I Am This Murim's Crazy Bitch-Chapter 283: Transcendent Qing (20)

Seol Iri had a faint expression.

You couldn’t chalk it up to her martial cultivation—her bastard clan was plenty expressive.

Especially that look she gave when someone splashed water on her and she just sat there in cold silence: pure condemnation, pure sorrow, all wordlessly screaming this is all your fault.

It was practically a masterclass in accusatory suffering.

So maybe Seol Iri was just born this way.

The way she sat there now, silently staring at Qing with those flat, unfazed eyes—never speaking, but always staring—what the hell was that?

Of course, having a faint expression didn’t mean her emotions were faint. Her likes and dislikes were as sharp and unmoving as a blade.

Look at her now: face blank, but her fingers on the table were twitching in little invisible lines, like they were tracing grooves into the wood.

People fidget for many reasons, but it’s usually a sign of nervous anticipation.

Qing didn’t need any special intuition to figure this one out.

“Lady Seol. You’re drooling.”

“No, I’m not.”

Seol Iri quickly wiped the corner of her mouth, then pretended like nothing had happened, rubbing her hand against the tablecloth.

But her voice was unusually lively.

She’d been spoiled with good food lately, so now just sitting at the table made her giddy with anticipation.

Drooling over food like a dog—ugh, no, she was a dog. A bitch, even.

All that aloof pride, and yet here she was, dripping like some lewd mutt at the sight of soup.

Still, Qing was generous with meals—so generous it was practically sainthood.

She’d feed someone a proper meal even if she planned to kill them afterward.

So even if Seol Iri was more a pet or a hugging pillow than a travel companion, she wasn’t a stranger. Giving her good food was basic decency.

And besides, food tasted better when shared.

Watching someone devour a meal you paid for? Deeply satisfying.

And in that regard, Seol Iri was actually a fantastic eating companion.

She ate a lot—and ate well.

It was a known anthropological fact that people from colder climates tended to be big eaters, and Qing vastly preferred someone who ate heartily over those dainty little nibbles “Central Plains beauties” were famous for.

But then—

“Haa, ah, haeu...”

She ate like a damn animal in heat, making obscene noises without a shred of shame.

Seol Iri had a weakness for piping hot food.

The kind where the soup was so thick and boiling, Qing was convinced it could melt a spoon into liquid metal.

And yet, she’d take a full ladle from the very center—scalding hot—and just shove it into her mouth without blowing on it.

Then she’d cool it down inside her mouth.

Those breathy haa... haah... huff... hhuuup sounds were the sound of her trying to tame lava on her tongue.

What kind of barbaric table manners were these?!

Binggung, is this really acceptable behavior in your sect?!

Maybe she’d heatproofed her entire mouth with internal Qi. It was impressive, sure—but deeply embarrassing to witness.

And as soon as she swallowed that first bite, the sweat would start pouring.

By the time she finished, her silver hair would be soaked, and beads of sweat would drip off her chin in slow, steady drops.

“You really sweat a lot, Lady Seol.”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t normally.”

“I use my cold Qi.”

“Even when you sleep?”

“Yes. So don’t hug me.”

“Why not?”

“It’s hot.”

“Hm.”

Qing pretended to ponder, then gave her answer.

“No.”

A vein bulged on Seol Iri’s forehead.

Qing couldn’t care less. She just snorted with a smug little smirk.

“You always say no, no, no—and then get all pissy when things don’t go your way? Tsk, tsk. Can’t have that.”

“......”

Seol Iri clamped her mouth shut.

She had no rebuttal.

“Can’t exactly walk around in the rain. I’m not feeling travel-weary enough to justify a rest day either. Might as well just head out.”

Qing liked rain.

To be precise: she liked watching it. From indoors. In a cozy, warm (or cool) room, with a breeze through the window and that soothing pitter-patter sound.

What she hated was getting wet herself—being sticky, damp, clammy. Absolutely not.

Someone might ask: Do you really like rain, then?

