Chapter 52: But That Wasn’t the Case

In the distant past, whenever the Heavenly Slaughtering Star rose, people would hunt down and kill every newborn child born under it.

Because of selfish mothers who tried to hide their children, they extended the execution period to a full hundred days, ensuring not a single infant survived.

Blood and tears soaked the earth.

But a child born under that ominous, solitary star had to be eliminated.

Otherwise, it wouldn't just be the earth getting soaked; a massive wave would surge forth, submerging the land beneath a sea of blood and tears.  

Heavenly Slaughter was a madness no human could withstand.

And it was a madness that grew stronger with age.

At first, it was simply the scent of blood, the joy of tearing flesh and shattering bone.

But as the thirst for slaughter seeped deeper into their marrow, they would begin to discover new pleasures.

The sight of despair and sorrow would make them laugh.

And nothing was as intoxicating as the agony of others.

Qing's gaze was fixated on death.  

They stood there, motionless, watching the still-twitching, half-dead body beneath them.

Then, Qing’s arm moved.

A wonderful sensation of tightly clenched muscles pushing against the blade.

"Hmm, those muscles are firm. Well-trained."  

A beat later, Qing’s head tilted to the side.

Their eerily bent neck turned toward the enemy.

A man clutched his severed forearm.

"Nice to meet you. Is this our first time?"

Qing’s Moonlight Sword danced through the air.

Originally, Yue Maiden's swordplay was a lighthearted, elegant style.

But under the influence of Heavenly Slaughter, it painted a very different picture.

Seductive. Ominous.

Like a mosquito that landed on the skin in an instant, biting and drawing blood before anyone could react.

A flick of the blade—its tip pierced into the tendon behind the knee.

The taut string of flesh snapped, recoiling into the muscle.

The enemy’s limbs twisted unnaturally as they collapsed.

Qing clicked their tongue in admiration.

"Oh! A familiar pose. Guess you know a thing or two."

She gave the enemy’s side a small stab before stepping forward.

The man’s spleen was cleanly severed, and his abdomen swelled as blood began to leak out.

A little gift from Wang Sun-man.

Qing had memorized nearly every detail of the human body.

She knew where to stab, where to cut, how to carve flesh apart.

Casually, Qing wiped their bloodstained fingers along the blade, then licked them.

Salty. Metallic. Strangely addictive.

Alright, time to enjoy the feast.

"Senior Brother!"

A desperate cry.

Qing’s head snapped toward the sound.

A fallen Daizheng Sect disciple lay helpless as an enemy raised their sword to strike.

Qing’s eyes gleamed.

Just as the enemy swung down—

They suddenly staggered, losing balance and collapsing.

The Daizheng Sect disciple frantically pushed the body away, and that’s when they noticed it.

A hairpin, its tip protruding from the enemy’s temple.

A woman’s ornament, meant to secure hair in place.

"Are you alright?"

A smooth, gentle voice—completely unfitting for the battlefield.

The disciple looked up, dazed.

Heavens, She’s… beautiful.

They stared, momentarily spellbound.

"…What? Are you not okay? Did I come too late?"

Qing casually wiped the hairpin against their trousers before sliding it back into their pinned-up hair.

The disciple snapped out of it.

"A-ah! Thank you! Thank you, Young Lady!"

"Young Lady, you have my deepest gratitude!"

The other disciple, who had been calling out for their comrade, bowed as well.

Feeling slightly embarrassed, Qing waved a hand.

"It’s nothing. Just be careful. Don’t go getting yourselves hurt."

Divine Maiden Sect’s Secret Art—Eleventh Form.

The Seven Hairpins Technique.

It was a secret technique of the Divine Maiden Sect, where two steel hairpins and five throwing hairpins were attached to the hair.  

A hidden technique of the Divine Maiden Sect, designed for women who couldn’t openly carry weapons.

After all, no one would ever suspect a lady’s hairpin.

The downside was that it made the hair ridiculously heavy.

But a true expert’s neck would never give out.

And with Qing’s monstrous strength, they could probably pin an entire iron porcupine to their head and still function just fine.

Though… that would probably look really weird.

Hmph. Kinda killed my vibe there.

Clicking their tongue, Qing scanned the battlefield.

There was Pang Daesan.

His massive saber carved a diagonal slash through an enemy’s torso.

The moon sabre entered through the side of the neck and exited near the opposite waist.

The bisected corpse crashed backward with a heavy thud.

Ugh. That’s so sloppy. What the hell is that?

Classic mid-peak stage amateur inexperience.

Qing slipped between the Daizheng Sect disciples, swinging their sword.

Divine Maiden Sword—Third Form.

Heavenly Maiden, Righteous Man.

Their blade traced the exact same path as Pang Dae-san’s.

But the result was different.

The enemy’s body, cut cleanly along the diagonal line, smoothly slid apart.

Now that’s how you do a diagonal cut.

San still had a long way to go.

Or perhaps this was simply the limit of saber users?

Qing nodded in satisfaction.

