I Am This Murim's Crazy Bitch-Chapter 280: Transcendent Qing (17)

“T-Twelve! There are twelve of us!”

The coachman suddenly turned meek and polite.

Qing found that deeply satisfying.

See? When someone lacks manners, just threaten their neck a little—suddenly, they’re model citizens.

Etiquette and manners, after all, are learned traits.

Only those with a proper education understand them. Brainless morons, the underbaked and the ill-raised, act rude because they think it makes them look tough. But really, it just makes them look like they grew up without a mother or father.

Unfortunately, the Central Plains didn’t have mandatory schooling. Meaning there were far too many of those uncultured brutes running around.

Which is why, in Murim, problems were often solved quickly—with a blade to the throat. Like so:

“Twelve? Hm. That’s kind of disappointing. That really all?”

“Y-Yes!”

The coachman felt the world go dark.

How the hell could anyone hear “twelve” and sound disappointed? Whoever this woman was, she wasn’t just some random martial artist.

Damn it. He should’ve known—should’ve realized when he saw that unreal face.

But when he’d first gone through with the plan, his mindset had been simple: So what if I die? I’ve lived like a worm—at least once, I want to crush a beauty like that beneath me before I go!

“...But this kind of thing seems like it happens to you a lot, huh? You trick people because of that pretty face?”

Turns out, there were two coachmen worse than this guy. Slavers. Thieves. Rapists. But they looked like criminals—one glance and you knew they were trouble.

Let a man like that drive your carriage, and you got what you deserved. Natural selection.

This guy, though—he looked gentle. Saintly. If he’d lived in the modern world, he could’ve passed as a cult leader—Have you heard the Word of Truth?

His face was perfectly made to breed victims.

Yeah. He had to go.

Judging by his karmic weight, there were likely plenty of bodies behind him already. Time to make sure there weren’t any more.

“Alright. Shake it.”

“E-Excuse me?”

“The carriage. Shake it around a little. Make some noise. Let your little friends think you’re having all the fun in here.”

“Then...”

“If you just sit still, they’ll get suspicious. Why’s he calling us before he’s even finished? That kind of thing.”

“...I see.”

“Well? Why aren’t you moving? Think of the carriage floor as a lovely young maiden. Get in position!”

Qing’s blade began to blacken. The Moonlight Sword, No. 8—its entire body now swallowed in ink-dark sheen—glistened with grotesque, writhing eyes.

Having reached the high threshold of transcendence, Qing had begun to tame the Pacheon Demonic Qi. Just a little—but enough to integrate it into her techniques.

No one would know she’d used a forbidden art unless they saw it. So, use it before anyone sees it. Efficient inner energy management 101.

The horrific image made the coachman scramble into position.

“No, no. That’s not how you lie with a woman. What’s that? Some weird punishment pose? You think the floor’s a stunning beauty—so own it.”

He dropped flat to the floor.

And began humping. Up and down. Awkward, desperate thrusts.

“Oh god.”

Thunk. Qing’s sword stabbed straight through his ear, pinning it to the floor and splitting it vertically.

But when pain hits that suddenly, it doesn't even make you scream. It takes a second to register.

“Huuh...”

“Do it right. You’re fucking a goddess here—you think you just stick it in and thrust? No foreplay? No kissing? No tongue? Huh? You get what I’m saying?”

“Y-Yes!”

And that’s when the coachman truly understood.

He hadn’t just ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) run into a martial artist.

He’d run into a deranged martial god.

So, he gave it his all. Mouth to the filthy floor. Kissing. Licking. Caressing with his hands. Absolute madness.

“Heehee.”

Qing giggled at the sight.

“Putting too much energy into foreplay. C’mon, put your back into it. Make the whole damn carriage shake.”

“Y-Yes ma’am!”

And soon—creak, creak—the carriage began to rock.

Once it found a rhythm, the shaking grew faster. Wilder. The whole frame groaned under the force of it.

The coachman’s Oscar-worthy performance turned the old carriage into a vibrating mess—and passengers from hell into moaning critics.

And through the rain, Qing’s ears picked up voices closing in.

“Damn, how good must she be for him to go this hard? He’s gonna flip the whole damn cart.”

“C’mon, you saw her face. I already pulled out.”

“You idiot! Why’d you pull out? You scoop up whatever’s leaked out and shove it back in, cap it tight—that’s when she starts crying for real.”

Mmh. Death sentence.

Qing passed judgment in an instant.

And just then, the carriage door swung open.

“Hey! Don’t hog all the fun—whoa?”

“Exactly. Joy shared is double joy. Pain shared is... my joy. Making people wait is just rude. Now—bang!”

Qing slammed her foot into the first man’s solar plexus. He crashed backward into the rest.

A cascade of scumbags fell in a pile.

Qing leapt atop the mess, heel snapping one ankle with a delightful crunch.

Always take out the feet first.

