Chapter 1090

Qinghai was unquestionably a border region.

It was among the largest provinces in the world and had some of the most beautiful scenery, but its supplies and households were nowhere near as plentiful as those of the Central Plains.

So whenever people compared Qinghai to the Central Plains—which had stood at the center of the world for thousands of years and developed its culture in every direction—the people of Qinghai liked to joke:

“Qinghai and the Central Plains have only three things in common. They see the same sun, they’re connected by the same water—the Yellow River—and they both have beggars.”

Beggars were common everywhere, after all.

They lived along busy main roads, in dark, filthy alleys, and in shantytowns beside streams. It made no difference whether they were in the Central Plains or out on the border.

There were so many that people joked the Beggars’ Sect could found a nation of its own if it took in every beggar under heaven.

But near daybreak, a scouting party searching through the faint morning mist came across a white-haired beggar unlike any they had ever seen.

No—there was something so strange about him that it made the fine hairs on their bodies stand up.

Step. Step.

He staggered as though he might collapse at any moment. His eyes were empty, as if his soul had left his body.

And then…

“Tell them. Without fail. Whoever survives.”

His voice trembled with terror as it slipped between his blue lips.

Perhaps that was why the scouts stood frozen for a moment before they noticed the two knots tied at the beggar’s waist.

“…The Beggars’ Sect.”

There was no mistaking it. The beggar before them was a Beggars’ Sect martial artist.

A two-knot disciple, just one rank below a Branch Master.

And as far as they knew, there was only one reason a Beggars’ Sect disciple would appear here, a hundred li¹ west of Xining, where the scouts had set out from.

“Old man, what on earth happened at Qinghai Lake—”

One scout hurriedly dismounted and started toward him, then caught his breath and stared.

Only then did he see it.

Through the pale mist, the disciple’s hair had looked white with age. In truth, it was frozen stiff, like the hair of someone trapped in a glacier.

And the face turned white beneath it belonged not to an old man, but to a young one.

“W-what is this…?”

Was this what it felt like to have a bolt of lightning strike through the crown of your head?

All twenty scouts fell silent, a chill running down their spines.

They had no idea that the disciple’s next words would be the last spark of his life, spoken with every ounce of strength he had left.

“Tell them. I’m coming. I’ll go to Xining and kill and burn everything there.”

“…!”

“…!”

For an instant, the scouts trembled, their eyes wide with shock.

Because of the terrifying killing intent in those words?

No. That wasn’t it.

The Beggars’ Sect disciple was smiling. And crying at the same time.

As though imitating whoever had ordered him to deliver the message.

As though grieving for the comrades who were already dead.

Then, in the suffocating silence that pressed down on them all, his body tilted. His difficult journey had come to an end, and his voice had grown faint.

“Just wait. I, the Blood Lord, have returned—”

Thud.

His body crumpled like a rotten log.

The scouts stared blankly at the Beggars’ Sect disciple’s corpse. Then, all at once, they raised their heads and looked west.

Why?

Was it the fear already taking root in their hearts, or an instinctive sense of what they were about to face?

Beyond the thick mist, they could almost hear the shrieks of hideous monsters and smell their stench.

“…See to his body.”

The commander had to force the words out, and even then his voice couldn’t hide his fear.

“We’re going back to Xining. Right now.”

The office of the Qinghai City Lord—now a headless corpse—was as impossibly spacious and luxurious as ever.

As though it existed to prove why he’d had to die.

Its expensive ebony table was large enough to seat dozens of people at once. He had even used Shu brocade, prized as a first-rate luxury in Sichuan, to keep out the sunlight.

But the City Lord could never have known that the gaudy luxuries he’d treasured until his death would now be put to use for a shabby beggar.

“Enjoying this kind of luxury when you’re only a two-knot disciple. You forgot what it means to be a beggar.”

Gung Gibang muttered, doing his best to sound calm.

The corpse lay on the ebony table, wrapped in Shu brocade. Gung Gibang’s eyes glistened as he looked at it.

“I didn’t know him long, but he was a good kid. Still young, and already talented enough to be granted the second knot.”

I said nothing.

Neither did any of the other leaders gathered in the office.

“He asked if he could visit the Central Plains someday, once things got better. I snapped at him for saying something so childish… Damn it.”

Gung Gibang swore in a hollow voice and gave a bitter smile.

“What can you do? He and the others were just unlucky.”

Nearly thirty Beggars’ Sect disciples had been left on the other side of Qinghai Lake. Only one young, nameless disciple had made it back to Xining.

And even he had died along the way.

He’d been in such a terrible state that the scouts who found him could barely speak.

But his final words, which might as well have been a will, contained information more valuable than this entire goddamn lavish office.

“The Blood Lord. If it’s the Blood Lord…”

I nodded at the murmur from Cheongheoja, the Kunlun Sect Leader.

“It’s the same one you’re thinking of, Sect Leader. The one behind the Shaolin Bloodshed.”

“…!”

“…!”

An invisible ripple passed through the room.

