Chapter Forty-Four: Tonight, Perfect for Murder

He Chang'an absentmindedly wiped away two tears from the corners of his eyes. Turning back, he smiled warmly at the youth eating steamed buns, his mood considerably lightened.

With his spiritual sight, He Chang'an had observed the young woman selling the buns. Deep within her soul, someone had tampered, imprinting a mark of the demon clan—a faint image of a red-tailed fox.

"Such marks are everywhere in Chang'an; demon and ghostly entities run rampant here!"

"But strangely, this youth's soul bears no such imprint..."

The boy ate slowly, chewing each bite with care, as if he held a natural reverence and pity for food.

This pleased He Chang'an greatly.

In youth, one judges by how a person eats; in middle age, by their visage. If a young person eats sloppily, their heart is likely impure; if a middle-aged face shows strange lines, it betrays the misdeeds of their earlier years.

This ragged youth, clearly starving, still managed to savor his steaming lamb buns with deliberate patience. In He Chang'an's eyes, he was a person of good temperament.

"How is it? Does it taste alright?" He Chang'an asked with a smile. "I've had five baskets already—perhaps I should eat with you."

The youth responded with a shy smile, softly saying, "This is the second time someone has treated me to a meal."

"It's nothing. When I have money, I'll treat you every day," He Chang'an replied with a grin.

"You... don't have money?" The youth looked up, asking seriously.

"I can still afford a few meals of buns. More than a tael of silver—I'm not starving yet," He Chang'an said, taking out half a handful of broken silver and weighing it carefully. "To be exact, one tael and seven coins."

The youth paused, then said solemnly, "Thank you. I will repay you."

"Good. When you earn some silver, treat me to steamed buns," He Chang'an said, tucking the silver away, a touch distracted.

"Damn it, not only is Chang'an expensive for lodging, food is costly, and even the wine..."

He must find a way to earn money once the threat of assassination was resolved, or else life would become unbearable.

...

Half an hour later, He Chang'an returned to his rented courtyard, checked the 'little gadgets' he'd set up, and found nothing amiss. Only then did he enter the main room.

He had acquired a peculiar cultivation method from the demon-slaying bureau's library, but hadn't yet had time to digest it.

He shut the doors and windows, spread a sheepskin on the floor, sat cross-legged, and slowly closed his eyes to begin introspection.

In the sea of his consciousness, twelve pages gradually appeared, each depicting a strange creature: a great roc soaring, a white elephant hurling stones with mighty strength, a three-headed, six-armed monster with a fierce visage...

Clearly, this was a technique not meant for humans. What's stranger, each creature's body bore delicate red lines resembling human meridians, marking the flow of spiritual energy.

"A demon clan technique?"

He Chang'an was startled by his own deduction.

—

The demon-slaying bureau's library housing a demon clan technique was simply inconceivable...

Strangest of all, this technique had actively entered He Chang'an's mind. He merely touched the book, and it imprinted itself upon his mind.

Damn, this is too sinister!

Could the demon-slaying bureau have deliberately placed it in the library, watching to see who secretly practiced demon clan techniques? That seemed unlikely.

No matter; he would try cultivating it, and if anything felt amiss, he'd stop immediately.

He Chang'an began meditating on the first illustration, guiding his spiritual energy along the depicted path...

—

Unknowingly, two hours passed.

He Chang'an opened his eyes, stretched out his arms, and studied them closely, his brows furrowed in puzzlement.

He could actually practice this technique.

In only two hours, his physical body and vitality had greatly improved; as he channeled his spiritual energy, he felt himself become a white giant bear, compelled to throw back his head and roar, overflowing with strength...

He Chang'an dared not continue.

He feared that if he cultivated further, he might truly transform into a giant white bear, and the demon-slaying bureau would capture him and chain him up as a specimen.

"Consider it an unimpressive trump card—for emergencies, I can become a giant bear... Sounds a bit like the Earth Rampaging Bear..."

"A small goal, then: practice it once a day."

He Chang'an stood, stretched, murmured, "Why is it almost mealtime again!"

Once he earned some silver, he'd hire a cook, buy rice, flour, meat, and vegetables—convenient, economical, and tailored to his tastes.

Food in the Great Tang really isn't that good.

"If I hire a cook, the bun shop's proprietress would be perfect—quite plump."

He Chang'an glanced down at his crotch, chuckled silently, and thought, "Spineless—such little ambition!"

—

When the hour of the dog arrived, He Chang'an left the courtyard. The sun leaned westward, casting fiery clouds across the sky—a striking sight.

Morning clouds mean stay home; evening clouds herald a thousand-mile journey.

These days had been clear and dry; blood spilled would soon congeal—a good time for killing.

As He Chang'an walked toward the mouth of Yellow Clay Alley, he mused with a toothache that something significant might happen there tonight.

—

Such foreboding unsettled him; a martial artist's intuition sensed unseen danger, making him want to unleash his righteous energy and shield himself.

But, as bait, one must accept the role...

—

The moon hung high in the sky, autumn winds bitter.

At Star-Plucking Tower, two men played chess.

Nineteen lines cross, three hundred sixty-one points converge—a board filled with murderous intent. Between black rivers and white waters, countless heroes fade to smoke...

"Your Majesty, you occupy the center; this game need not continue," the middle-aged Daoist said, holding a white stone, pondering before placing it back.

Able to take and relinquish, he seemed as light as clouds and wind—possessing an air of immortality.

"This central position can be broken," the middle-aged man replied with a smile, but made no further move.

"Your Majesty's hidden piece has become an open one," the Daoist remarked, gazing at Chang'an lit by lanterns.

"A good piece, whether in light or shadow, remains a good piece," the man said, standing and looking toward the horizon. His aura was refined and rich, harmonizing with the autumn moon, radiating gentle light.

"Imperial Preceptor, the remnants of the Night God Sect have revived; they warrant close attention," the man continued.

"Our Great Tang has stood for over a millennium; the Night God Sect is a grave threat, destroyed time and again, yet never eradicated...

This is my failing."

The Daoist bowed and said, "After several great wars, the human race has long been weakened. Your Majesty need not blame yourself."

The middle-aged man remained silent for a long while, standing atop Star-Plucking Tower, looking down over Chang'an, his temples tinged with frost, reflecting a sense of weariness.

"The wind rises—I should return to the palace."

"Tonight is suited for killing."

—

Moonlight flickered, autumn winds wailed, and leaves fell throughout Chang'an.

At the mouth of Yellow Clay Alley, a youth stood in thin clothing, his eyes black and clear, earnest and meticulous, without the slightest impurity.

He drew a deep breath and gripped his bamboo sword.