Chapter 96: Heavenly Demon Tomb

By the time Qing came to her senses, she was standing inside a tavern.

She sat down like it was the most natural thing in the world and called out,

“Excuse me! Over here!”

“Yes, young miss! Coming right up!”

The waiter answered energetically and jogged over.

“I’ll have two servings of kimchi stew—extra spicy—and toss in some sliced ham. Oh, and a Coke. Cold. Not warm.”

“I apologize, young miss, but this tavern uses a kiosk ordering system.”

“Oh. Right.”

Qing stood up, embarrassed.

God, is there anywhere left that doesn’t have a kiosk these days?

Then why the hell even pretend to take my order?

Grumbling, she tapped through the order screen, then came back to her table.

That’s when a sharp, heavy pain twisted in her lower belly.

Qing muttered internally.

Hey. Chill. Not now. Read the room.

She clenched and suppressed the signal, planted her elbows on the table, and started looking around.

By now, she was pretty used to life in the Central Plains—and especially proud of how fluent she’d become in the culture of taverns.

Honestly? Qing considered herself more local than the locals.

Still… this place was weird.

Everything was stone.
Gray stone floors. Stone walls. Even the tables and chairs looked carved out of a single rock face.

It felt less like a building and more like they’d just hollowed out the inside of a mountain and tossed some furniture in.

There wasn’t a single carving, scroll, or decorative element. It felt incomplete, like some abandoned construction site that hadn’t been painted yet.

Is this supposed to be one of those vibe-heavy taverns?

Weren’t those trendy like… three years ago?

And yet—the place was packed. Almost every table was full.

Well, who cares. If the food slaps and the rooms are decent, that’s all that matters.

Just then, the food arrived—dropped onto her table like divine providence.

The thing she’d been dying for all this time: kimchi stew, and a perfect bowl of hot white rice.

Qing lifted a spoonful to her lips.

Aged kimchi, boiled down until it was rich and fiery. The deep, murky broth hit her tongue and slid down her throat.

Holy shit.

Qing’s eyes snapped wide open.

She immediately launched into combat mode.

She soaked her rice in the stew, stirred it together till it glistened red, then topped it with a slab of fermented kimchi, a square of tofu, a slice of meat—one spoonful to rule them all—and shoved it into her mouth.

Then she cracked open a can of ice-cold Coke with a satisfying click, let the carbonation tickle her tongue with that pop-fizz, and chugged it.

Fireworks went off in Qing’s brain.

Yes. THIS. This is my fucking house recipe.

I missed this so goddamn much.

You have no idea how fucking hard it’s been.

It was the kind of flavor that could make you cry—and, honestly, she was already crying.

“What the hell… why am I—”

Qing wiped away tears, but tears were tears.
Food was food.

She bawled her eyes out while shoveling spoon after spoon into her mouth like she was possessed.

Hic, sniff, chew, CHOMP. Hic. Sobbing. Gulp.

She cried and ate and cried and ate. It was chaos.

But her hands never stopped moving.

She even added dried seaweed flakes, mixed it in. Stacked up tofu, kimchi, pork, ham in different combinations, experimenting like a madwoman while pounding through the rice.

And everyone knew—kimchi stew takes two bowls of rice minimum.

Qing went up, grabbed another full bowl from the self-serve station, and returned for round two.

“Huuuuhh… goddamn, that hit the spot. Hic.”

She rubbed her stomach, eyes still puffy as hell.

Even after all that… her belly still looked flat as ever.

And just like that, the pressure in her chest was gone.

Whether it was because the food was so damn good or because she’d cried her guts out, Qing couldn’t say.

But she’d pulled off a double combo—a full meal and a full breakdown—and in doing so, she’d clawed her way out of the mental deviation.

She leaned sideways in her chair, lazily propped up.

Still hungry. Wonder if there’s anything else?

That’s when she noticed the stone tablet now sitting on the table in front of her.

Huh. When did that show up?

Curious, she peered down at it—and a screen flickered to life. It displayed the tavern’s menu, neatly grouped into categories.

Ah. A tablet. Fancy. Lotta places are doing this now.

…Wait, had this always been here?

