Chapter 114: Encountering Hu Buyan Again [Seeking Votes for the Middle Cover]

“This old man is trying to extort someone—ah, the world is going downhill, and people's hearts aren’t as they used to be.”

“Not necessarily. Look at this young man, quiet and unassuming; he probably did hit Old Hu for real.”

…

In no time, the crowd grew, buzzing with speculation. Some claimed Old Hu was extorting, others insisted it was Chang’an who had caused the injury.

In short, the scene was chaotic.

Chang’an’s pleading eyes turned to Zhang Xiaoyan, the Great Celestial Master of Longhu Mountain, but the master feigned ignorance, swaying his slender waist as he gracefully walked away.

Chang’an’s teeth ground in frustration, but he was powerless.

No matter what, he had hit the man.

Whether the old man was scheming or truly hurt, Chang’an didn’t have to think hard to know that Old Hu had been humiliated by Zhang Xiaoyan and was taking it out on him.

Where’s the justice in that…

“Sir, I’m truly sorry; I didn’t mean to,” Chang’an said helplessly, pinching his nose and stepping forward to help the old man, “Old Master Hu.”

This exquisite little town was strange—Chang’an didn’t want to stir up more trouble.

There was a burly old man at the inn who could effortlessly lift hundreds of pounds of water without a sound when it hit the ground; the woman running the bun shop had hands as pure and steady as alabaster, and beneath her skirt, it seemed she hid a tail…

Just the thought sent chills down Chang’an’s spine.

His mission was to escort Zhang Xiaoyan back to Longhu Mountain. To get into a senseless fight in this small town was the last thing he wanted.

Besides, this old man seemed familiar with Zhang Xiaoyan…

“Don’t touch me, you reckless fellow! You’ve broken my waist!” Before Chang’an’s hands could reach Old Hu, the old man began yelling, clutching his back.

Chang’an forced an embarrassed smile. “I have some excellent trauma pills here. How about taking one first?”

“No! I’m dying, I’m dying!” the old man wailed, suddenly arching his body so sharply that the back of his head touched his heel, bending at the waist.

Chang’an was stunned.

That was the “Bone Shrinking Technique,” far beyond what an ordinary warrior could achieve. Only those who had tempered their bodies to the level of ‘softness like silk’ could contort themselves in such difficult poses.

Chang’an didn’t fully grasp the specifics but estimated it required at least a fifth-grade martial prowess.

Such a level was still far beyond him; some advanced techniques and body maneuvers were simply unimaginable.

Looking at the old man folded up like a piece of origami, Chang’an felt helpless. But he neither sought trouble nor feared it.

If the old man was deliberately causing a scene, then so be it.

He squatted beside him, speaking earnestly, “Sir, truly sorry for breaking your waist. How about I compensate you with a jar of fine wine?”

“What wine? So expensive?” The old man grumbled.

“Old White Liquor from the Ganges,” Chang’an smiled, “And there’s Jiu Liang Ye—nine grains fermented nine times, steamed nine times, and sun-dried eighteen times.”

The old man stopped grumbling and looked at Chang’an with wide eyes. “Old White Liquor from the Ganges? Never heard of it… Wait, what do you mean by ‘nine grains fermented nine times, steamed nine times, and sun-dried eighteen times’? Is that a brewing technique or a secret method?”

Chang’an smiled without answering and slowly stood, heading toward the backyard.

“Hey, tell me, what kind of aroma does that Old White Liquor from the Ganges have? Light, sauce-flavored, or strong aroma?” the old man called loudly.

“You want some?” Chang’an paused, glancing back, “First, pay me two baskets of buns.”

With that, he walked off.

The old man yelled and scratched his head anxiously, then looked at the crowd and cursed, “What are you looking at? Go away!”

The onlookers chuckled and dispersed.

…

Eventually, the old man got up, bought two baskets of vegetarian buns from the bun shop, carried the food box, and went into Chang’an’s room.

Chang’an wasn’t there.

Sighing, the old man went to the backyard and shouted, “Zhang Xiaoyan, aren’t you going to stop that kid? He’s trying to cheat me!”

Zhang Xiaoyan pushed open the window, smiling brightly. “Oh, I thought who it was—it’s Old Master Hu Buyan.”

The old man chuckled awkwardly, waved the food box, and entered.

Sitting in a chair, Chang’an’s heart pounded wildly. ‘Hu Buyan… wasn’t he the scholar at the Demon Suppression Tower of the Demon Exorcism Department who almost drove me mad?’

