Chapter 166: Are You Acquainted With This Beggar?

When a person is warm, sleeping soundly on an expensive bed in a well-heated room, they experience a deep slumber akin to fainting, utterly unconscious.

Conversely, when trying to sleep on cold, noisy, hard ground riddled with stones, sleep is incredibly shallow, like a puddle left after the rain.

Such shallow sleep occupies a space somewhere between slumber and wakefulness.

You can't tell if you've actually slept; you can't distinguish between having briefly closed your eyes and merely having spent a long time with them shut.

Qing, eyes closed, curled up even tighter.

Cold. Damp. Only warm where the sun hits.

She thought she'd had a pleasant dream.

A dream where she met a good master, made good friends, lived well, wore fine clothes, ate delicious food, and wandered about.

Hmm. Was it a dream, or wasn't it?

To check, Qing drowsily opened her eyes.

The world lay sideways. People glanced at her, clicked their tongues as if they'd seen something unsightly, and walked past.

Qing closed her eyes again.

Ah. It was all a dream.

Somehow, I knew such good things couldn't happen in this damn medieval China.

My stomach feels like it's tearing apart from hunger. Today, just one little rat god, please. I want meat.

Or maybe go to that place with the scraps[^(Original: Pyeongchan Chaeru, the proper name of a specific eatery/inn where Qing previously got food scraps. Replaced with a descriptive term for reader clarity as the name may be unfamiliar.)]... ah, right, those fuckers said they only give scraps to pigs now, they don't put it out anymore.

Ugh. I don't want to move.

Qing, in her first year, hadn't moved much.

Moving pointlessly only made her hungrier, and nothing particularly nutritious ever happened.

At best, if other beggars spotted her, she'd just get beaten up.

Her method was to wait until her body felt completely drained, thinking ‘I might actually die if I don’t eat soon,’ then cautiously sneak around and scavenge something.

It was then.

A presence approached Qing as she lay with her eyes closed.

Qing stealthily opened her eyes.

Through the blurry texture of her veil, she saw two feet planted suspiciously on the ground.

Rolling her eyes as far as possible, she saw the owner of the feet bending over within her tilted field of vision.

They moved their arm carefully, delicately. Straining her eyes to the point of pain, she spotted the familiar shape of a sword hilt grasped in their hand.

It was the hilt of Moonlight Sword (No. 8).

Huh? Moonlight Sword?

Instantly, Qing's mind, hovering in the strange boundary between dream and reality, snapped back into place.

Wow, shit. For a second, I thought I’d gone back to that time.

And now, I've lived long enough to see a sword thief?

‘Sword thief’ is an unfamiliar term to martial artists.

‘Sword robber,’ however, might sound more familiar and common.

This is because a warrior's weapon is like a beloved concubine (even for people of the Central Plains, a wife is just family), and if anyone else touches it carelessly, blades will clash.

Therefore, a warrior's weapon isn't something stolen; it's something taken as a spoil only after killing the owner.

Qing pretended to be asleep and watched quietly.

As the sword slowly slid from its sheath, its poorly maintained surface gradually became visible.

And when it was finally completely drawn…

"Going somewhere?!" Qing snapped.

She swept her hand, karate-chop style, parallel to the ground, just an inch above it.

The thief's ankles caught on her hand, sending them flying into the air.

Thud!

The sword thief landed first on their shoulder, then their head slammed into the ground secondary, their bow-bent spine snapped back, and thirdly, their pelvis crashed onto the earth.

"Haha! Trying to steal a warrior's sword? You must be truly out of your mind!"

Qing leaped up, planting her foot firmly on the sword thief's wrist, her face blooming with the kind of joy one might show upon the return of a desperately awaited lover.

"Aaargh! My hand! My hand! Hand!" the thief shrieked.

"The National Law dictates that a thief's hand shall be cut off," Qing declared. "How dare you defy the sacred rule of law!"

Sacred rule of law? Both the concepts of 'sacred' and 'rule of law' would likely be so offended by that statement they'd start spewing curses.

Since the dawn of history, the sacred has never once been truly sacred, and the rule of law was, from its inception, a high wall built to protect the interests of the privileged.

The fact that Qing was spouting such nonsense indicated her mind was perfectly sound.

"Seriously, these people are awful too," Qing muttered, glaring out at the street. "Instead of telling me someone was stealing my sword, they just watched."

Since it was through her veil, it was just a sweeping glance.

Still, combined with her words, the onlookers who had been watching with keen interest guiltily averted their gazes, looking down at the ground or up at the sky.

