I Am This Murim's Crazy Bitch-Chapter 278: Transcendent Qing (15)

To be clear, Seol Iri didn’t exactly come striding out with pride.

Her face was as red as a ripe persimmon, and she stood there awkwardly, clutching the hem of her soaked robe in both hands. Wait—did she not even put anything on underneath?

She was clearly mortified. Shame clung to her like the wet fabric on her skin.

She’d run out in a hurry after Qing, yes—but at least she seemed aware of what she looked like. Which was... something. A small mercy.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t a mercy at all. Maybe it was pure, unshakable stubbornness.

“Seriously, why the hell did you wear white? You trying to tell all of Jianghu exactly where your nipples are?”

“Ugh...”

Technically speaking, what the Central Plains called a chest wrap was really more of a nipple veil.

It was like an apron hung around the neck or shoulders, falling to just above the solar plexus. Some had a single strap across the chest, some none at all. There was almost no structural support—just a padded section over the tips to keep things from poking through.

The main purpose wasn’t coverage, but comfort—a soft lining so the outer layers didn’t rub too harshly.

Still, the reason to cover anything at all stemmed from this primitive, prehistoric society’s deep-rooted belief that visible nipples were scandalous and indecent.

“Jus’... wai’... I jus’ need the blan’ed for a min—”

“What if I don’t wait? You planning to follow me like that?”

Seol Iri gulped, visibly steeling herself.

“...Yes.”

God, that clogged voice was unbearable...

“Hnnnngh...”

Qing sighed through her nose, contemplating.

Truthfully, waiting wouldn’t cost her anything. And it’s not like Seol Iri showing up meant she’d end up crossing paths with that bastard Seol. The odds were low.

But something about it pissed her off—was this girl doing it on purpose? Was she treating Qing’s kindness like a given? Food, shelter, sleep... was it all just her due now?

If she were like Moyong Juhee—someone clearly damaged—Qing would’ve offered help without hesitation.

But this?

“I’m leaving. Figure it out yourself, Lady Seol.”

Qing turned on her heel and marched briskly down the stairs.

If she didn’t follow, then it was clear. She was bluffing. Trying to force Qing to stop, hoping she’d be too embarrassed to abandon her.

But if she did follow... that was another matter.

If she willingly came out in that state—public shame be damned—then maybe, just maybe, she really was fueled by a desperate sense of duty. A need to avenge her sect. That kind of madness couldn’t be ignored.

Qing deliberately stomped down the stairs louder than usual.

Just as she reached the landing, a group of men were heading up—laughing among themselves until they spotted her. Then their expressions flipped into overly-serious masks of gentlemanly decorum.

The kind of guys who thought being stone-faced made them look hotter.

Qing brushed past them without a word, then flicked her eyes upward.

There, flattened against the stairwell wall, forehead pressed to the stone like a criminal mid-frisk, was a suspiciously familiar figure.

Seol Iri.

Thankfully, the men didn’t glance back. Having noticed something was often enough to keep them from looking again. That’s just how men were—once they realized they were staring, they couldn’t do it anymore.

Seol Iri peeked sideways to make sure the men had passed—then slowly turned the other way, locking eyes with Qing.

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

Still, she crab-walked down the stairs, inch by inch, in Qing’s direction.

Oh my god. She’s actually doing this. Like this.

Not Bing Seolhwa. Bing-freaking-idiot.

Or maybe just plain idiot, no “flower” left in sight.

Qing was starting to think this whole “cold and aloof” persona was just a ruse to hide a deeply stupid personality.

“You planning to go all the way to the marketplace dressed like that?”

“Yes.”

“...Haaah. Get back upstairs. I’ll find you some clothes.”

Seol Iri gave her a long, searching look.

She was clearly sizing her up—trying to tell if she was bluffing.

“What, have I lied to you even once? Go on. And wipe your nose.”

Seol Iri swiped beneath her nostrils, glanced around, and then—without an ounce of hesitation—rubbed her sleeve against the wall.