Brutal, but undeniably skillful.

The Vanguard Unit hesitated, retreating slightly, while the warriors of Daizheng Sect raised their voices in a triumphant battle cry.

Qing raised a hand in response and scanned the battlefield.

There—Namgung Shin-jae.

Just as his title, Little Sword King, suggested, he silently swung his sword with relentless precision.

But his left hand, held in the sword seal position, did absolutely nothing.

Why not just dual-wield, then? Or at least use a shield?

Oh well.

If it worked for him, who was Qing to judge?

Further away, Qing spotted Chang-bin.

And she was shocked.

What the fuck? Why is he fighting so well?

His sword force left trails that shattered and scattered in the air.

White and red remnants of destroyed sword energy floated, drifting beautifully like scattered flower petals in the wind.

It was breathtaking.

But it wasn’t just for show.

The swirling storm of sword light spread, riding the gusts like flower petals caught in a spring breeze.

And where those petals landed, blood bloomed anew.

One after another, enemies collapsed in his wake.

Each had only minor cuts—barely the size of a fingernail—yet they bled from everywhere, their entire bodies riddled with wounds.

Qing felt cheated.

How is that NOT considered a demonic art?

Why is it that when I do shit like this, it’s one of the Eleven Great Demonic Arts?

It’s just as brutal, so why the fuck am I the only one getting called out?

Honestly, Qing wasn’t wrong.

The sword of the Mount Hua Sect was inherently cruel.  

The Threefold Life-Severing Chain Slash was incredibly powerful.

But it was too cruel.

It was said that even the disciples of Mount Hua were reluctant to learn it, as it was simply not a swordsmanship that could be used by those of the righteous path.  

So later generations modified it.

They concealed its malice by altering its rhythm and adding flourishes.

Thus, the famous Plum Blossom Swordplay was born.

But simply making it look pretty didn’t erase its inherent brutality.

A battlefield overflowing with sword energy and blood, like a garden of blooming crimson flowers.

The gratitude of Daizheng Sect’s disciples had momentarily suppressed Qing’s bloodlust.

But now, it stirred once more.

Yeah. No way I’m losing here.

Qing dove back into the enemy ranks.

Yeom Sa-rae-dal realized something was very wrong—way too late.

The Vanguard Assault Unit was an elite combat unit of the Demon Sect, with all members at least first-rate realm.

They should have effortlessly wiped out these righteous sect nobodies and then sat back to enjoy the show.

Instead, they were getting butchered.

And it was all because of those young masters spewing sword energy like it was free real estate.

At least peak-stage fighters.

And one of them was a Hua Sect Plum Blossom Swordmaster.

Yeom Sa-rae-dal’s stomach churned.

What Yeom Sa-rae-dal wanted to happen:

—Watch his enemies break under the guilt of losing their comrades.
—Hear their cries of despair as their sect was torn apart.
—Slowly suffocate them in hopelessness until they withered and died.

What Yeom Sa-rae-dal was actually experiencing:

—Realizing that he had completely miscalculated their strength.
—Watching his elite unit get wiped out.
—Having a full-blown existential crisis over his own survival.

He liked his subordinates. Sure.

But he liked himself a whole lot more.

And if this went on, he’d be the one six feet under.

The Demon Sect’s higher-ups would not take kindly to losing an entire combat unit.

Yeom Sa-rae-dal’s expression darkened.

This was the core difference between the righteous and demonic sects.

In times of danger—would they look for us, or would they look for me?

Of course, that didn’t mean all righteous sects were full of noble saints.

But right now, none of that mattered.

Yeom Sa-rae-dal had to make a decision.

He swung his Meteor Hammer in a wide arc, releasing a shockwave of energy that forced Wang Gae-yuk and Guardian Elder Ki to retreat.

Then, he reached into his robes.

Wang Gae-yuk and Guardian Elder Ki immediately tensed, expecting a hidden trump card.

Yeom Sa-rae-dal pulled out a pouch—and threw it to the ground.

The glass vials inside shattered, mixing with the powder in the pouch.

A thick, explosive burst of dark smoke erupted into the air.

Wang Gae-yuk and Guardian Elder Ki immediately covered their mouths and noses with their sleeves, leaping backward.

"Poison! Fall back!"

Was it actually poison?

No one knew for sure.

But in Murim, the moment you saw suspicious smoke, you yelled poison first and asked questions later.

A sharp whistling sound echoed from within the smoke.

The Vanguard Assault Unit’s retreat signal.

The Demon Sect warriors vanished into the dense fog.

It could have been just a smoke bomb.

Many suspected as much.

But knowing something was different from acting on it.

What if, even by chance, there was poison in the mix?

That was the problem.

Which meant only two types of people would dare rush into the smoke.

First: those who knew for certain there was no poison.

The retreating members of theVanguard Assault Unit fell into this category.

Second: those who didn’t care whether there was poison or not.

Either they had already taken an antidote…

Or they had a rare constitution that made them immune to poison.