Chapter 26
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 26
Chapter Title: Ah, Qingcheng!
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“What happened to that person in the end?”
A-so’s eyes sparkled. It was rare to see a boy his age react that way. He had taken an interest in the story he was hearing for the first time, so I set down my teacup and asked back.
“What do you mean, what happened?”
“The blacksmith and the warrior. Did things turn out the way the blacksmith wanted?”
“Who knows.”
“What? Isn’t it a story about someone you know, Young Master?”
I knew better than anyone. But with the man himself dead, there was no one left to judge directly, so I held back from commenting on the outcome.
“It’s just one of those tales floating around. You can hear all kinds at a brothel.”
Brothels always came with booze. And at places like that, stories were as inevitable as the snacks.
“Ah...”
Besides, the old Seo Mun-ha’s haunts after brothels and gambling dens were taverns and teahouses. So A-so didn’t press further.
Inns like this one often doubled as taverns and teahouses too, though pure dining visits were rare.
“Anyway, glad it worked out!”
Just like now.
“I figured she must’ve fallen for your fine character, Young Master.”
“Fallen for me...”
The craftsman Ga Bul-hyeon had accepted the commission. Though it wasn’t quite the ideal scenario A-so imagined.
“People just get more stubborn with age. Finding a justification that satisfies the self grows ever more exhausting.”
I told him what he wanted to hear and promised to deliver what I desired.
Ga Bul-hyeon was no different, nor were my old acquaintances. They hadn’t made any special vows.
It was simply that their hearts weren’t in it—refusals piling up day after day.
“All I did was provide the spark. Nothing grand.”
Looking back, ages had passed in a blur. I’d just stood there, lost in the moment.
Me as well.
When it came to what others praised as purging foreign invaders—the northern barbarians—there’d been no lofty intent from the start to protect the masses.
Excuses and rationales for the path were tacked on later. Setting aside what I’d heard from the man himself, only his dead self knew the truth of his heart.
“Hmm. Must’ve cost a fortune, right?”
“The advance alone was a hefty sum.”
Just sourcing the materials had burned through a fortune.
“I’d planned to head back to the clan.”
Unlike the budgeted costs, crafting the new weapon would take an unknown span of time.
So I’d meant to return to Shandong and await word leisurely. But one of his conditions was sticking at Ga Won Inn until the piece was done.
“Let’s wait and see.”
“Yes.”
Word was it’d finish faster than expected. More precisely, they’d soon know if it was feasible at all. This wasn’t mere spear-making—even for Sichuan’s top smith, it was a gamble.
“So, what’s the second condition?”
“He’ll tell if it works out.”
“I see.”
“I’ve got a rough guess.”
No thirst for fame or coin. So without even hearing the innkeeper’s side, the possibilities weren’t broad to begin with.
‘Probably involves a person.’
Just as his ironclad stubbornness had trivial origins, so too could I guess the petty circumstance.
Something money could buy or a friend handle.
Yet for myriad reasons, it hadn’t sat right.
“Come to think of it, he mentioned no family but one disciple.”
“Pardon?”
“Just mumbling to myself.”
The once-quiet inn began buzzing with arrivals.
Seats filled one by one; it didn’t take long to pack out.
“Yang Jeong’s late.”
“Yeah.”
He knew the local lay of the land by now—no way he’d lost his path.
And sure enough, no sooner had I called than Yang Jeong came barreling up to the second floor, gasping.
“Big trouble, Young Master!”
Yang Jeong’s preamble went like this.
He’d hit the Sichuan branches of Cheon Eung Merchant Guild and Man Geum Treasury in turn, then aimed to grab a quick bite.
Weaving past the serpentine shops and homes, he’d reached the riverside fish market early.
“I’ve been.”
Fish market in name, but endless storefronts made it town-sized.
“So here’s the thing...”
It sat a hair under half a day from Ga Won Inn.
His rumpled state and frantic pace screamed trouble.
Something had snagged Yang Jeong’s heels—and stalled him.
“They’re heading here!”
Too winded to breathe steady, he shied from the punchline, doubling down on disaster instead.
“You’ve gotta dodge ’em!”
While he fretted, I just blinked at A-so, dazed.
“No time for dawdling?!”
“You skipped the key bit. Who’s coming, exactly?”
Yang Jeong flinched, nearly bellowing before dropping his voice.
“Qingcheng Taoists. And Emei swordswomen too...”
Not nuns?
“Got it.”
They say sleeves brushing weaves fate, but Orthodox sects over Tang Clan? Unexpected.
“Too late anyhow.”