Then she turned away with the same haughty, cold expression as always and climbed back up.

God. It would almost be easier if she didn’t answer at all.

—

In the end, Qing decided to just bring the idiot Seol girl along.

Two small reasons.

And one big one.

Small reason one: She clearly wasn’t going to stop following her.

A girl that committed—trailing her in that state—wasn’t going to back down just because someone told her to go home.

Small reason two: Yes, her behavior was scatterbrained enough to be frustrating. But... it was also kind of cute.

Honestly, if Qing hadn’t found her face her exact type, she probably would’ve trussed her up and mailed her off to the Murim Alliance by now.

And the big reason...

Was more serious.

Can I really survive Jianghu on my own?

Last night had made it clear.

She couldn’t sleep alone.

She didn’t know when that started—but it had. Somewhere along the way, the idea of vanishing without a trace, without anyone even noticing, had started to terrify her.

If no one saw her disappear, how would her masters know? Her friends? Her juniors at the Divine Maiden Sect?

She wouldn’t be found. Just... erased.

There was also this baseless hope that if she stayed physically connected to someone—just touched someone while she slept—she wouldn’t be yanked back into the modern world.

Even if it was a stupid hope, she still needed someone beside her.

So, what else could she do?

There was a person next to her. Conveniently shaped like a body pillow.

She’d just think of Seol Iri as a big plush doll to hug.

What were those things called again...?

Ah. Right.

A bamboo wife.

And as it turned out, the bamboo wife was very pleased with the clothes Qing bought her.

Despite her lack of facial expression, she was surprisingly easy to read.

Most people’s emotions could be seen in the arch of an eyebrow, the twitch of a mouth—but with her, even a tiny upward curve in the corner of her lips said everything.

Now that Qing thought about it—when she was eating, she did look pretty delighted. Or... was that her imagination?

“Do you like it?”

“Yes.”

Still, as a travel companion, the bamboo wife left a lot to be desired.

As a conversationalist, she barely earned a one out of ten.

“...Thank you.”

But she bowed her head with surprising sincerity.

So she did have a sense of gratitude. That was something.

“Let’s eat first. Lady Seol, is there anything you like in particular?”

“Yes.”

Qing narrowed her eyes.

“Lady Seol. When someone asks what you like to eat, they’re not just asking if you like food in general. It means they’re offering to buy it for you, so they need to know what you want.”

“...I know...”

“You know, but your only answer was ‘yes’? What is that? You picking a fight?”

“...Soddy...”

...Okay. So she does have some shame in her.

Qing caught a glimpse of a side she hadn’t expected.

Not that it mattered—she already knew what they were eating. Pancakes. Well, flatcakes.

In the Central Plains, anything even remotely batter-based was called a flatcake. If it was thin and fried, boom—flatcake.

So the taste, texture, and shape of “flatcakes” varied wildly.

Back in Qing’s hometown, a flatcake could mean a savory Korean pancake, an egg fry-up, a hamburger patty, a pancake, even hotteok—which, let’s be honest, was probably the most famous type of flatcake to come out of this hellscape. They did invent the damn thing, after all.

Of all the versions Qing had tasted since arriving, the one that came closest to a proper green onion pancake was something called byungjabyeong.

Which, ironically, was a green onion pancake without the green onions.

Apparently, Central Plainers liked to roll ingredients into their pancakes and eat them like wraps, but Qing didn’t care about fancy fillings. She just ordered hers with scallions. Lots of scallions.

As she stared at the tower of hot flatcakes and a mound of finely sliced scallions, Seol Iri blinked and muttered softly:

“...I wan’ porridge too...”

Her nose was still stuffed, so it came out sounding like a cute little whimper.

Her face really was Qing’s type. She couldn’t resist.

“Porridge? Why didn’t you say so? Hey—waiter! What porridge do you have? Just give us whatever’s ready.”

