Chapter 126: Natal Flying Sword

Having witnessed Mr. Qingyu’s profound and arcane Confucian arts, He Chang’an was suddenly struck by a doubt: why did the scholars in Chang’an City possess no such heritage of techniques that bordered on the Dao?

Seeming to divine his thoughts, Mr. Qingyu smiled nonchalantly and said, “Mere parlor tricks for scholars—not fit for the grand stage. Don’t take them to heart.”

He Chang’an did not believe him. He could sense that Mr. Qingyu’s "haoran zhengqi"—the vast, righteous energy—was merely a facade; beneath it lay the true power of Daoist supernatural arts. The underlying mechanics were deeply perplexing. In particular, the way he used a small brush to conjure objects from thin air, as if drawing a talisman, made He Chang’an feel like a rural bumpkin who had suddenly wandered into Chang’an, only to realize how destitute he truly was. A martial artist, aside from his hardened muscles, seemed to have nothing of real value to show for himself.

As he pondered this, he failed to notice someone appearing beside him. It was only when he was jolted into awareness that he realized, sitting three feet away, was a disheveled old Daoist with greasy hands, a graying beard, and robes so filthy their original color was unrecognizable.

The old Daoist grinned at He Chang’an, snatched the jar of sorghum wine, declared it "fine wine," poured himself a generous bowl, and drained it in one gulp. He wiped his mouth with a greasy sleeve, holding his breath for a long moment before finally exhaling.

“Hu Buyu, three hundred years later and you’re still just as pathetic,” Mr. Qingyu remarked, glancing at the disheveled priest before returning to his own drink. The scholar drank slowly, savoring every drop, murmuring "fine wine, fine wine" until he had finished seven or eight bowls in one go.

He Chang’an was drinking too. Half a jar of osmanthus wine had vanished in a blink, and every breath he took released a faint floral scent that left him slightly intoxicated. He deliberately tried to refine the alcohol in his belly, for he had realized clearly that among the three, he was the weakest. Either of these men could likely swat him away with a single blow. The newcomer, in particular, was beyond his ability to gauge; his cultivation felt vast and bottomless, like an abyss.

Half an hour later, with one jar of osmanthus wine and three jars of sorghum gone, the old Daoist finally let out a long breath—yet there was no scent of alcohol upon it.

“How about that? My tolerance has always been higher than any scholar’s,” the priest chuckled, eyeing He Chang’an sideways. “How did this kid get in here?”

Mr. Qingyu looked up at the sky but said nothing. The old Daoist, emboldened by the alcohol, flew into a rage and spat a thick glob of phlegm toward the heavens. The glob acted like a flying sword, flickering and vanishing instantly. Eight or nine breaths later, a muffled "pop" sounded from the depths of the firmament, as if something had been pierced. A hole the size of a dog’s head appeared in the sky, scattering white light in all directions.

He Chang’an felt his heart race; the same sensation of being unable to struggle against that massive, phantom hand returned, leaving him gasping for air. The Daoist, however, cared little, pointing his fingers at the sky and cursing, "Come down and hack at me if you have the guts! I’ll curse you to death!"

From the depths of the sky, a cold snort seemed to echo. He Chang’an felt his spirit shudder violently, and he spat out a mouthful of blood.

The Daoist felt refreshed after his outburst and sat down with a grin, tossing a pill to He Chang’an. "Swallow it. I hate you fragile martial artists—you spit a pint of blood every time you open your mouth, as if you aren't a 'master' unless you're hemorrhaging."

He Chang’an offered a bitter, self-deprecating smile and swallowed the pill. Seeing that the youth had obeyed without a single question or hint of suspicion, the Daoist was immensely pleased and burst into laughter.

“Tell me, you old miser, you didn’t call me back in such a hurry just to drink a few jars of wine, did you?” the Daoist asked, turning to Mr. Qingyu. “Has something happened at the Royal Court again?”

“Not exactly a disaster, but trouble is certainly brewing,” Mr. Qingyu mused. “The Eleventh Prince has arrived at Linglong Town. It seems the war of succession has begun.”

The Daoist let out a cold, sneering laugh. Mr. Qingyu sighed and continued, “It was to be expected. The Jiuying family has occupied the Royal Court for over a thousand years; their roots are deep, and there are over a hundred princes with legitimate claims.”

“That Jiuying King of your demon clan—the one who had three of his dog heads chopped off by the Human Emperor Taiwu—has he grown them back yet?” the Daoist asked suddenly.

“A wound from the Human Emperor’s Sword cannot be healed so easily. It is said he hasn't held court in years,” Mr. Qingyu replied with a bitter smile. “That is why the succession war has erupted early. This conflict will likely involve many factions, and your human race will be the first to bear the brunt of it.”

“Are you threatening me?” the Daoist sneered, returning to his wine. This time, however, he drank slowly, as if calculating and weighing the possibilities. Mr. Qingyu was in no rush; he leisurely took out a scroll, dipped a finger into the dregs of his wine bowl, and turned a page.

He Chang’an listened to their conversation, feeling entirely lost in these grand affairs that were far beyond his reach, so he simply poured himself another bowl of wine.

“And what about this kid?” the Daoist suddenly turned to stare at He Chang’an, addressing Mr. Qingyu.

“He is…” Mr. Qingyu began, but he found he could not utter a single word. He held his breath, his refined face flushing a deep red.

“I see. That old bull-nosed priest is playing games,” the Daoist spat another glob of phlegm toward the sky. However, it lacked the power of the previous one; it fell less than thirty feet away, landing in the lake with a soft ‘plop’ and creating ripples.

“Forget it. Whether he’s plotting against me or not, I find this kid rather pleasing to the eye. No need to silence him,” the Daoist said, standing up as if to leave.

He Chang’an broke into a cold sweat. Truly, the world of the powerful was treacherous; one could never know what those grand masters were thinking.

Mr. Qingyu sighed and said with a bitter smile, “Hu Buyu, consider it a favor. Please?”

“Three secret recipes?” The Daoist sneered, holding up three greasy fingers.

“Impossible! Just one,” Mr. Qingyu said, looking as if he were in physical pain. “My ancestors only left three recipes in total; you are trying to sever my heritage.”

“Then two, or no deal.” The Daoist turned to walk away, clearly an old hand at extortion, well-versed in the art of retreating to advance.

“Fine, two it is. But you must promise me one thing.” Mr. Qingyu, no pushover himself, seized the moment to set his own conditions.

“Wait, this kid is eavesdropping.” The Daoist casually slapped He Chang’an, knocking him unconscious, then grinned. “Alright, speak.”

...

Watching the unconscious He Chang’an, Mr. Qingyu felt a phantom toothache. He smiled bitterly, “Thank you for your restraint. Consider me in your debt for a jar of osmanthus wine.”

The Daoist laughed heartily, sat down unbothered, and snatched the storage bag from He Chang’an’s waist. “Seven storage bags? Dammit, such a plump lamb—how did those bastards in town let him get through?” The priest’s eyes lit up, but after a quick peek inside, his interest vanished. “A mess of junk. Is he a scavenger?”

“Wait, this isn't right. How is Li Qinglian’s natal flying sword in this kid’s possession?”

The Daoist turned sharply, eyeing the ‘Chunli’ sword at He Chang’an’s waist, and reached out to grab it. Mr. Qingyu was about to intervene, readying a lecture on the Confucian virtue of ‘do not impose on others what you yourself do not desire,’ when a flash of clear light erupted. Two of the Daoist’s fingers were sliced open by a burst of sword energy.

Blood dripped steadily. The Daoist pulled a long face and muttered to himself, “Dammit, it’s that madman A-Fei.”