Meanwhile, the sword thief continued to scream.

"Hand!! Hand!! My hand!!"

If the pain had been just a little less, they might have tried something, like hitting Qing's ankle, to escape the situation.

But the agony felt like their wrist was about to snap, leaving their mind reeling.

All they could do was desperately grab at the young lady’s shoe, trying somehow to create a gap.

Hmm? What's this? Qing thought.

She varied the pressure she applied with her foot.

"Hand! Hand!!!! Hand! Hand!! Hand! Hand!!! HAND!!!!!" the thief wailed, louder with each application of pressure.

This is kind of fun.

So, the structure is: apply pressure, voice gets louder?

A sadistic curve formed on Qing's lips.

But only for a moment. After checking the sword thief's karma, Qing clicked her tongue with a regretful expression and removed her foot.

Too bad.

Just three points, if only it had been three points higher.

Only then did the sword thief, shedding a storm of tears, clutch their wrist, letting out a sound somewhere between a sob and a groan.

Qing picked up her Moonlight Sword and stood crookedly, looking down at the pathetic sight.

"Hey," she said sharply. "What right do you have to cry like a baby after getting caught stealing? You touched a warrior's sword? You know what that means, right?"

"Gasp." The thief choked.

"Everyone, you saw this bastard stealing my sword, right?" Qing called out to the crowd. "According to the laws of the martial arts world, I'm innocent even if I cut off his head, you know!"

"Hear, hear!" Someone shouted back in agreement.

It seemed they wanted to see blood, even in broad daylight.

In truth, one of the greatest spectacles of this era was the public execution performance: neck snap, blood fountain shwaaak, head rolling thump, body thud.

It wasn't necessarily because the Central Plains were barbaric; the popularity of beheading performances was extremely high among all races worldwide during this era.

One could even call it a universal human sentiment.

Still, if one had to rank them, the people of the Central Plains merely enjoyed beheadings visually, with decorum.

They were far better off than the people from the Western Regions, who would get red-eyed with excitement, pushing and shoving each other in a chaotic frenzy just to dip bread pieces in the flowing blood, sometimes even causing people to be trampled to death.

"Alright," Qing announced to the thief. "If you understand, stick out your neck and get into position. I'll send you off painlessly in one strike."

"P-Please spare me!" the thief begged.

"You ask me to spare you after touching a warrior's weapon, of all things?" Qing scoffed. "Would you show mercy to the man who touched your wife?"

"W-Well, my wife already ran off with another man…" the thief stammered.

"Hm. Well… hang in there," Qing offered, a flicker of something unreadable in her voice.

A brief moment of solemn silence fell over the scene.

Qing hadn't intended to kill him anyway, so she would have forgiven the man no matter what he said.

Even if it wasn't that his wife ran off, but some primitive, ancient, contrived sob story thieves usually spout, about an old mother this-and-that, a product code[^('Pumbeon' (품번) literally means 'product code' but is modern Korean slang for adult video IDs. Qing uses this anachronistic crude term before correcting to 'daesang' (대상), which the author clarifies means 'elephant' here.)]—no, an elephant-like wife, and hateful children blah blah blah.

For reference, daesang is the Central Plains word for elephant. [^The Joke: Qing starts with a cliché (old mother), throws in extremely crude modern slang (JAV code), catches herself, and then "corrects" it to a different but still insulting and slightly absurd image (elephant-like wife). The humor comes from the jarring slang and the odd correction.]

"Alright," Qing finally said. "Since it seems you have a story too sad to hear without tears, I'll spare your life. Hand over everything you have and get lost."

At that, the sword thief untied his travel pouch and money pouch and placed them meekly before Qing.

"May I go now…" he asked timidly.

"Are you kidding me?" Qing snapped. "I said hand over everything. I don't have a hobby of looking at men's dangling bits, so I'll let you keep just your underwear. Now."

And so, the not-at-all-pitiful sword thief shucked off his clothes, revealing a silver piece hidden and tied around his ankle with a string.

"Well now, look at this bastard," Qing remarked, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I spared his life, and he still hid a silver piece?"

"Ah! Why is there a silver piece here!" the thief exclaimed with obviously fake surprise. "Who would tie a silver piece to someone else's ankle! How truly bizarre!" He untied the silver piece and placed it on top of the pouch.

Qing stared, dumbfounded.

"This crazy bastard is spouting bullshit," she muttered, her patience wearing thin. "Should I really just butcher him?"

