I Am This Murim's Crazy Bitch-Chapter 291: Transcendent Qing (28)

The tip of Qing’s sword pointed—and the crowd split like the Red Sea.

It was as if a cannonball had blasted from the blade.

People screamed and scattered left and right, and the tight circle of onlookers opened into a single, clean corridor.

A narrow, perfectly straight path now led across the square.

Then, in the middle of it all, someone started to stumble forward—pushed and shoved by the others—until a man was spat out into view.

He stumbled, saw the blade pointed directly at him, went pale, and immediately tried to dive back into the crowd.

What, does he think I shoot lasers out of this thing?

Actually... that’s kind of fun.

But the man was shoved again, harder this time. He tripped and fell flat on his ass with a loud thud.

“It—it wasn’t me!”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You were the one yelling!”

“I heard it clearly with my own ears!”

Qing’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh? So you were shouting with such pride before...

Now you’ve lost your voice?”

“T-That’s...”

“What do you do, exactly, that you feel so entitled to shout others down?

Do you know him?”

Qing turned to the engineer.

But the man simply shook his head.

“I don’t recognize him.”

“Well, someone must. Anyone here know who this guy is?”

Qing believed in asking questions.

And once again, the collective wisdom of a pissed-off crowd worked wonders.

“Hey, that’s the waiter from Jeha Tavern!”

“That’s right! I knew I recognized that voice!”

Unlike her homeland, the Central Plains still had that tight-knit neighborly vibe.

And neighborly affection meant information.

Spend a week in any village, and everyone knew your face.

So with a cheer of recognition, the man’s identity was exposed in an instant.

“A waiter, huh? No wonder he’s got lungs on him.

Hey, what’s with the heckling?”

“I—I heard it, I swear!”

Now that he’d been exposed, the waiter—Jeomsoi—launched into his side of the story.

Last winter, when construction was at its peak, some carpenters from Jangheung Sangbang—the firm in charge of the project—came to drink at his tavern.

And, as always, alcohol flowed... and mouths loosened.

And just like everywhere else—Central Plains, the West, Qing’s homeland—people treated waitstaff like furniture, as if they weren’t really there.

So the waiter had heard everything.

“They said the design was bullshit! Said no one in their right mind would build a floodgate like that, or pile up the embankments that way!

Kept saying whoever drew the plans had never set foot on an actual site—just some spoiled desk-hugger! They cussed him up and down!”

“Oh?”

Qing looked back at the engineer.

His face twisted in outrage.

“What, exactly, was bullshit about my design!?

It was structured from foundation to rooftop to be simple and strong—just stack it, fill it, reinforce it!

Even the officials at the bureau picked it over the others!”

Qing didn’t understand the construction terms—and even if she did, the terminology in her homeland was probably different anyway.

The waiter shrank under the glare.

“I mean, I don’t know about all that... I just... I heard what I heard...”

“What a nasty man.

Yelling like that in a disaster zone is the same as holding a funeral—just waiting for someone to die.”

“But it was his fault—!”

“Do we know that yet?

When the truth comes out, that’s when you string him up or burn him at the stake.

Not now.”

“...Tch.”

The waiter looked away.

To be fair, when disasters strike, humans instinctively look for someone to blame.

History is built on scapegoats.

It’s a kind of psychological defense—an attempt to soothe that helpless rage by pinning it onto one person.

“But did you say... Jangheung Sangbang?”

“That’s the firm that handled the construction.”

Here’s how flood control projects worked:

The bureau would announce a project.

Construction firms submitted applications.

Designers submitted blueprints.

The bureau picked one of each.

Then they gave the chosen contractor the design and budget and told them to get to work.

Fun fact: the reason they split construction and design was to prevent corruption.

But then again, not once in all of Chinese history had officials ever not been corrupt.

Technically, the flood control officer at the bureau was supposed to draft the plans.

But that officer position? Usually just a fake name—some official’s son, friend, or even a made-up person on the payroll.

It existed only to siphon off salaries.

So instead, they held public contests “to give hidden talents a chance to shine.”

But since they were “granting an opportunity,” they didn’t pay for the design.

Not only that—any official who didn’t take bribes for approving a plan was considered extra virtuous and praised for their integrity.

“Jangheung Sangbang, huh...

So if the design was solid, then the construction must’ve been the issue.”

“Ahem.”

“Yeah... Jangheung Sangbang...”

“Hmm...”

Suddenly, the crowd went cold.

What was that?

Qing had expected them to explode with fury.

To scream for vengeance.

To start yelling for firewood.

But the moment that firm’s name came up, everything just... deflated.

Sighs.

Slumped shoulders.

People quietly backing away and dispersing.

What the hell is this energy?

Like they’d spoken a forbidden name.

Like saying it out loud would summon something.

Qing blinked in confusion—

And then the engineer dropped to his knees and bowed deeply.

“I haven’t even properly thanked my savior.

My name is Yak Jung-yoon.

Son, give your thanks!”

“I’m Yak Ji-joon.”

“Hmm. So what will you do now?

Staying in the city might be dangerous.”

“You’re right, but...

With the roads a mess and all the chaos, it’s not like we can go anywhere.”

After a disaster, bandits always came crawling out.

The city might be dangerous—but it was still safer than the open road.

“Well. I’m headed to the Naknyeong Wuguan right now.

Maybe I can ask if they’ll shelter you for a while.”

“How could we possibly repay such kindness...

Even saying ‘thank you’ doesn’t feel like enough.”

