So how do they collect it?
The Beggars' Sect doesn't even need to try—they naturally amass vast amounts of information. Beggars can be found everywhere, regardless of era or place. Even in the most prosperous dynasties, they persisted.
"Through the mouths of beggars, one knows the heart of the people," as the saying goes. The sentiments they relay reflect harsh reality.
But information knows no rank. Without effort, even it can slip away.
In a shabby huddle under ragged sacks, beggars sat in a circle.
Hmm.
A man wore a displeased expression.
His clothes were patched rags, mended with scraps over every tear, faded and soiled beyond recognition. His dirt-caked face made his age impossible to guess.
Middle-aged? Elderly?
Surprisingly, he was in his early thirties. His exact birth year was unknown—he'd been abandoned in a beggars' den as an infant.
He didn't stink, but he was unmistakably a beggar.
Yet no one who knew him took him lightly. Five knots dangled from his waist sash. Knots symbolized the Beggars' Sect, their number denoting rank.
Five-Knot Beggar.
Few in the sect reached such a position in their thirties. Above him lay Law Elder, Elder, Vice Leader, and Sect Leader.
He was the division chief overseeing branches, including the Anhui division.
Hong the Crippled Beggar, Yong Chuseong.
He sat casually on a makeshift seat, chin in hand, deep in thought.
The other beggars lounged around him just as informally.
Unlike other sects that fuss over protocol based on status, the Beggars' Sect ignores petty etiquette. Hierarchy is clear, of course—they simply disdain formality.
"Divine Armor of Mythical Refinement? You think that's real?"
"Should I speak freely?"
"Lie if you want. If it comes out later, you'll starve for life."
To a beggar, hunger was hell itself.
Yukchil flinched and spilled his guts. As a beggar anyway, he felt no shame. His life's greatest dream was a bowl of white rice and meat soup.
It might seem humble to high officials, noble houses, or prestigious sects. So what? A full belly and warm back—that was paradise.
"The Lesser Lake Gang is minor compared to the Dongting Lake Gang or the Eighteen Yangtze River Gangs, but with that fox-faced Thousand-Faced Rogue involved, it's possible."
"How likely?"
"About ten percent, I'd say."
No martial artist was ignorant of the Divine Armor of Mythical Refinement, said to conceal the secrets of Heavenly Martial. If word leaked, it would stir tempests in the martial world. Still, the intel's reliability was low.
"Any moves from the Huangbo family?"
"Nothing unusual."
Gathering the information had taken time.
The original goal was probing why the Lesser Lake Gang had gone quiet. Digging deeper revealed they'd been wiped out.
Suspicion fell on the Huangbo family, so beggars were planted nearby. But no odd activity surfaced.
The Thousand-Faced Rogue and the armor rumor had likely vanished together. From the river's heart to the bank, even a master swimmer would struggle to survive.
Such rumors cropped up endlessly anyway. Tall tales of divine techniques or treasures were commonplace. Verified cases were rare. They could be mere gossip or deliberate ploys. Caution was always key.
One fragment had caught Hong's eye.
"But what's with this guy?"
"Eldest son of the Pine Tiger Sect. Martial prowess at peak mid-tier."
"Why's a peak expert rumored to be a wastrel?"
"He's hiding it."
"That's what I'm saying. Why hide now? He's concealed it fine until lately."
He'd brazenly wielded the Phantom Music Sword.
Hoping to masquerade as a wastrel, concealing his true intentions and strength to plot from the shadows.
But he'd trashed the Lesser Lake Gang and demolished the Phantom Music Sword in front of everyone. Expecting to stay hidden after such a flashy display was absurd.
And it didn't end there.
"Is this doting father or unfilial son?"
"Doting father, mostly."
He'd hyped his son up.
Bragging his boy would win. But the Five Great Families wouldn't take that lying down—prideful lot that they were. Even unspoken, the Nine Great Sects and Five Families' view of the Beggars' Sect was no secret.
It looked like fatherly pride, but he'd laid a bed of thorns and gravel for his son. Quiet competence could have sailed him to the finals unscathed. Instead, he'd paved a thorny path.
"You know that saying? Lions drive cubs off cliffs to toughen them."
"Want me to drive you off one? Shut your trap, no bullshit."
He'd asked, then snapped.
Yong Chuseong glared, and Three-Knot Yukchil clamped his mouth shut.
Orders were orders. He admitted it was bullshit anyway.
"Short time, big mess."
"Yes. He's the culprit."
"Why?"
"Just... kwek!"
Punch first.
Yukchil bounced back to position after the head smack. Clear warning: no more nonsense.
His lips puffed out indignantly, but Yukchil stayed silent. Another hit? No thanks.
Some suspicions lingered, but his identity checked out. Still, no overlooking doubts. If it were that simple, no shadow mastermind.
So they dug. The results were ridiculous.
"What the hell is this bastard up to?"
"Wife-obsessed... kwek!"
"I said shut it!"
He'd ordered goods from Jeongun Merchant Group—enough to feed the entire Beggars' Sect for years. Curious what it was, they checked the items: all luxuries for women and children.