“For today, we have pine nut porridge with honey, plain rice porridge, and pork-and-rice porridge.”

“Ooh. Gimme a second. Pine nut, rice, pork... huh. Pork sounds good. We’ll take two bowls.”

Seol Iri’s ears perked at the last one. She was definitely craving it.

For the record, porridge in the Central Plains was nothing like back home. They boiled it until every grain collapsed—so what you got wasn’t rice and water, but something between sludge and soup.

Soon, their table was full—stacked high with pancakes, scallions, and two steaming bowls of bubbling hot porridge.

And then—

“Hnnnng, huff, hufff, hnnnh... haa...”

Wow. She’s eating it straight. No hesitation. Just shoveling it into her mouth.

Boiling porridge was basically molten lava. Back home, everyone [N O V E L I G H T] knew if you stuck your spoon in too early, it’d melt and fuse with the pot and become part of the stew. Literally.

Okay, maybe not that hot—but close enough to melt the human tongue.

And she was scooping it from the bottom, straight into her mouth. No blowing. No pausing.

Those little huffs and puffs weren’t to cool the food—they were from her clogged nose. Mouth breathing.

But the sounds were... frankly obscene.

“Hnnnngh... haaah...”

Come to think of it, wasn’t there a word for people who ate like this back home? Food porn perverts or something?

“Anyway... man, this rain’s not letting up.”

Qing glanced out the window. Sheets of it.

Seol Iri, meanwhile, was fidgeting between two dipping sauces—soy sauce and fish brine—hovering with her pancake like it was a life-or-death decision.

She looked at Qing. Then back at the sauces. Then back again.

Girl, this is the part where you say something like, “Yeah, what’s with this weather?” or “It’s pouring out there!”

But nothing.

Qing sighed.

Yet another reminder: you can’t expect conversation from a bamboo wife.

Still, trekking through rain with a runny nose wouldn’t help Seol Iri’s condition.

And more importantly, it wouldn’t help Qing’s mood either.

Sure, the first ten minutes of walking in the rain felt dramatic and fresh. After that, it just turned clammy, itchy, and gross.

No helping it. Time to hire a carriage.

From renting the carriage to choosing the coachman—one with a warm, friendly face and decent manners—Qing moved fluidly through it all, even handing over half the fare as a deposit.

She could proudly say she’d become a fully-fledged wanderer now.

“The most important part of hiring a ride is the person. Some coachmen act sweet until they pull a knife on you. Skip the guys who charge too little—obvious scam. But don’t overpay either. Find someone fairly priced, honest-looking, and preferably not a creep.”

“...I’ll remember...”

“...Wipe your nose.”

Qing knew it was pointless, but she kept talking anyway. She couldn’t help it. She was just that kind of person—a natural chatterbox.

“I’m gonna get some shut-eye. If anything happens, wake me up.”

“Okay.”

Qing nestled her travel bag under her arm, took out a bundle of spare underwear, and propped it under her cheek like a pillow. A pro’s sleeping posture.

Rain pounded the carriage roof like a war drum. The cheap wood let all the sound in. No insulation.

Add to that the presence of a travel companion who couldn’t hold a conversation and wheezed like a broken whistle...

Still, not bad for a nap.

Qing quickly dozed off, snoring lightly against her makeshift pillow.

Seol Iri just... watched her.

She didn’t blink, didn’t speak. Just sat and stared at Qing’s sleeping face.

Time passed like that. A silent hour of breathing and watching.

Then—

She felt the shift.

The carriage tilted forward slightly.

Moments later, it jerked to a stop.

The door burst open.

And the coachman—the one who’d looked so honest, so saintly—suddenly appeared at the threshold with a knife in hand, pointing it inside.

His expression was still calm. Even kind.

Then, with a twisted chuckle, he said:

“Well, well. Look what fell into my lap—two tight little sluts delivering themselves right to my doorstep. Got me so hard I could barely steer straight, you know?”