Chapter 94: Heavenly Demon Tomb

The saltiness that scrapes your tongue.
The clinging sweetness that makes your mouth sting.
The fiery blend of hot chili, garlic, scallions, and onions.
And of course, the almighty umami punch born from the arrogant king of seasoning—MSG.

Sweet, salty, spicy, and bold—Korean food’s glorious four elements.
Together, they created flavor.

But look closer.

Salt wasn’t cheap.
Sugar was fucking expensive.
Chili from the south seas—the famed Namman chili—was only familiar to folks in Sichuan.
And MSG? Umami?

That wasn’t some cheap white powder.
That was a labor of love—the essence of taste you only got from boiling down animal bones for hours until they literally melted.

MSG was a triumph of human culinary evolution.
Not some shortcut. Not a trick.

So when Qing fixated on kimchi stew, it wasn’t just about that one dish.

It was about everything—her longing for Korean food was a hunger for the Four Sacred Elements of Flavor.
A craving that fake Korean knockoffs just couldn’t touch.

Sure, the soul of Korean cuisine—fried chicken—existed here too.

The Central Plains had enough oil to fry everything, and deep-frying was basically the peasant’s holy rite.

Grilled pork belly[^Grilled pork belly – A reference to samgyeopsal (삼겹살), one of Korea’s most iconic dishes. Thick slices of pork belly are grilled at the table and eaten with garlic, dipping sauces, and lettuce wraps. While often treated as humble fare, it’s a cultural cornerstone of modern Korean cuisine.]?

Well, pork was already the most popular meat here.

Noodles?

The Central Plains was literally the origin point of all noodle cuisine. No Central Plains, no noodles. Period.
They were the alpha and omega of flour-based food.

So the fact that Qing only just now cracked under the weight of homesick-induced mental deviation?
Honestly, people should’ve been praising her for how long she held out.

She was chasing an impossible ideal—the food of her soul.

And it showed all over her face.

Qing wore that haunting, beautiful expression—the look of a woman longing for something lost.
It was the kind of timeless grief that transcended eras, cultures, and nations.

Longing was always born from the ache for something beautiful now gone.

And the people of the Central Plains?

They were the kind of sickos who found that kind of longing the most beautiful thing in the world.

They were a bunch of degenerates whose sex drives triggered from the sight of a slightly pained face.

Legend says Xishi, the most beautiful woman in all of the Central Plains, just had chronic chest pain—
But the entire world thought she was longing for something. That expression alone made her a goddess.

So even the elite cultists of the Demon Cult were catching feelings.

Qing had, after all, grown into a pretty decent beauty herself.

Sure, her face would shatter the illusion the moment she opened her mouth, or walked, or ate…

But right now? She wasn’t normal.

That chest-tightening, soul-wrenching look of longing practically pierced through the hearts of every Demon Cult elite in sight.

Damn. Today I finally realized what my ideal woman looks like.

You too, bro? Same here.

Stop staring. You’re gonna wear her face out.

Wear it out my ass. You’d better start with Father-in-Law over there.

…And yet, the only reason no one had dropped to one knee and proposed on the spot was because of one man.

The Purple Lightning Demonic Warlord.

If it hadn’t been for Choi Leeong standing right there, radiating oppressive qi with the casual malice of a volcano, Qing would’ve been buried under a mountain of handshakes—
No, worse—marriage vows.

Choi Leeong wasn’t just any guard dog.

He was a Profound Realm demonic cultivator, whose qi leaked Purple Lightning just by existing.

If you pissed him off, he wouldn’t just kill you—he’d charcoal your ass into oblivion.

And the Demon Cult?
They didn’t prosecute unlicensed charcoal production.

So everyone pretended not to look, sneaking side glances at Qing’s mournful face…

As she lay there in the arms of the Purple Lightning Demonic Warlord.

The Purple Lightning Demonic Warlord kept sweeping his icy blue gaze across the room, trying to scatter all the stares, but it was useless. Look one way and people were sneaking glances from the other. Total chaos.