But it’s the same logic as snow.

If you don’t have to shovel it or go anywhere, everyone loves it.

****

Horse stables—mabang—had once been official government-run operations.

But after a long era of peace, they were handed over to the private sector.

Though to be clear, this wasn’t “privatization” in the way Qing’s homeland used the word.

No, this was forced delegation.

You might own the horses and carriages, but if the Emperor says, I want them, then you hand them over. No questions.

Until then, you peasants are graciously ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) allowed to “store” these things on behalf of the empire.

What’s that? You refuse?

Treason! Off with your head!

So the owners of these stables were stuck running businesses that could be confiscated and ruined at any time.

But that didn’t mean they were pitiful.

Many of them made fat under-the-table profits by quietly matching travelers with “bandits” who’d fleece them later.

After all, even if the horses and carriages got seized, they could always preserve their real assets.

So while the money was flowing, they’d grab what they could, however they could.

And so—another batch of victims arrived.

Two women walked into the stable.

Both were jaw-droppingly beautiful—the kind that stopped men mid-step.

They wore swords, so he hesitated. But the tall one looked timid. Her shoulders were hunched, eyes darting everywhere, clearly waiting for someone to speak first.

The shorter one wore a sullen, unimpressed look as she gnawed on a flat, palm-sized piece of king candy like some idiot child.

The stable owner’s heart leapt.

Murim brats! Naïve little martial girls!

“Looking to rent a carriage?”

“Uh, yes. Carriage. We want to go to Chang’an...”

His grin widened.

Complete rookies. No travel experience at all.

Renting a carriage from Luoyang to Chang’an?

Ha. That’s not how it worked.

Carriages had to be swapped at each town along the way. It was too hard for stables to manage returns over long distances.

“Oh, dear. Ladies, if you rent a carriage, you’ll need to return it at the next town’s stable and swap. For Chang’an... hmm, you’d switch at Naknyeong.”

Look at this bastard.

Qing smiled sweetly but cursed him inwardly.

The route to Chang’an ran straight along the Yellow River—there was no need to detour to Naknyeong.

He was just trying to stretch the route and make extra money.

“Ah, I... I see. Um, how much would that be...?”

“Well, carriages are a bit expensive, I’m afraid.”

“H-how expensive...?”

“Well, it depends on the carriage. What kind of price were you expecting?”

“Around... twenty silver taels...”

“Oh dear. That won’t even cover the coachman, let alone the carriage.”

And here we go again.

This bastard was trying to pull the same con.

Not only lining up a robbery, but also overcharging on top of it?

Not happening.

Outwardly, Qing kept her tone mild and feigned hesitation.

“But I was told... that should be enough...”

“Hm. For a good carriage, that’s going to be difficult.”

“...I see. In that case, we’ll check another stable.”

Qing held out her hand to Seol Iri, and she took it without hesitation.

She never protested when Qing reached for her hand—when asked, she said Qing’s hands were cool, and she liked that.

No surprise, really. Seol Iri never did acclimate to the Central Plains’ heat.

She wasn’t just failing to adapt—she had no intention of adapting. She kept her internal cold-type Qi running constantly.

So Qing’s chilly fingers, kept cold by her Minor Demonic Hand Technique, must’ve felt nice.

Whenever Qing reached out, Seol Iri’s hand would instantly clasp around hers.

“Oh no, no need to go wandering around in the rain. Prices are the same everywhere, more or less. Hm. But, since you two lovely ladies are so charming... let me be generous this once.”

And just like that, Qing was offered the stable’s best carriage and a “highly skilled” coachman.

Whether he could drive well was unclear—but judging by the man’s karmic stench, he was clearly very active in his side business.

Qing, in that moment, was like an anglerfish from the ocean depths.

Anglerfish dangle a glowing lure from their foreheads, drawing prey in close before devouring them in a single gulp.

Having had such fun with her last coachman hunt, Qing had decided to cast the line again—with just a little flick of her luminous bait.