There were twenty-four ankles. She only needed to break half.

Stomp. Kick. Slice. Her blade danced. Tendons snapped. Delicious hand-feel.

One guy turned to flee. A metal hairpin flew. Straight into his ankle—just the pinhead left sticking out.

They hadn’t expected this. Some had already loosened their belts, that’s how little they feared resistance.

But now their leader was pinned under bodies, the rain blurred their vision, the sky was dark with clouds—

And then there was Qing.

A transcendent madwoman dancing in the mud, breaking ankles like flower stems. Stepping where there used to be feet.

Some tried to flee.

More hairpins. Whistle. Whistle. Whistle. Whistle.

The last pin remained in her hand.

Her long, black hair was soaked, clinging to her legs. Master had told her not to cut it. Said it shined too beautifully in the rain.

Thankfully, that final pin never had to fly.

All the men were already down. Screaming. Clutching their ankles in the sludge.

Qing tied up her hair with practiced ease, using the final pin to secure it.

Then counted—one, two, three... twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen?

Huh?

Three extra?

“You said twelve, didn’t you? But I count fifteen.”

“H-how did you—already?!”

“Well? Care to explain? Can’t count?”

“N-no, I swear! There were twelve!”

“What, you calling me a liar now? Go count for yourself.”

“W-wait! No—!”

Qing grabbed him by the ankle and flung him out the door.

He crashed into the mud with a loud splat. Drenched, groaning, he barely managed to push himself up.

And the conclusion was:

The coachman hadn’t lied.

He’d brought extra “friends” out of some criminal bond of brotherhood. They couldn’t resist the idea of sharing a high-class beauty.

Well then, they could keep that brotherhood... all the way into the afterlife.

Still, technically—technically—he’d told the truth.

But even truth, delivered with a straight face, can still be used to deceive.

“So what? I’m the one who got tricked. Which means you did lie to me, Mister Coachman. Verdict: guilty. Sentence: death.”

“W-Wait—!”

“Don’t scream just yet. You’ll have plenty of time for that. Save your voice. If you go hoarse too early, it ruins the fun. Pace yourself.”

What was the difference between Sword Qi and Sword Force, anyway?

Qing had always wondered.

So she decided to test it. Practically.

Stabbed. Sliced. Diced. Carved bone. Peeled skin.

Alternating Sword Qi and Sword Force to examine the difference.

A dedicated martial artist’s field study, if you will.

Sword Qi sliced clean.

Sword Force? It tore through.

Sword Qi felt like a glide—shhhk, shhhk.

Sword Force hit like a cleaver—SHK.

In terms of feel? Sword Qi won.

Sword Force was too clean. Didn’t even register in her hand.

Qing was... disappointed.

It was like getting a brand-new rod and reel only to find out the fish practically jump into your boat.

But nobody fishes just to catch fish.

If that’s your goal, just use a damn net.

In that sense, Sword Qi was the fishing rod. Sword Force, the trawler.

Efficient, powerful—sure. But no joy in the work.

Still, when combined with Silent Ghost Hands, it did unlock some interesting possibilities.

Qing, after all, could wield her Green Porcelain Sword like an extension of her own fingers.

Silent Ghost Hands was a divine-level pickpocket technique. Meant for threading into spaces so tight you couldn’t even see them.

If she changed the angle a bit... glided the blade between skin and muscle...

But really, what use was a thin strip of human skin?

You could maybe write a spellbook on it, using blood for ink. Maybe encounter something mystical down the line.

Not that Qing knew anything about corpse magic. Too bad.

Eventually, she was done playing.

Only one left—the coachman.

She smiled faintly and walked toward him, step by step.

And then it hit her.

Wait... didn’t I decide not to kill him?

Why was that?

Was there a reason I wanted him alive?

She tried to recall.

And failed.

Guess she’d meant to kill him creatively and forgot.

Qing approached with murder in her eyes.

The coachman had already snapped. Eyes vacant. Mind gone.

Who could blame him?

He’d watched her dismember people like it was an art form. Smiling. Cackling. Licking blood from her fingers.

She even collapsed a few times mid-torture, convulsing and twitching in the mud like a demon-child.

Even if he’d had the strength to run, he couldn’t.

His feet had holes in them. His shin was broken from when she threw him out.

He looked up, dazed.

Qing clicked her tongue.

And with a slow breath, reached into his torso—just beneath the solar plexus—with her Minor Demonic Hand Technique, fingers snaking between skin and muscle, right into his beating heart.

Ah... now this... is mine.

It belongs to me.

I control this man’s heart.

I own him.

Like a surgeon from hell, Qing squeezed.

Forced his heart to beat triple-speed.

Blood exploded from every pore.

His veins burst open.

His eyes swelled red with ruptured vessels.

Oh. Three times faster makes it red. So that’s how it works?

And at last—at that precise moment—the thin line separating life from death was finally, irrevocably severed.