Looking at the old man’s thin, awkward smile, Chang’an vaguely realized these two were truly alike.

Not only did they resemble each other in appearance, but their expressions, eyes, and aura were nearly identical.

No wonder he felt a stir of familiarity upon meeting him…

…

Hu Buyan entered Zhang Xiaoyan’s room, handed the food box to Chang’an, and smiled, “Chang’an, your buns are returned to you. Now you owe me for my broken waist.”

He blinked forcefully, implying, ‘Don’t play dumb—you know about the Old White Liquor from the Ganges.’

Chang’an, full of suspicion, took the box, opened it, and inspected carefully. Finding nothing amiss, he placed it on the table and said to Zhang Xiaoyan, “The buns I bought for you were knocked to the ground by Mr. Hu. This old gentleman is compensating you.”

Zhang Xiaoyan sat down, pinched two buns, held them before his chest, and sighed, “They say you are what you eat. Chang’an, you’re turning bad now.”

Chang’an frowned but said nothing.

This Great Celestial Master of Longhu Mountain was difficult enough to please, constantly teasing Chang’an and giving him headaches.

Fortunately, with frequent exposure, the teasing lost its power. Even when Zhang Xiaoyan changed his tactics, Chang’an remained calm and unshaken.

Hmm, he was beginning to develop the air of a refined scholar.

Chang’an didn’t notice this change, but Hu Buyan, sitting beside him, clicked his tongue in amazement and smiled warmly at Zhang Xiaoyan like a fond elder. “You’ve found a treasure.”

Then he frowned. “But his cultivation aptitude is poor. After all, he’s still a piece of trash.”

Zhang Xiaoyan ignored Hu Buyan, chewing his buns hurriedly, nearly choking.

Hu Buyan quickly poured a bowl of water and laughed, “Slow down, slow down. Don’t choke and bring bad luck to your father.”

Zhang Xiaoyan glared at Hu Buyan, hiccupped, and chuckled softly, “Uncle Hu, if I really choke to death here in this little town, do you think my father would be heartbroken enough to come down the mountain and beat you to death?”

“That old codger hasn’t left the mountain since my mother passed away. He left me alone to wander the world, nearly starving to death.”

“Uncle Hu, look—I’m even eating vegetarian buns now. Do you think he realizes I’m starving myself thin?”

As he spoke, the Great Celestial Master’s eyes reddened.

For the first time, Chang’an witnessed Zhang Xiaoyan truly on the verge of tears.

This was no act.

Tears spilled through his slender fingers, soaking his robe and falling to the ground in broken drops, unnoticed.

Tears stained his clothes, sobs choked in his throat.

…

After crying for a while, Zhang Xiaoyan felt embarrassed and wiped his face clumsily with his sleeve, smearing his makeup in a mess.

The usually vain Celestial Master surprisingly did not reapply his makeup. Instead, he picked up two buns, lowered his head, and chewed slowly in silence.

Chang’an was momentarily stunned but could only smile bitterly.

Zhang Xiaoyan was truly a ‘handsome youth’—delicate, spoiled, and utterly endearing in his tantrums.

Meanwhile, Hu Buyan sat opposite, stroking his beard with a warm smile, like an indulgent elder.

“All right, all right, there are still vegetarian buns left,” he said. “Look at Uncle Hu now—can’t even drink a sip of Old White Liquor from the Ganges, and my back’s broken. Xiaoyan, tell me, should I beat this Chang’an?”

Zhang Xiaoyan nodded silently, sobbing while eating.

Chang’an’s mouth soured as he thought, ‘Are these two out of their minds? They want to beat me again?’

Hu Buyan turned to Chang’an, chuckled coldly, and produced a three-foot-long disciplinary ruler, sternly ordering, “Extend your hand.”

Chang’an ignored him.

The ruler was clearly a rare scholar’s treasure. It wouldn’t injure terribly but would hurt intensely.

Moreover, it was the kind of pain that pierced the heart.

The scholar’s ruler carried a tradition, containing an unspoken principle: if one feels guilt or has erred, one’s soul is chastised with a single strike.

Chang’an had once consulted an old scholar, Mr. Lü, who pondered and said vaguely, “Perhaps it is the blessing of the sage’s literary lineage.”

Chang’an had never been struck and was wary.

Seeing him hesitate, Hu Buyan sighed, “Some opportunities, once missed, are gone forever.”

Chang’an’s heart stirred. He glanced at Hu Buyan.

Similar words had been said last night by the burly old man at the inn, who offered to scrub his back; after being politely refused, he also said, “Some opportunities, once missed, are gone.”