Those who already knew of the Blood Lord let out low murmurs without a word. Those who hadn’t known the details stared in shock.

The Fire King, Jeok Cheongang, belonged to neither group.

“A name I’ve longed to hear again.”

His voice was quiet, his expression barely changed.

But I knew better than anyone how furious Jeok Cheongang was.

And how hard he was fighting to hold that fury back.

“Now I can hold my head up in front of that damned monk.”

Hong Dao had been the Abbot of Shaolin Temple, known as the Mount Tai and Northern Dipper of the Murim,² and respected enough to earn the title of Dharma King. Yet Jeok Cheongang had always called him “that damned monk.”

He’d been one of the very few friends Jeok Cheongang had ever had. Maybe the only one.

There was no way Jeok Cheongang had forgotten, even for a moment, his grudge against the man who had killed Hong Dao.

But right now, there was something more pressing than his grudge.

“So they mean to throw everything they have into this after all.”

A young Daoist spoke in a voice so calm it almost sounded cold. Hak Eui, Cheongheoja’s second Disciple, continued.

“They went to the trouble of releasing a Beggars’ Sect disciple they’d already captured. That must mean they’re certain they’ll win.”

“S-second brother.”

Hak Su, his Senior Brother, had been watching the room uneasily and tried to stop him. Hak Eui paid him no mind.

He’d gained a measure of influence since the last meeting about the Qinghai City Lord.

“But it’s unfortunate we didn’t receive the most important information. If we’d known even the enemy’s numbers, we could have made a much better plan—”

“What?”

Gung Gibang, who had been staring at the corpse in silence, suddenly scowled.

“What did you just say?”

Hak Eui answered his anger evenly.

“I was only expressing my thoughts out of regret.”

“So what? Are you blaming a man who risked his life for everyone and died? Asking why he didn’t try harder?”

“That’s…”

Hak Eui was about to respond when someone who had been watching quietly spoke up.

“Second.”

His Master, Cheongheoja.

Hak Eui paused at the quiet call, then bowed his head to Gung Gibang.

“I spoke carelessly because I’m inexperienced. I hope there will be no further misunderstanding.”

There was little feeling in the stiff apology. Gung Gibang’s expression darkened further, but Cheongheoja spoke again.

“I failed to raise my Disciple properly. I sincerely apologize.”

This was no ordinary apology. It came from a far more senior martial artist, and the Sect Leader of the Kunlun Sect at that.

There were others present who outranked even him.

No matter that Gung Gibang was the Beggars’ Sect Successor Beggar, prolonging the argument now could be seen as a grave act of disrespect.

I watched him bite his lip, then looked at Hak Eui. At the right moment, I sent Gung Gibang a Sound Transmission.

—Let it go. For now.

“…!”

—Or I can beat that socially maladjusted bastard half to death right now. Just tell me which you’d prefer.

At last, Gung Gibang gave a bitter smile and shook his head.

“Understood. I’m sorry for souring the mood, too.”

That brought the brief commotion to an end. Hak Eui spoke again, without the slightest sign of having been cowed.

“Fortunately, we still have time before the enemy reaches Xining. We should come up with adequate defenses before then.”

There was something odd about his tone.

I’d been watching him all along with a somber gaze. Now I couldn’t help asking,

“What preparations?”

“You already know, Great Hero Jin.”

Of course I did. I knew all too well.

That was what made it so surprising—that Hak Eui, heir to the Kunlun Sect’s Daoist lineage, would suggest it.

“It’s not too late. We must leave this place at once, before the route behind us is completely cut off.”

“Junior Brother, what are you saying?”

Hak Su sprang to his feet, unable to hold back any longer. Even Cheongheoja let out a troubled murmur. Hak Eui still didn’t stop.

“This isn’t a battle. It’s a war. I know it isn’t right to say this, but… we can’t make the mistake of clinging to something small and losing everything.”

“…!”

“…!”

The air in the room froze.

Then I spoke.

“Uh, first of all, there’s too much bullshit there to answer point by point. So let’s start with this.”

I looked at Hak Eui’s rigid face and added quietly.

“Does the Blood Lord look like a pushover to you?”

I pointed at the table.

More precisely, at the Beggars’ Sect disciple’s corpse, lying there with frost on patches of his body.

I’d known from the moment I first saw him.

That terrible cold still lingering in his dead body. I recognized its familiar trace—one only I could detect.

Blizzard.

A highest-tier ice spell with devastating power.

It meant two things.

First, just as I’d expected, the Grand Sorceress was with them.

And second—

“They’ve already crossed Qinghai Lake.”

They wouldn’t have needed boats. They could simply walk across the lake, frozen solid by magic.

The Blood Lord had only released the Beggars’ Sect disciple for his own amusement in the first place.

“So,” I said quietly to Hak Eui, whose expression I couldn’t read, “if you want to run, leave now. You cowardly bastard.”

And at that moment—

Rrrk. Rrrrrk.

A tremor came from somewhere, and the office began to shake.

No—the whole of Xining.