"Isn't a martial sect supposed to order elixirs, techniques, weapons?"
"...Kwek!"
"Answer."
"Why ask when you know... kwek!"
"Always asking for it, you punk!"
The deeper they probed, the more baffling he became.
With that cash, donate to the sect. Every action grated. It could have eased beggars' and commoners' hunger, if briefly.
That only confused more.
Flashing cash and skills.
Seemed desperate to reveal himself, yet not fully exposed. Too odd for acting. Easy to verify, downright frustrating.
'He's meddling everywhere he shouldn't.'
If the armor intel spread, chaos would ensue. They watched his circle—no signs of movement. Petty thieves? Unlikely.
The Hao Clan's reticence outlined things. They'd wasted time investigating him too.
'Not quite.'
Would be nice if he were guilty.
Give him a taste.
Even Yong Chuseong, famed for instincts, found him ambiguous.
"Tail this bastard once."
"..."
No one spoke. Yukchil, daydreaming of distant skies, felt his nape prickle.
"Volunteer if you think you're up to it."
"That old codger's so stingy."
After sweet moments with his wife and delighting in his daughter's antics, he'd nearly been struck by lightning. Stirring trouble in their peaceful family life? Not very father-in-law-like.
He ignored them usually—why show up now?
"Right, Cheol-ho?"
"If you're aboveboard, no reason to hide... krak!"
A sharp pain snapped him alert. Cheol-ho clutched his throbbing red forehead, glaring at Mujin.
Snap!
He winced at the finger flick. No clue why, but knowing it was a knuckle-rap made his teeth grind. At least make it Supreme Finger Technique or something.
And for no crime!
"What'd I do to deserve that?!"
"You're innocent."
"Then why?"
"You've driven a spike into your frail master's heart. Deserves a smack."
"When did I? Frail who?"
"Truth is, I'm not entirely aboveboard."
In other words, the timeless truth: loyal ministers die young. Vassals blurting facts irk the emperor. Royals never admit fault—shameless as ever.
Simply put: obey me, or else.
"Can't stand seeing you idle at home? Keeps pushing you out?"
"...Krak!"
"I'm asking."
"...When?"
"Master and disciple as one! When master says leap, you leap, disciple."
"How should I know that?!"
Wrong, and both idiots?
-Trusting these fools!
Cheol-ho exploded, thrashing wildly. Mujin's eyes twitched. Daring to rage at his second master? Spoiled brats need the rod—eternal truth.
"Training."
"Here?"
"Training ignores time and place."
"Didn't you say cross the mountain by tonight?"
"Indeed."
Could mean beat him en route.
Cheol-ho struggled desperately but couldn't escape Mujin's grip.
"No feelings for you."
"...Isn't that Sword Aura?!"
"Nah, just infused the staff."
Same difference?
Infusing staff aura isn't trivial enough for "just."
Staff masters would despair at the nonsense.
Come to think, this guy mastered anything.
Sword? Sword aura. Blade? Blade aura. Spear? Spear aura. Staff? Staff aura... huh?
Even at Flower Realm, auras vary by mastered art.
But look.
Kwaaaaang!
A massive granite slab blocking ten paces ahead shattered into dust.
Gasp!
Clearly granite, hardened over eons—smashed effortlessly. Facing the fine powder cloud, Cheol-ho swallowed dryly.
'How's that a fist art?!'
A punch aura, fine—but casual staff swing toppling mountains? What about the poor disciple standing below?!
Far from Monkey King's steadfastness.
Of course, he didn't just stand there. He unleashed full-body lightness skill and countered with Iron-Blood Lion Fist finale: Iron-Blood Shaking Heaven.
Kudada-tang!
Counter? Laughable.
His fist met staff aura and fizzled like piss on desert sand—barely wetting it. He survived, so success?
"Did your first master teach you to run?"
"You bastard... hup!"
How block that?!
Who wants to run?!
Wronged, but survival first—Cheol-ho fled. Aura alone was brutal; staff aura's vortex sucked in surroundings and spat them out violently. Space itself shredded. Caught in it? Chewed-up kudzu bark.
To avoid misty death, he pushed his body relentlessly.
His overheated flesh soon dripped sweat like broth. Not a pig—where so much fat?
Whiiing!
Refreshing... huh?
Fierce wind from behind. Powerful updraft from below. Such gusts are rare.
Unless a cliff loomed aft.
Hup!
Turning revealed open sky with the wind. How'd he climb so far? Blown by wind and clouds, he'd lost track.
Before savoring the vista, sheer cliffs beckoned downward.
Cheol-ho wanted no part.
But ahead grinned the demon... second master approaching. Even a demon crawling from hell's depths would retreat at the sight.
"True hiking skips the paths."
You madman!
Quenched curses burned inside—must hold back. Normal logic failed him. Insult-proof, humanity's toughest.
"That face? Folks'd think I dragged you. I told my son to lead. Didn't I?"
"...Damn it all!"
Cheol-ho, shooting his own foot, had no retort. His world's most infuriating master spoke truth.