Chapter 128: The Chen Family Apothecary

Just beginning his cultivation, He Chang’an felt invincible, equipped with his little black staff as a secret aid; surely he could conquer the world. Later, while freeloading in Chang’an City, he still believed in his own prowess.

But after a series of incidents—being targeted by assassins from the Night God Sect and beaten by that gang—he began to question himself: “Am I really that capable?”

Later, after meeting some people and witnessing certain skills, he was finally certain—on the path of cultivation, he was truly inadequate. Ever since arriving at this demon tribe town and witnessing the techniques of masters, his frustration deepened. Were it not for his steadfast heart, his will to cultivate might have shattered long ago.

After being struck by that great hand and restarting his cultivation, He Chang’an regained confidence. Now, having comprehended the “Ghostly Script” of the slovenly Taoist Hu Buyu, he finally felt he could give his efforts another earnest try.

An old scholar once said, without effort, how can one prove oneself a failure?

While Master Qingyu and He Chang’an were immersed in their state of enlightenment, the slovenly Taoist Hu Buyu glanced at He Chang’an with mild surprise but ultimately took no action. With a single step, he vanished beyond the horizon.

Master Qingyu’s “Nurturing Script” could temporarily alter the flow of elemental energy in a small space, borrowing the world’s energy at will to form a righteous aura—considered a minor supernatural skill useful in fights.

He Chang’an’s “Bitter Script,” however, showed no immediate effect. It seemed useful for tempering one’s soul power and refining the little black sword within his dantian spiritual sea.

In Master Qingyu’s eyes, this young man’s face simply looked bitter—agonizingly bitter.

What he did not know was that He Chang’an, immersed in his enlightenment, was filled with joy, almost lost in elation. The young He Chang’an, crouching above the lake of his heart, was even somewhat carried away by pride.

He grasped the meaning but forgot the form.

“So it is,” he thought.

The “Bitter Script” was indeed the Buddhist character for “bitterness,” one of the Eight Sufferings. Yet to He Chang’an, its meaning was simpler.

The original Eight Sufferings—birth, aging, sickness, death, separation from loved ones, meeting those one hates, unfulfilled desires, and the suffering of the five aggregates—were pains both external, like cold and hunger, and internal, like mental anguish, all encompassed by the truth of suffering.

But to He Chang’an, it was more straightforward.

Since life itself was full of suffering, tormented by these Eight Sufferings, then why not suffer a little more? Endure it to temper this “cultivation failure” within him.

As for others’ sufferings, the solution was even simpler: transcend them.

If a mere martial artist’s fists were too crude and insufficiently strong, then use a sword—stab that damned fiend.

One sword, two swords failing? Then stab a few more times.

He refused to believe that, below his level, there existed any demon or spirit he could not kill.

...

Since the eleventh prince of the royal infant clan arrived at Linglong Town, years of apparent peace and tranquility were swiftly shattered.

Farmers who once toiled from dawn to dusk abandoned their fields to visit relatives and friends; several shops gradually flourished.

Even some demon tribesmen who had long hunted and gathered herbs deep in the mountains returned to town, wearing beast skins and deliberately exposing their many battle scars, their purses bulging.

They appeared poor.

Among them, the most prosperous were the little tavern run by the celestial fox lady and the mountain guesthouse. People came and went as if the town were celebrating a grand festival.

The men of each household returned to spend a few days of “long-awaited reunion,” and naturally, incidents of drunken brawls and fights increased.

Incidentally, the business of the Chen Family Pharmacy in the northern part of town also unexpectedly improved.

Demon tribespeople, with their tough skin and thick flesh, rarely fell ill. Each family possessed their own secret remedies, so Chen Family Pharmacy was almost never frequented.

Many occasionally needed a few doses, paused in surprise, then remembered that the pharmacy seemed to have a half-dead old man inside.

He Chang’an was quite familiar with this pharmacy and would visit from time to time.

Sometimes not to buy medicine, but simply to inhale the herbal fragrance.

Or purely to sit quietly with Old Chen.

The Chen Family Pharmacy had few medicinal materials. Aside from some so-called “spiritual herbs” secretly kept by Old Chen, most were ordinary herbs. But because they were unique to this world, their scent was distinctive.

He Chang’an knew little about herbs and never intended to become an alchemist or a great healer. His aim was merely to know a bit, so that when wandering in deep forests and mountains, encountering spiritual herbs and celestial plants, he could gather them easily—an additional source of income.

Old Chen spoke little but was generally reasonable, adhering not to the “benevolence of healers” but to the principles of a good businessman: fairness and honesty.

The price of each pill and the value of each herb were clearly marked.

If you can afford it, pay in silver; if not, sorry, leave.

He Chang’an once witnessed Old Chen’s methods and was quite astonished, growing wary. He realized his previous views were limited and that there were always greater heights and stronger people.

One of the eleventh prince’s guards, a martial expert at the peak of sixth rank, combined with the demon tribe’s innate bloodline abilities, could easily cause a serious setback to even fifth- or fourth-rank human martial artists.

Such a master came to the pharmacy, pointed and gestured for a long time, but in the end, did not pay. Old Chen grew impatient and punched him into the stone wall across the alley.

The fist left a human-shaped indentation one foot two inches deep—not very deep.

The guard struggled to extricate himself, spat up a mouthful of blood, and limped back to the mountain guesthouse, not daring to utter a harsh word.

He Chang’an deliberately touched the indentation, noting the smooth cut surface with not a single crack.

“Give out three parts, take back three parts, keep three parts for yourself, and be ready to kill your opponent with the remaining one part at any time.”

Later, Old Chen, puffing on his dry pipe, unusually shared a few essentials of boxing with He Chang’an without mentioning the “equivalent exchange.”

Still, He Chang’an obediently took out a silver ingot, about five taels, and handed it shyly to the thin old man, smiling: “Kept a little for myself; otherwise, I could have taken more.”

Old Chen silently accepted the silver, extended a finger, and said, “Only this once.”

He then fell silent, took a sharp puff on his dry pipe, the fire flaring bright, and said no more.

After a dozen breaths, two wisps of pale white smoke blew from his nostrils like two ethereal dragons, stirring and rolling fiercely, then were sucked back in with a single breath.

The smoke surged like a rainbow, pulsing like a drum.

He Chang’an watched dumbfounded and deeply impressed, wishing to trade a few spiritual materials or treasures for the chance to learn the art of breathing and energy refinement from the old master.