Choi Leeong clicked his tongue.

"Girl, what the hell’s wrong with you? You look like a dead dog. Hell, even a soggy mutt has more spirit than you right now."

"I want kimchi stew… kimchi stew…"

"Kimchi stew? That’s the most cursed food name I’ve ever heard. Hold on—you’re telling me this entire breakdown is because you want to eat something?"

"It's not just food… that’s so mean…"

Choi Leeong’s brow twitched.

Normally, she would've gone feral by now, swinging insults and knives with equal enthusiasm, yelling about how dare he trivialize her feelings.

But instead, she just whispered "mean…" like a soggy squid with its soul wrung out.

That’s when it hit him—this wasn’t normal.

Yeah, he’d said it was just food, but he wasn’t some senile old bastard who thought kids whining about snacks was serious business.

This girl had no one. She was surrounded by killers, had nowhere to belong. Of course she missed home. And of course it showed up in her hunger.

How much must she miss it, for it to come out like this?

Still… Choi Leeong didn’t feel great about it either.

He’d promised to send her back. And he would. But he’d also seen the future, clear as day—the look on her face when she realized there was no place left for her to return to.

So instead, he asked something else.

"Alright, alright. If it’s just food, what’s stopping us from making it? Tell me what you need."

Qing’s eyes flickered with the tiniest spark of hope.

"Really? Kimchi stew is a spicy soup made with kimchi."

"And what the hell is kimchi?"

"Oh. Uh… fermented napa cabbage made red with chili pepper. But not just soaked. You have to age it. Let it ferment."

"If we go back—"

"But I can't go back…"

And just like that, she deflated again.

Choi Leeong looked helpless.

It sounded like some obscure local dish. Fermented red cabbage? What the hell?

Weird, yeah—but the real issue wasn’t the ingredients. Even if he had the stuff, it wouldn’t be enough. You couldn’t just throw it together.

He sighed, completely at a loss.

That’s when one of the Demon Cult elites—smitten with this pitiful beauty—started eavesdropping with fully mastered Eavesdropping Arts.

Sound Isolation Art was the technique of focusing your internal energy to isolate and listen to a single sound.

It let experts hear distant conversations or sift through background noise to pick out exactly what they wanted.

Basically, yeah—it was invented for eavesdropping. It was a literal, formalized spying technique.

Either way, he nailed it. Eavesdropping successful. Definitely worth the time mastering it.

Ugh. I just want something spicy.

Qing poked at her food without much enthusiasm.

Well—looked like she poked at it.

To Choi Leeong’s eyes, it seemed like she was barely nibbling.

It was only after her food lust died off that Ximen Surin’s nuclear-tier cram-school etiquette started kicking in.

Once her instincts went dark, the behaviors tattooed onto her body surfaced—radiation-grade, refined-lady programming.

So to anyone who didn’t know the real her, Qing looked like a perfect beauty—elegant, composed, textbook delicate—eating her meal like she was the empress of a tea ceremony.

This one’s sweet.
This one’s salty.

And all of it’s greasy as hell. No rice. Just oil, oil, and more fucking oil.

Eventually, Qing gave up and set down her chopsticks.

A catastrophe.

Qing refused food. That was the headline.

Right then—

"Young Lady. Take this."

"...?"

Qing slowly turned her head, dazed.

The hint of sorrow in her sleepy eyes hit the man offering her a bowl like a fist to the chest.

"I heard it’s a local soup. You seemed unhappy with the food, so I brought this."

The other experts nearby realized they’d made a fatal mistake.

Shit. That works? That’s allowed??

Damn it, so that’s how it’s done!

If you want to catch the horse, you shoot the general—hm? Is that right?

Anyway, whoever captures the stomach, captures the heart of a woman!

In truth, when it came to romantic ideals in the Central Plains, men were expected to be more devoted than those of any other culture.

Because Central Plains-style romance—(redacted, to be continued another time)

As for this, Qing would eventually get to experience it herself, being a beauty and all, once she left the cult and ventured into the world.

Qing looked at the soup.

Pale, watery, and almost offensively clear. Not a good sign.

Still… you never know.

She scooped up a spoonful, daintily brought it to her lips…

And was immediately betrayed.

Salty. Sour. And still oily.

Sour soup with your rice? That’s a hate crime. This world was truly cruel.

Normally she’d have gone feral by now, flipped the bowl, cursed the heavens.

But the mental deviation dulled her edge. She just quietly set the spoon down and stared into the void.

Even kimchi stew was spicy and sour.
It worked because it was both.

This was just wrong.

And then it began.

From that day on, every meal Qing sat down for came with a different kind of soup.

Broths, stews, herbal tonics, bone soup—whatever they could find, someone brought it.

Choi Leeong glared at first, but when he saw her taking at least a spoonful each time, he pulled back his killing intent like he was granting mercy.

Even so—Qing never tasted the kind of spicy broth she craved.

What a tragedy.

That bastard Seol Ganom should’ve seen this.

He would’ve given her some enlightenment, saying something like, “If you’d just kept your mouth shut and pretended to be upset, you could’ve been treated like royalty anywhere.”

But Seol Ganom was gone…

And so, the Demon Cult’s little war party crept ever closer to the Heavenly Demon Tomb.
One goddamn flavorless day at a time.

Another day and night passed.

The Demon Cult’s raiding party, disguised as merchants, finally set foot in Gansu.

Gansu Province[^A narrow, snaking province in northwest China, historically part of the Silk Road. Its shape and geography make it a natural corridor between Central China and the Western Regions.]—the one shaped like a goddamn snake’s neck stretching across the land. The reason this long, weird noodle of a city formed was simple:

There were towering mountain ranges to the north and south.
What the hell else could you do?

That made this strip the only flat route heading west, past Xinjiang, toward the Western Regions.

So it became a prime merchant route. And since all those merchants were hauling loads of silk, the road got its famous name:

The Silk Road.[^An ancient trade route connecting China to Central Asia, the Middle East, and Europe. Merchants used it to transport goods like silk, spices, and precious metals.]

A bunch of merchants crowding the Silk Road? Totally normal.

So when the Demon Cult’s invasion force rolled through dressed like traders, no one even blinked.

Eventually, the caravan suddenly turned south—and arrived at the famous Seven-Colored Mountain of Zhangdan.

Why was it called Seven-Colored Mountain?

Because it had seven damn colors. That was it.

Qing, still half-dead inside, looked up at the sight.

Ah. This is that thing I saw in Civilization…

The famous Zhangye Danxia[^A real geological formation in China, known for its vibrant, multicolored rock layers. Often called Seven-Colored Mountain in Korean, and internationally referred to as Zhangye Danxia Landform. A frequent background in strategy games and Chinese travel photos.]—the international name for it.

A surreal landscape where bare, vegetation-free terrain rolled in waves of seven different colors. Stunning. Otherworldly.

Magical, even.

And yet…

Looks like someone just… painted the dirt.

That was as much awe as Qing could muster in her current mental state.

If she had actually known anything about the geography of the Central Plains, this was the moment she might’ve slapped her thigh and gone, “Aha! So that’s where the Heavenly Demon Tomb is!”

Because if you followed the mountain ridges south of Seven-Colored Mountain, you’d end up at the Gorge of the Serene Mountain Lake.[^

평 (Pyeong / 平): flat, calm

산 (San / 山): mountain

호 (Ho / 湖): lake

So Pyeongsanho literally means “Calm Mountain Lake.” I've translated it to Gorge of the Serene Mountain.]

A place where vertical cliffs formed natural walls, and twisted gorges snaked through them like a maze carved by the gods.

Honestly, there was no better place to stash the seed of a world-ending disaster.

But alas—Qing’s geography stat was dogshit.