“Mm.”

Qing looked a bit awkward.

Shelter also meant surveillance.

It’s not like his innocence had been proven.

If he was truly blameless, he’d be protected.

If not? Then it would quietly turn into a prison.

With that, the crowd awkwardly faded away.

Yak Jung-yoon volunteered to drive the wagon,

so Qing finally said goodbye to the horse’s wiggling butt and moved to board—

“T-That young lady! Miss Seomun! You’re here!”

“Huh? Wait, you’re—”

Qing tilted her head.

Someone was greeting her with extreme familiarity and making a fuss, but... hmm, who was that?

His face looked somewhat familiar, so it wasn’t entirely unknown, but if asked who he was, she honestly had no idea.

“Who are you? Do I know you?”

Qing examined the man closely.

Thick calluses on the back of his hand and plenty of scars — looked like one of those half-baked martial artists people call a muto.

Strange.

I’ve never sat across from a non-Shaolin muto before.

Oh right, there were those vagrants. But he’s not that vagrant uncle.

Then the man made a commotion.

“This lowly one is Geol Taran. I’ve seen you a few times at the Seol Trading Company, so of course you wouldn’t remember me, but I was just so overwhelmed with joy at seeing you that I caused this fuss, haha.”

“Oh, you're from the trading company? What brings you here? Wait, has the Seol Trading Company expanded this far?”

“Please, I beg you, speak informally. Also, I am now the Naknyeong branch chief of Taecheong Sangbang.”

“Eh? You changed jobs?”

“You could say we are an alliance—brother companies, if you will. Hmm. Yes, that’s one way to put it.”

Geol Taran formed a circle with his thumb and index finger and continued speaking.

“You could say we have the same investor.”

“Ah. The investor.”

Qing understood right away.

It meant that Seol Trading and Taecheong Sangbang had the same major backer or parent company.

What Qing didn’t know was the identity of that investor.

It was the Cheonma Divine Cult.

So now, a top-tier agent of the Cult’s Bizakbu (formerly Special-Rank Assassin, the title had changed) had seen Qing — and his excitement was beyond description.

Especially when she had silenced a crowd with a single stomp — that overwhelming majesty he had felt.

A hundredfold effort to hold back tears of gratitude.

Five hundredfold effort to resist full-body prostration.

“Hehe, please, speak more casually.”

“I mean, how can I? It’s not like I have any connection with the trading company.”

“That’s not it. Branch Lord Choi told us clearly that if we encountered the young lady, we should treat her as a superior.”

“Branch Lord Choi? Grandpa?”

“Yes, he founded a new Sangbang recently with the investor’s backing. That makes you a senior to me as well.”

“Hm. Is that so?”

Grandpa, still got it.

If it's Grandpa's Sangbang... huh.

Qing asked, just to be sure.

“By any chance, is the name Taecheong Sangbang...”

“Hehe. Of course it was taken from your name.”

“Why are you just casually using someone else’s name?”

No, this was overwhelming.

But Grandpa was certainly the kind of person who would do that.

Still, if it’s Grandpa’s Sangbang, can’t I boss them around a bit?

“Well, this works out. The city’s in this state, and I was planning to offer some relief—”

“Oh heavens, how merciful you are. As beautiful as you are kind.”

“Hmm. I have some gold—about forty gwan. How much could that help?”

“Please, I beg you, lower your speech...”

“Oh. Okay.”

Even for Qing, lowering her speech to a total stranger felt awkward.

But Geol Taran looked satisfied.

“Gold, you say. But we’re already preparing relief efforts, so there’s no need for you to divide your precious fortune.”

“Oh? You’re preparing relief already?”

“Please, your tone...”

“You’re already organizing relief?”

“Yes. What use is business in a ruined city? First, we must help people survive — that’s what must come first.”

He said that, but the actual purpose of Taecheong Sangbang was relief.

It was a ploy by the Cheonma Divine Cult to seize the hearts of the people and dig its way into the Central Plains.

Just in time for the flood season, they’d begun creeping into the Hanan region — and then a real flood struck.

Thanks to that, Geol Taran had hummed joyfully all night as he looked over the city swept away.

The heavens must be protecting the Cult, to provide such a good opportunity.

“Hmm. Good work. I mean—well done.”

Qing, unaware of any of this, said that.

But even if she had known, she probably would’ve said the same.

It’s not like they’d caused the flood.

Even if the intent was impure, relief was still relief.

“Hehe. Would you praise me just a little more?”

“Uh... well done? Excellent?”

“Sniff...”

Suddenly, Geol Taran’s eyes turned red.

Not only had he seen the descended Supreme One, he had even been praised.

The Bizakbu agents, who worked outside and saw the real world, had all been brainwashed since childhood — all of them true believers in the Heavenly Demon.

Oh, Cheonma Supreme...

My light, my salvation, the reason I live...

Qing, not knowing this, just looked a little sour.

Is that really something to get emotional over?

This guy’s kind of weird.

Is Taecheong Sangbang okay like this?

Wouldn’t it suck if they tank my name?

“Well, good deeds only become better when added to.

I left the gold in their hands, but I was worried it might leak away.

This works out well.”

She’d been planning to do relief work anyway, but all she had were gold bars and no idea what to do with them.

Her best plan so far was to dump it on the Righteous Sect’s local branch, toss her name around, and hope they used it properly — that’s why she’d been heading to Naknyeong Wuguan.

But if it was Grandpa’s Sangbang, she could trust it completely.