Then why make me order through the kiosk first?

Still grumbling, she tapped through the interface with practiced fingers.

Moments later, the server wheeled over a cart and started laying out desserts one by one.

Cakes. Everywhere.

It was a sugar massacre.

It started with tiramisu and glistening sugar-glazed rare cheesecake. Then came the New York–style baked cheesecake, the burnt-black Basque, and every variation in between.

Chocolate chiffon, a hot and gooey fondant au chocolat that oozed with every cut, whipped cream–topped strawberry shortcake, pristine milk cream cake, and multilayered crepe cakes stacked like architectural marvels. Even some “is this technically bread?” mousse monstrosities made it in.

Éclairs topped with rainbow glazes lined up in military precision.

There were pancakes soaked in maple syrup, opera cake, waffles, brûlée, custards, brownies, pies, tarts, macarons, canelés, meringues, castella, and dense, overbaked croissants…

And to top it off?

A Trenta-size iced Americano—31.01 fl oz (910mm) of pure caffeinated fuel—now sat in Qing’s hand.

Thus was born a Dessert Butcher no sect in the martial world could stop.

Sweet, sweet, sweet—then more sweet.

Fresh off a crying jag and riding high on that post-meal clarity, she slammed her bloodstream with a lethal dose of sugar and ascended into the infamous martial condition known as…

Sugar High Realm.

And then, suddenly—

Wait.

Since when did I like sweets this much?

Her hand froze mid-bite.

The pie she’d been about to devour sagged, warm apple marmalade leaking out from the flaky shell.

Back before her transmigration, she hadn’t avoided sweets, sure…

But she didn’t go out of her way for them, either.

This sweet tooth… belonged to the body.

Not to her.

And that—was bad.

“Fuck. I was just starting to enjoy this…”

She flicked the dessert out of her hand.

At the same time, she released the pressure in her dantian—the force that had been subtly constricting her gut this entire time.

The qi of the Great Tranquil Zen Art, which had been poking at her lower abdomen and screaming for attention like a nosy monk, finally unwound.

That calm, clear, luminous qi began to rise up her spine and flow into her brain.

In Buddhism, the eightfold path is called the Noble Eightfold Way.

And the first step on that path is Right View—to see the world as it truly is.

And so…

Qing saw through the illusion.

None of what she was seeing, hearing, or feeling was real.

Qing smacked her lips.

Well… I got to eat all the kimchi stew I wanted, so whatever. I can hold out for another three years now, probably.

Guess I’ll make kimchi when I get back to the Divine Maiden Sect.

What was it again? Just soak some napa cabbage in saltwater, mash in scallions, garlic, onions, peppers, smear it all over and bury it for a while, right?

And if it doesn’t work, I’ll just come back here again. Easy.

Still, even with all that rationalizing… one delayed question finally arrived in her head.

What the actual fuck is going on?

She’d sensed something was off from the start. The Great Tranquil Zen Art had been acting up since she got here.
She noticed it—but stuffed it down because she really, really wanted food.

And honestly?
She got it. She feasted. She cried. She was genuinely happy for a second there.

So, what now? Some kind of spiritual illusion spell?

Do wuxia worlds have that kind of thing?

She’d seen her master shoot fire from her hands, ride a sword through the sky, and summon storms.
So… illusions too? That tracks.

So then… what’s the difference between wuxia and Harry Potter?

They fly, they cast fire, they hallucinate, and there’s a shared public enemy in demonic bastards…

What—do you just slap in a couple Chinese assholes and call it wuxia?

A completely blasphemous thought that would have caused eight billion hardcore wuxia readers to foam at the mouth and scream in righteous fury.

But Qing just shrugged and kept walking—heels clicking across the stone floor of the tavern.

And when she stepped outside, the entire scene changed again.

She was now standing in the grand throne hall of some towering palace.

Rows and rows of high thrones filled the space, each one occupied by a different person.

The faces were familiar—too familiar.

They were all Demon Cult elites.

One of them lounged on a throne being hand-fed fruit by a beautiful woman.
Another was receiving deep bows from silk-robed officials.
A third… well, they were just sitting there, smug as hell.

Qing’s face scrunched up.