Twenty silver taels for a luxury carriage and coachman.

Sure, the trip to Naknyeong could take three days—or four, maybe five if the rain kept up—but it still felt a bit overpriced.

But considering she’d robbed and looted more than two hundred silver taels from those bandits last time, this was nothing.

As they climbed aboard the carriage, Seol Iri finally muttered:

“He’s ugly.”

“Hey now. That’s not a nice thing to say. Poor man’s already ugly—no need to remind him and make it worse.”

Seol Iri shook her head.

Qing had learned by now—that was her way of saying, That’s not what I meant.

What, did she have thorns growing out of her tongue?

Why was she always blurting things out?

“He has a bad face.”

“Oh come on. You can’t judge someone by their face.”

Another headshake.

“(Not that,) the day before yesterday.”

“What, you think that other guy—the one who looked like a damn Buddha—raped women because he had a kind face?”

That shut Seol Iri up.

When she had nothing to say, she simply sealed her lips.

Then went right back to sucking on her king candy, melting it slowly between her teeth.

Qing found herself staring.

Wow. That really does make her look stupid.

****

The lesson Qing had learned from the last coachman incident—both the assault and its bloody aftermath—was profound enough to rival the enlightenment of her second pilgrimage to Luoyang.

Stick with a merchant group? You get meals and pocket money.

Get stuck with a rapist coachman? You get to kill him and profit.

Now that she thought about it, even her last revelation had come on the road to Luoyang.

Was there something sacred about that route?

The White Horse Temple, maybe? Should she have stopped and offered incense?

Oh right—speaking of incense, she remembered she'd been neglecting her sutra recitation.

So Qing began softly chanting lines from the Prajñā Sutra in her clear, luminous voice.

Let’s go, let’s go, to the hill of transcendence. Completely.

Seol Iri was useless as a travel companion.

It was raining. Nothing to see outside.

Might as well focus on spiritual cultivation...

Drrrrrong!

A snore.

Her head slumped to the side. Out cold.

But—

...Nothing happened.

Shockingly, everything was uneventful.

Maybe Qing’s half-sarcastic guess had been right.

Judging by appearances wasn’t fair.

This coachman was polite, friendly, drove well—and did his actual job.

So they made their way toward Naknyeong, stopping in towns along the way to eat and rest.

The rain messed up their timing now and then, but the coachman remained consistently diligent.

Huh. That’s disappointing.

Qing felt genuinely let down.

Still, one odd thing did happen.

“Lady Seol? Are you sick?”

Seol Iri was sweating buckets.

Not just a little—actual droplets were falling off her chin.

“No.”

“Then why are you sweating like that? You look pale, too. If something’s wrong, say something.”

She shook her head. Not that.

“It’s hot.”

“Eh? What about your cold Qi?”

“I stopped using it. Just in case.”

The last time she’d been ambushed, Seol Iri had been helpless.

She’d been maintaining her internal cold-type energy and failed to detect the poison.

By the time she realized, she didn’t have enough Qi left to counterattack.

Same thing with the cold she’d caught—it was all because she kept running her Qi instead of adjusting to the weather.

So this time, seeing another suspicious coachman, she’d stopped using her cold Qi to remain alert.

And if she wasn’t using her cold Qi?

She was hot.

It was early July.

Even with the rain, it was muggy and gross.

The heat clung to your skin, sticky and foul.

But Qing had long since built a solid resistance to cold—and, by extension, a decent tolerance for heat.

Not that she liked it. She was still hot and sticky—but not unbearably so. If she stayed still, it was tolerable.

“If you stay still, it’s not that bad.”

As she said it, she suddenly understood that old saying elders loved to spout: You don’t feel hot if you don’t move.

A vein popped on Seol Iri’s forehead again.

She’d been doing nothing but staying still in the carriage this whole time.

Qing gave a smug snort and teased her.

“If it’s really that bad, want to hold my hand? I’ve got famously cold hands, you know.”