I’d lowballed the Beggar Clan’s intel.
Finding folks is simple; pinpointing one? Tricky. Their reason for hunting me was plain.
I’d hunkered in one spot—no flitting lodgings. Coincidence? Hardly. Scheduled.
“Figured Tang’d hit first.”
“Huh?”
Yang Jeong, mid-alarm, squirmed like a kid.
“They’re on my tail.”
“...Gasp!”
“Easy.”
Yang Jeong looked the guilty thief.
“The last mess, Young Master?”
A-so, ever steadier, chimed in coolly.
“Likely.”
“We good?”
“Nothing to sweat.”
Swordsman’s hearing-out. Fine on paper, but the inn brimmed with killer intent—geared for instant strikes.
“Welcome. Qingcheng Taoists, right?”
“Questions first. Anyone from Shandong staying here?”
The advance group? Mostly Qingcheng lay disciples.
Dào and Fó standard-bearers fueling Sichuan’s turf wars.
“Haven’t heard tell.”
“Figured. I’ll search myself—clear the folk if you can.”
Voices drifted up from below. Felon hunt—public sleuths, near enough.
“Just in case, you two—room.”
I shooed Yang Jeong and A-so. Orthodox folk wouldn’t draw first. But stray shafts spare none—warrior or peasant—and they scarce looked weapon-stewards.
“You Ghost Flash?”
“Aye.”
“Pleased. Poor Daoist Yun Jeong.”
Yun of the Yun script—a core disciple. Word on entering Sichuan pegged him prime Qingcheng stock.
Man looked seasoned. Six others in white uniforms, blue emblems stitched.
“Seo Mun-ha.”
I drained my teacup.
“Insolent...!”
“Stand down, junior.”
Yun Jeong checked the arm-extended outer disciple—untitled.
“Heard Ghost Flash is Shandong Seo Mun Clan’s third young master.”
“Spot on.”
“No beating ’round. Your handiwork—the fire fiend, northeast, fifteen days back?”
“Full recon or not?”
“Fact-check.”
Rumors balloon, twist easy.
“Young hero truly butchered blameless bladesmen? Trashed peasant livelihoods?”
Say what now. Glancing ’round, smug lay faces puffed.
“Not me.”
To such bald bait, the worldly-blind Daoist seemed dead wrong.
“Believe that?”
Warrior rivalries spawned from Demonic rise—nay, the Three Teachings full. Prepping worst-case, Jianghu Dào-Fó cracked gates for recruits.
Lay hordes followed, hauling wealth-fame as “progress.” Righteous aims? Not always deeds.
“I’d like to.”
Less clueless, more sheltered. Qingcheng stayed pristine-bright; shadows inevitable.
“Owe your clan’s eldest—your brother—since his Jianghu debut.”
Qingcheng crew scowled at Yun Jeong’s line.
Not just me hearing fresh.
‘Fits.’
I was mere excuse to them.
They craved pretext to muscle Chengdu—Tang turf. Beggars’ intel ace or no, my kills wore badges—IDs fuzzy. Mantra fodder, rolled in.
“Senior Yun Jeong! Don’t buy it! Seo Mun third’s a Shandong scourge!”
Drool chorus.
“True! Vicious strikes? Obvious!”
“Skip the sweet talk!”
I’d said zilch wild—laughter bubbled unbidden.
“Rat! Daring scoff Qingcheng?!”
Warrior posers leeching proxy power for pockets.
“Emei same? Disappointing. Who’s really soiling Qingcheng—you lot?”
Flames in eyes, they spurred Yun Jeong.
“Senior! Let this pass?!”
Overly hot for senior-to-polite; credit for not lunging raw.
Or waist-iron’s ornament.
“Plain speech: I countered thieves looting mine. Kill-moves met kill-moves. Field-fire? My error.”
“Hear that! Admits the burn...!”
“Paid peasants full—anonymous. Tried dodging this mess upfront. Yet you hound sans basics?”
First funny, then grating.
“Believe or no—your call, as before. Sword for voiceless folk? Won’t block.”
“Brat! Cocky whelp! Fame-blind to sky-ground? Taste Qingcheng blade...”
I waved off the no-name.
“Not lesson—‘be my Chengdu wedge’ the hard way.”
“...”
Bit of fame lately; I’m prime punching bag.
“Lay still makes Daoist, eh.”
Villain or saint? Irrelevant.
I had to be scourge—custom-wrecker, folk-troubler.
“Qingcheng-smite such fiend? Short-fuse plot’s slick...”
I eyed Yun Jeong’s Qingcheng crew anew.
“Who’s smiting who?”