Chapter 75: How Dare That Scoundrel!

Stung by the scorpion’s tail, He Chang’an’s spirit was shaken, and a mouthful of blood burst forth, spraying over the little nun’s head and face. Like peach blossoms, each petal crimson.

Without hesitation, he lightly waved the little black rod and severed the thin black thread.

He Chang’an’s expression was weary; he swallowed two Daoist pills in succession, circulated his internal energy for half an hour, and finally calmed his turbulent blood and soul.

He was still, after all, a weakling. Even with the “cheat” of the little black rod at his side, the chasm of cultivation was vast—a gulf that could not be bridged by mere ambition.

He opened the door, his face pale, and silently walked to the well, washed his face, then sat without a word.

Li Yishan, already anxious and restless, hurried inside and saw the little nun lying on sheepskin, her head, face, and body dotted with crimson, the scene bleak and tragic.

The old man was startled and examined her carefully, only to find her complexion gradually becoming rosy, her breath long and steady. He realized then that the splashes of blood belonged to He Chang’an.

He Chang’an sat by the well, gazing inward at his spiritual sea and soul’s domain, sensing the little black rod, which carried a trace of sword intent. He felt a stir of restlessness.

This strand of sword intent was left to him by Ah Jiu. There had been four strands in total, which faded away over time, leaving not a single trace—much to his helpless frustration.

It was predictable that the last strand would eventually dissipate.

“If it’s yours, cherish it; if it’s not, even if you hide it deep within your organs and mysterious apertures, you’re merely weaving a garment for another.”

Mr. