Chapter 38: To be honest, you have to understand this

Qing had made up her mind, but she was the only one who knew it. Everyone else just went about their usual business. The Taepyeong Sword Sect, as expected, demanded payment for their "protection" once again.

Manager Geum tried to protest, but the Taepyeong Clan members were just low-level grunts with no authority to refuse the protection fee. In the end, Mr Geum reluctantly coughed up the cash. It was the same old song and dance, nothing out of the ordinary... yet.

The real excitement began elsewhere.

Namgang Jeong, the third squad leader of the Taepyeong Sword Clan, had been captivated by a certain woman ever since he stepped into the tavern.

Since the face of the former number one beauty of the past, Xu-shi, had a permanent frown etched on her face, the majority of Murim had developed a bizarre attraction to scowling women.

Nam Gang-jung was an ordinary martial artist, so his sexual preferences were also the same as others.

And there she was, a woman nursing her drink with a world-weary expression, as if burdened by the weight of existence itself! She wasn't even that much of a looker, which somehow made her even more appealing. You know, the approachable type.

If it weren't for his duties to the sect, he would have rushed over to offer a shoulder to cry on, or whatever else she needed. And then, lo and behold, she approached him! With a sly smile, no less! Dreamlike fantasies unfolded in Nam Gang-jung's head.

He should have paid more attention to her hands than her face. If he had, he might have remembered the old tavern saying: "Anyone approaching with a bottle by the neck is bad news." Alas, he did not.

"Good people don't come like this," the saying goes. And Qing, with her sly grin, was definitely not in a good mood.

Unfortunately, Namgang Jeong's dreams of a happy ending were shattered by the physical collision of his head and a certain bottle. It was a battle between cheap porcelain and a thick skull, and the result was predictable.

BAM!

Porcelain shards went flying, mingling with the aroma of expensive liquor. Nam Gang-jung staggered, not from the alcohol, but from the solid hit to his head. However, a martial artist at the end of the second-rate level could not be easily knocked down by a liquor bottle. He wasn't going down that easily.

The reason for being called the end of the second-rate is because people in the world are not so idle as to divide the second-rate into early, middle, and late stages.

Nam Gang-jung shouted angrily.

"What, what is the meaning of this!"

"Thuggery. Mayhem. And... well, being a pain in the ass," Qing helpfully explained her actions.

Normally, swords would be drawn at this point. But Qing's looks bought her a moment of restraint from Nam Gang-jung.

"Miss. You are being very rude to a disciple of the Great Taepyeong Sword Sect. Perhaps you've had a bit too much to drink...?"

"What? Why don't you get it?" Qing tilted her head. "I'm not picking a fight with some Grand Supreme or whatever, I'm just causing a commotion at the tavern."

Nam Gang-jung pondered the difference.

Qing patiently explained, "You took protection money, right? Isn't that to protect the tavern from people who are causing trouble and being a nuisance?"

"...?"

Qing pointed at herself with a long finger. "Here. Nuisance."

She flicked her finger forward, and Nam Gang-jung's chin turned slightly. Then, her other fist drew a half-circle, correcting the jaw's position. Though perhaps with a bit too much force, as it swung all the way to the other side.

Nam Gang-jung, who was hit in the chin, staggered and fell down, and Qing clasped her hands, stretched, and shook them.

“Alright. Now I’ve escalated it to a full-blown tavern brawl. Are you just going to stand there and watch?”

That word became a signal.

Even then, they did not draw their swords, not because they were particularly righteous.

Yet, no one immediately drew their swords, not out of some righteous code, but because underestimating female martial artists was a common mistake in Murim. Besides, these were just low-level disciples sent to collect protection money; their skills were nothing to write home about.

Qing dodged, punched, kicked, and swung. She grabbed wrists, sending pairs of disciples crashing to the floor. She tripped charging attackers with a well-aimed toe, leaving them rolling on the ground.

"She's strong! Draw your swords!"

Nam Gang-jung, having recovered from his momentary concussion, charged in. But he was still no match for Qing. She wasn't even using her internal energy, because that would result in explosions, not mere bruises.

But even without it, Qing was a force to be reckoned with. Her honed martial arts skills and raw strength made her one of the strongest in Murim. Even as a clueless newbie with a soft modern heart, she had managed to survive in the cutthroat world of Murim thanks to her raw power.

As Qing danced through the sword swings, targeting every weak spot, she suddenly noticed the top of a falling man's head.

Huh? Can I do a head noogie too?

Memories of past humiliations flashed through her mind.

A grace I can't repay Master, she thought, but I can now bestow that grace upon another as a disciple.

Just as she clenched her fist, knuckles prominent, a desperate cry rang out.

"Stop! Stop!"

Nam Gang-jung, thoroughly battered, waved his hands in surrender. His eyelids were already bruised and swollen.

“Thank you for showing mercy. I acknowledge my shortcomings, so please allow us to withdraw.”

Mercy? She had just given him a good old-fashioned beating. Still, since he at least pretended to wrap himself in inner energy, none of his bones were broken. He remained standing.

“What’s this? This place is under your Taepyung Sword Sect’s protection—ooh, I remembered that! Easy to say. Anyway, isn’t this your turf? And now you’re just leaving?”

"As I said…"

"Forget it," Qing interrupted. “I’m letting you keep your lives, so leave your swords behind. I should get something out of this too, don’t you think?”

The Taepyeong disciples exchanged hesitant glances. Finally, Nam Gang-jung stepped forward.

“Miss, a sword is as precious as a swordsman’s life—”

“Cut the crap. I’m a swordsman too. Wanna stake our lives and have a proper duel?”

Qing pointed at the table where she had been sitting. The disciples, seeing the Moonlight Sword (Number 8) resting there, finally dropped their weapons. The sight of the Taepyeong disciples leaving with slumped shoulders was truly pathetic.

“Hah…”

Whew. That was… fun… kinda… BUT HOLY SHIT!

As soon as the fight ended, the pain and exhaustion returned. Qing's face contorted in agony. She even felt a bit damp and sticky.

Is this how all women in this world live? Oh god!

It sucks not being at the peak of martial arts, she thought, reaching for more alcohol. But then she remembered.

My booze…

“Hey, shop boy—”

"Excuse me, customer…"

It wasn't the waiter, but the manager himself. He was holding a beautifully packaged bottle, the kind that looked expensive.

Qing waved her hand. "Nah, you don't have to thank me."

"No, it's just… here, take this, and…" Manager Geum stammered.

It was obvious what he couldn't bring himself to say. Get out.

"Look here, Manager. If I leave now, do you think you'll be safe? Those bastards will definitely bring their mommy. And if I'm not here, they'll take it out on you instead. Don't you think? You've been in business for a while now."

Qing had learned this from experience. Martial arts brats always ran off to get their mommy, or someone equivalent. When she was weaker, she had to run and hide.

But now? She was Strong. An absolute powerhouse.

Though, at the moment, a very beaten-up one.

"I'll take care of everything here, so just bring me the booze. Ugh, I'm so pissed."

Qing's irritation was palpable.

Manager Geum, looking terrified, quickly placed a jar of alcohol on the table and disappeared back into the kitchen. Qing removed the oil cloth covering the jar. As soon as she opened it, a strong alcoholic scent wafted out.

The jar was as big as a child's head, but a martial artist of her caliber could pour its contents into a tiny cup without spilling a drop.

The first sip was… indescribable. Was it alcohol, or was it paint thinner?

She liked it.

After a few cups on an empty stomach, an old beggar approached her.

"Excuse me, young lady."

"What? Not buying. Go away," Qing said curtly, waving him off.

"Heh, young lady, you're quite cold."

“Old man, I have a lot of bad memories involving beggars, okay? You should be grateful I still respect my elders.”

"Heh…"

“Unless you’d prefer elderly aggression instead?”

Qing was usually soft on older people. Not just older, but truly old, with wrinkles they couldn't hide and not much time left.

"Ahem, ahem."

The old man coughed, pointedly touching his waist. As if to say, Look here.

Qing glanced over. He was dressed in rags, but the rope around his waist was brand new.

She knew this type of beggar. The really strong ones.

Ancient China had a peculiar kind of beggar—those who had mastered martial arts.

And those beggars? They wore ropes like that.

Qing's knowledge, as always, came from experience.

And as always, it was limited.

But now, she was strong.

A beggar is just a beggar, no matter how strong.

She wasn’t scared.