“The fuck is this? Why do they all look like they’re trying to be kings? Can’t anyone here be original?”

Well, that was the thing.

Most top-ranked Demon Cult bastards had the same dream: get a noble title after unifying the Central Plains, rule a city, live fat, die smug.

Qing pulled out the Bokshinjeok.

She figured she’d help them snap out of it—the kind of snapping that launched your soul directly into the afterlife.

Straight to paradise. Free ticket. Courtesy of her.

She smiled darkly and started walking toward the nearest throne.

And that’s when a young voice called out:

“Please stop.”

Qing paused.

Turned her head, grin still intact.

“Well, if it isn’t Seungju. What a lovely surprise. I was just saying I wanted to see your face again. And maybe… see what’s inside that face, too.”

Ji Seungju flinched, glancing back and forth between her twisted smile and the Bokshinjeok in her hand.

Then, panicking, he blurted out:

“If you kill me, you’ll be trapped in this formation forever. Is that really what you want?”

“Huh? Formation?”

“The Illusory Maze of No Return. It’s a demonic formation that originated from the Blood Sect’s branch line. Surely you’ve at least heard the name.”

“Wait—what do you mean, formation?”

Qing squinted. And asked again.

Ji Seungju stared at Qing with eyes full of tremors.

Tremors not from fear—but from shock.

Shock that someone this profoundly ignorant could exist in the world.

“…Do I really have to start from there?”

“Yeah. So? What the hell is a formation, anyway?”

A formation was a kind of spiritual technique that manipulated natural energy.

It required knowledge of underground currents, spiritual ley lines, and the flow of the land itself. Twisting those flows produced specific, often terrifying effects.

And once someone stepped into a formation?

They’d see illusions, hear voices, lose track of their senses—and never realize they were trapped in a false world.

“Ah. So this whole mess… was because of some formation?”

“The Illusory Maze of No Return shows you what you most desire. It’s a horrific formation specifically because of that.”

“…Why’s that horrific?”

Qing blinked, genuinely confused.

She just got to eat everything she’d ever wanted and broke out of a mental deviation in the process. That was a win.

“Because… it makes you not want to leave. The food you eat isn’t real. You’re not asleep, and your body never rests. It’s sweet poison—one that kills slowly, while you smile.”

Qing tilted her head.

Wasn’t that bad, honestly.

But of course, she didn’t just think that—she said it.

“Hmm… was it really that bad?”

“Fu—…I mean, apologies.”

Ji Seungju quickly corrected himself.

He couldn’t help it. Somehow, that one sentence grated his entire soul raw. He didn’t know why.

“This formation actually externalizes a person’s mental landscape. It’s layered with all five elements and interwoven through the Hundred-and-Eight Gates. To locate the correct exit, we’d need to identify the core directional nodes—like the Heptaflow Threshold and—”

“Hey.”

Qing cut him off.

It was all just white noise.

This—this right here—was why smart people were so damn frustrating.

They always assumed everyone else was just as smart as them.

This was also why Qing considered Seol Ganom the most intelligent person she’d ever met.

At least he explained shit in a way normal people could understand.

If a smart guy only said stuff he understood?

Qing already had the perfect method for dealing with that kind of nonsense:

The Bokshinjeok.
The universal language of Professors.

She raised it slowly.

“You gonna keep talking fancy?”

“…There are 540 potential exits to the formation, but all but five are traps. Which means, realistically, it’s impossible to navigate out.”

Ji Seungju shifted tone immediately.

Because while his knowledge was stored way up in his brain…
The flute was right in front of his face.

“See? That’s more like it.”

Qing nodded in satisfaction.

“So now what? What do I do?”

“Every formation has a central anchor—what we call the foundational stone. Oh, and by the way, a foundational stone is—”

“I know what a foundational stone is.”

“…Impressive.”

“I’m always impressive. Literally never not impressive.”

“……”

After a moment of silence, Ji Seungju continued.

“We’ll need to move each foundational stone into the correct place, in the correct order. If we do that, the formation will unravel. I’ll guide you. You’ll just need to move the objects as I direct.”

To which Qing replied:

“Me? Why?”