Could there really be such opportunities?

Chang’an thought briefly but did not dwell on it.

He still believed an old scholar’s saying: what is meant to be yours, even a land deity cannot snatch; what is not yours, even if held tightly, is but an illusion.

The sage’s classics spoke of “life and death as fate, wealth and honor as heaven’s decree”—this was probably what they meant.

Also, “Self-restraint and return to propriety” was another phrase Chang’an couldn’t fully comprehend but felt was true.

“Chang’an, when you’re wrong, you’re wrong; when you’re right, you’re right. Do you not even have the courage to extend your hand?” Hu Buyan chuckled.

Chang’an extended his hand, glanced at it, then tucked it back into his sleeve, saying seriously, “Old Master Hu, we both bumped at the gate. This should be a shared fault.

You are older, a senior; I am younger, a junior.

I once read in a book that respecting elders and juniors maintains order and prevents chaos.

By that logic, I am at fault and should take the punishment.

But another scholar once said, ‘Honor the old and the young alike.’ I respect you as an elder, so shouldn’t you show some consideration for me?

In this world, where is the justice that the elder always has the right?

If you’re trying to extort me, that’s disrespectful and shameless. If I oppose you, I’m being rebellious and arrogant.

How about we call it even, Old Master Hu?”

After this reasoning, Chang’an’s head ached.

He was a crude warrior, worst at arguing scholarly principles.

Hu Buyan’s eyes flickered; a cold smile spread at the corners of his mouth.

“Quite talkative, aren’t you? Read a few idle books and think you can debate me?

Fine, let me teach you some reason!”

With a sharp ‘snap,’ Hu Buyan put away the ruler and opened a folding fan, gently fanning as he prepared for a verbal spar.

Unexpectedly, Chang’an’s next words caught the old man off guard.

“Oh dear, after all that reasoning, I forgot a medicinal ingredient in the wine recipe…” Chang’an tapped his forehead twice with a fist, shook his head, and grimaced, “What now? I just can’t remember it.”

Hu Buyan’s face stiffened; he poked Chang’an’s forehead with the fan anxiously, “Don’t worry, think slowly—you’ll remember.”

Realizing this was a little trick, the old man sighed, “The world’s heart grows cold—what can be done?”

Zhang Xiaoyan, amused by their ‘reasoning,’ chuckled and tossed his leftover buns at Hu Buyan and Chang’an.

“Throwing meat buns at dogs—no return.”

Both caught the flying buns.

Chang’an bit lightly and complained, “There’s a strong scent of cosmetics—so unpleasant…”

Then he got punched in the eye.

…

Hu Buyan was considerate enough; after a round of punches and kicks, he left Chang’an half-dead but gave up on ‘reasoning’ with the stubborn youth.

Sometimes, only fists speak clearly.

Chang’an lay in a large water bucket, barely conscious. Despite the foul, fishy smell, and the faint medicinal aroma seeping into his body, he closed his eyes and endured silently.

He had no idea what the mystical Hu Buyan was up to, but he knew the burly old man at the inn was giving him a medicinal bath.

The herbs were unknown but likely precious. Based on the scent, Chang’an guessed they contained some demon-related ingredients mixed with dozens of herbs.

His mind sat cross-legged atop his heart-lake, enduring the tingling in his meridians, the numbness in his soul, and the itching in his organs and bones without a sound.

The bath was exquisite, like floating in a celestial trance, the pungent aroma penetrating his body, rapidly repairing the meridians, organs, and bones damaged by Hu Buyan’s beating.

The herbal bath lasted about three hours.

Then came the scrubbing.

The scrubbing was indescribable.

Painful—excruciatingly so.

Pure pain, neither numb nor itchy.

The burly old man’s big hands lifted Chang’an’s small frame like a fish, tossed him onto a wooden board, and rubbed him down from head to toe, dislocating every joint.

Then another rub, nearly tearing ligaments.

Next came pinching, kneading, and poking fingers into the bone gaps, accompanied by a chilling, sword-like aura, almost perforating Chang’an from inside out.

Chang’an’s face remained calm, not even twitching a muscle.

He had endured many such near-death healing sessions; one or two more made no difference.

What worried him was why Hu Buyan and the burly old man were helping him strengthen his body.

It seemed a kind gesture, but in the martial world, he hadn’t given anything in return. Why were they so kind?

It felt like being a fish on the chopping board.

Scholars could lecture endlessly, yet they were fragile, often enduring insults without complaint—how unreasonable…