Qing had no black flame dragon on her left arm or subordinate spirit to tell her 'Endure it' and restrain her killing intent, so her right arm, holding the sword, shot up menacingly along with terrifying killing intent.

"Hiiik!"

The sword thief, clad only in underwear, scrambled away frantically.

A dark trail stained the ground along his escape route, leaving behind an irregular line and countless scattered droplets.

"Hm. He pissed himself," Qing observed dryly.

The onlookers also fled in alarm.

Even the greatest master under heaven would fearfully step aside if a grimy man came running at them, pissing himself.

Thanks to this, the sword thief quickly vanished.

Qing looked at the spoils left behind.

"Hehe, sweet, sweet loot."

The money pouch contained about a handful of copper coins.

And there was one silver piece; lifting it, it felt roughly like a quarter of a silver ingot beaten flat.

All combined, it wasn't even worth one silver ingot, mere pocket change, but acquiring the travel pouch made her immensely happy.

The travel pouch looked flimsy and empty at first glance, sagging shapelessly.

But the pouch itself was important.

She knew from her first year what a huge difference having a bag made.

Still, looking inside, she found one dirty towel and something wrapped in a large, oiled leaf.

"Ooh, jerky."

For jerky to be tasty, it had to be a high-quality product made as a delicacy.

This was the common, ordinary dry ration type – tough, dried scrap meat that was hard to bite into, with questionable hygiene.

But it was something.

Eating it plain was gamey and hard, but if soaked in soup for a long time, it could somewhat simulate the feeling of chewing meat.

Grumble.

Thinking of meat made her stomach demand she stop the foolishness and put some food in it.

"Hm. Guess I'll eat. Been a while since I had steamed buns and a drink."

Anyway, eating cheap buns to fill her stomach and washing them down with strong liquor was better than trying to cook some half-assed meal.

The timing was perfect too.

Looking at the sun, it seemed to be late afternoon, around three o'clock by Qing's time units.

What, I slept quite a while.

Doesn't feel like I slept at all, though.

Regardless, at this time, neither lunch nor dinner, even taverns would usually sell food to beggars.

Of course, she couldn't eat inside; she'd have to sit somewhere unobtrusive in front of the shop.

The human heart was truly fickle.

Just moments ago, when she thought all her adventures in the martial arts world were a dream, her mood had been heavy and listless, wanting to die. Now, preparing to act like a beggar again after a long time felt somehow familiar, even nostalgic.

It was natural, of course, since she could escape the beggar life anytime.

Come to think of it, I can just kill time acting like a beggar and head to Kaifeng when the date approaches.

Bounty hunters? Who would imagine I'm posing as a roadside beggar?

Qing scratched her head absently and wandered around, looking for a suitable eatery.

Too fancy, and she'd be turned away at the door. Too deserted, and they might serve leftover, spoiled food they couldn't sell. Both had to be avoided.

So, she needed to find an ordinary eatery where the staff looked cheerful and the atmosphere was good.

There also had to be a decent spot to eat in front of the shop.

With that, Qing found a suitable place.

Xiliang Eating House.

An "eating house" (banjeom) was a step below a restaurant (chaejeom).

Qing pretended to hesitate nervously at the entrance.

As the waiter approached, tense at the sight of a beggar carrying swords, Qing deliberately pitched her voice low and placed her order.

"Um, five steamed buns, please. And… do you have any really cheap, really strong liquor…?"

A beggar was normally just a beggar bastard, but a beggar who knew martial arts was Sir Beggar.

And here was Sir Beggar, carrying not one but two swords, ordering politely.

Furthermore, even if she was an ugly woman hiding her face, she was still a woman, and her voice was exquisitely beautiful.

The waiter's pride didn't just swell; it soared to the heavens.

As the waiter's shoulders straightened, his attitude became noticeably milder.

"Where in the world can you find cheap and strong liquor?" he asked, puffing his chest slightly.

Strong liquor was expensive.

Because strong liquor, after all, was made by distilling or otherwise concentrating weaker liquor.

"Sour wine is fine too…" Qing mumbled meekly.

"Hm," the waiter considered, stroking an imaginary beard. "Give me one more copper wen. I'll bring you something suitable."

His way of speaking was incredibly archaic.

When else would a waiter get to use such an authoritative tone?

This was all wisdom learned through experience.

Qing as a female expert of the martial arts world was a dumbass, but as a beggar, she had already surpassed mere competence and possessed the wisdom befitting a sage.

She was a natural-born beggar wench.