Chapter 55: But That Wasn't the Case

If left alone, the two idiots were about to start grabbing each other by the collar.

Qing couldn’t just sit back and watch that mess unfold.

So she spoke up.

"You two gonna keep arguing, or are you gonna use those weapons? Tell you what—whoever wins, I’ll let them go."

She didn’t even finish the sentence before the subordinate stabbed his leader.

A clean, quick thrust to the side.

A textbook betrayal.

Yeom Sa-rae-dal coughed up blood.

"Y-you…!"

When you stab someone in the side, they usually die.

Even a martial artist couldn’t escape that reality.

"The cult follows the law of the strong. No point getting upset about it."

The subordinate had the audacity to say something cool despite being a backstabbing piece of shit.

But honestly? He wasn’t wrong.

Nobody in the cult would fault him for it.

Being weak was the only crime.

And the survivor was the only true winner.

That was just how things worked in the Heavenly Demon Cult.

The cult had originated from a religious movement called the Sun and Moon Cult.

Originally, it was derived from Zoroastrianism[^It's one of the world's oldest monotheistic religions, originating in ancient Persia (now Iran).

Founded by the prophet Zarathustra (Zoroaster).

Key belief: the worship of Ahura Mazda, the supreme god, in a cosmic struggle against evil (Angra Mainyu).

Emphasizes good thoughts, good words, and good deeds.

Influenced later religions like Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.], which had spread from the Western Regions.

But as time passed, the Chinese people modified it to suit their own tastes.

Thus, the Sun and Moon Sect was born.

Their ideology?

The entire Central Plains must follow the teachings of Ahura Mazda, the God of Light, and Angra Mainyu, the Demon of Darkness.

It was a religious conquest.

And they actually tried to make it happen.

It was an attempted reformation.

And rulers—especially emperors—never tolerate religious uprisings.

So the Sun and Moon Sect was mercilessly crushed.

What was left of them fled to the barren lands of Xinjiang, forming a community of exiles dedicated to revenge.

The man who led them in their flight was the strongest martial artist in the cult—the one who had successfully guided them to safety.

And when he ascended as the new Cult Leader, he made a declaration.

• Heaven is Ahura Mazda.[^Represents goodness, truth, and light]
• The Demon is Angra Mainyu.[^Considered the source of all that is evil, including lies, darkness, chaos, and destruction]
• Let us merge Heaven and Demon into one—

Thus, the Heavenly Demon Sect was born.

They never forgot their grudge.

They longed for the day they could engulf the Central Plains in divine flames.

And every time the world seemed to forget about them—

They launched an invasion.

First.

Second.

Third.

And then a fourth.

Four great wars between the righteous and the demonic.

After so much bloodshed, the people of Murim decided to stop using any fancy names for them.

Instead of the Heavenly Demon Sect, they were simply called…

The Demon Sect.

Two names.

One entity.

"uhh… kind lady?"

The victorious subordinate shot Qing a nervous glance.

Qing tilted her head.

"Where’s the Bokshinjeok?"

"It’s… in his robes."

He pointed at Yeom Sa-rae-dal.

The dying bastard glared.

But seriously—what was a dying man gonna do?

"Good. Then you can go."

"I am deeply grateful!"

The subordinate bowed, then launched himself toward the exit.

Qing extended a palm.

"Where do you think you’re going?"

DONG!

A massive gong rang out—shaking the entire tomb.

And with that—

The man’s ass exploded.

His legs flew off in two different directions, tracing graceful arcs through the air.

Meanwhile, what was left of his torso thudded to the ground.

His lower half split open, spilling guts onto the stone floor.

The man stared up at Qing with a betrayed look.

"H-…hwhy…?"

"What do you mean ‘why’?"

Qing raised an eyebrow.

"I said I’d let you go, but I never said I wouldn’t attack you. You should’ve dodged if you wanted to live."

"S…ssooo…nnavvvaaa…."

The man choked on his own blood, his eyes rolling back as he took his final breath.

Qing whistled as she started looting corpses.

Because taking trophies was the right of the victor.

"Ugh. Fucking broke bastards…"

Seriously.

Would it kill them to carry some decent cash?

The only thing remotely interesting was a leg holster—strapped to the dead man’s thigh.

Inside, a set of ornamental throwing knives sat neatly in place, each decorated with flower patterns.

Qing scowled.

"What kind of mountain bandit carries flower-patterned weapons?"

Still, the holster was practical.

She strapped it onto her own leg and fastened it to her belt.

She stretched her legs a few times—

Nice.

Didn’t get in the way of movement.

Now she wouldn’t have to steal chopsticks every time she stopped at an inn.

And then—

At last—

The treasure of ten thousand gold.

Bokshinjeok.

Qing’s fingers curled around it.

It was longer than expected.

And since it was made of Cold Iron, it was heavy.

As she held it in her hands, the metal felt cool and solid.

It had holes running along its body, so yeah—technically, it was a flute.

But with no engravings or decorations, it just looked like a long, dark metal club.

…And that was great.

Because it meant she could use it as a weapon.

She gave it a few test swings.

WHOOOSH. WHOOOSH.

Perfect length.

Solid weight.

Sturdy grip.

This Fan Chi dude probably intended for it to double as a blunt weapon, right?

If the legendary blacksmith Fan Chi had heard that, he would have wept blood.

Qing tucked the Bokshinjeok against her back and looked around.

The tomb was an absolute mess.

The dying torches flickered weakly, casting long, warped shadows over the wreckage.

After a moment, Qing stepped up to the central stone coffin.

She carefully straightened out the faded silk robes of the long-decayed corpse inside.

Then, with a final glance—

She closed the lid.

After that—

She leapt through the hole in the ceiling.

And just like that—

The last torch burned out.

Darkness swallowed the tomb in absolute silence.

Wang Gae-yuk, the sect leader of Daejeongmun, was beaming.

And why wouldn’t he be?

At fifty-seven years old, this was the greatest achievement of his entire life.

Sure, a few disciples got injured—

But no one was seriously wounded.

And they had actually driven back a Demon Sect combat unit.

On top of that, they even managed to rescue the missing people.

Granted, those poor bastards were half-starved, in terrible condition, and only about thirty of them had survived—

But honestly?

They hadn’t expected to save anyone at all.

So it was a pleasant surprise.

The only problem?

The captives didn’t know anything.

They had all been tricked by Wang Son-man’s promises of "one big score"—

Only to wake up and be handed shovels to start digging.

Since the Vanguard Assault Unit had been either killed or fled, they had no way of knowing what the Demon Sect’s actual goal had been.

All they did know—

Was that they had been grave robbing.

That was it.

And as for Qing?

She walked away with a ten-thousand-gold prize.

And that was how it ended.

Simple.

Clean.

Efficient.

To be clear—

Qing wasn’t even trying to hide it.

"…What the hell is that?"

Pang Daesan frowned.

Qing held up her prize.

"Oh? San, you don’t recognize it? This is called a flute. You blow into it, and it makes sounds."

"…That’s not what I meant."

"Why does it look like you just picked it up from a scrap yard?"

To be fair, musical instruments were usually decorative.

Music, after all, was meant to captivate people.

Historically—

• It helped laborers forget their suffering.
• It added a solemn air to religious ceremonies.
• It brought joy to people, whether in love or in drink.

So musicians had always strived to be visually appealing as well—

And their instruments evolved accordingly.

Yet this so-called Bokshinjeok?

It was just…

A long, black iron stick.

Absolutely zero aesthetic appeal.

"If you knew how much this thing was worth, San, you’d be shitting bricks."

"Oh? What, is it worth two copper coins?"

"Brother Peng, that wouldn’t even cover the scrap metal price. It’s worth at least one tael of silver."

"You two are being too superficial," Chang Bin spoke up.

"Sometimes, true treasures come in unassuming forms—"

Then his voice trailed off.

Because Qing was staring at him.

She had this look.

Like she was waiting for him to finish his sentence.

Chang Bin shut up.

For once, he had actually made a smart observation.

But he had no credibility, so Pang Daesan and Namgung Sinjae just ignored him completely.

No one was going to listen to his dumb philosophical nonsense.

"By the way, do you even know how to play the flute?"

Namgung Sinjae asked.

If Qing had been a normal girl, she might have been offended by the question.

After all, playing an instrument was considered a basic skill for well-bred women.

But Qing wasn’t a girl.

She was a man.

Or so she insisted.

So she didn’t care.

"Play the flute? What’s there to it? You just blow into it, right?"

Qing put the flute to her lips.

Ximen Surin had played the flute often, so she did her best to mimic what she had seen.

For a moment, the three men actually thought—

Could she really…?

But then—

WHHHEEEEEEEEE

Just the sound of air.

A long, embarrassing hiss of nothing.

Annoyed, Qing kept blowing.

Surely, if she forced it, some kind of sound would come out, right?

But no matter how hard she blew—

WHHHHFFF

Just a whole lot of wind noise.

Qing scowled.

"…Okay, what the fuck. Is this thing broken?"

Pang Daesan just stared.

The girl’s entire face was turning red from effort.

"…You do realize that just blowing harder doesn’t make it work, right?"

Qing glared.

"Oh? You saying you know how to play it, San?"

"I can play a simple tune."

"Oh? Music man. Alright, let’s hear it."

Qing handed over the flute.

Pang Daesan took it.

But then—

He noticed something.

The mouthpiece…

Had a shiny, wet imprint on it.

His entire body stiffened.

"…The fuck is wrong with you?"

Qing frowned.

Pang Daesan exhaled through his nose.

"Look. Just—stop doing that. A woman shouldn’t be shoving things she’s already put in her mouth at men."

He paused.

"Please, just try to act a little like a proper lady. Have some dignity. Don’t you realize how much of a joke you look like?"

Qing raised an eyebrow.

Oh?

This bastard was getting comfortable enough to start nagging now?

She scratched her head.

Then—

She pulled out her hair tie and immediately redid her hair.

The movements were smooth, precise, flawless.

A flick of the wrist, a quick twist, a wrap-around, a secure pin—

In seconds, her hair was back up in a perfect bun, not a single strand out of place.

A skill she had perfected after years of avoiding brutal forehead flicks.

"Why does it matter? We’re friends, aren’t we?"

Now that she thought about it, was it more awkward because they were friends?

She thought back to school days.

The recorder was the forbidden instrument.

You never borrowed someone’s.

You never lent yours out.

Because it was just…

Weird.

Gross.

Pang Daesan took a step back, visibly disturbed.

Namgung Sinjae chuckled.

"Perhaps you should just play the zither[^a musical instrument shaped like a flat box, with many strings stretched across it that you pull at with your fingers or with a small piece of plastic] instead. At least that makes sound."

Qing’s expression darkened.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?"

She glared.

But Namgung Sinjae had meant it sincerely.

So instead of fighting—

It fueled her stubbornness.

"Fine. Just watch. I’m going to get this thing to work."

Pang Daesan sighed.

"…The way you’re talking, it’s like you’re threatening the flute."

"Shut up. Just wait. You’ll see."

And so—

For the entire journey towards Mount Hua—

Qing never let go of Fuxinjie.

She practiced nonstop.

Day.

And night.

But no matter what she did—

She couldn’t make a single sound.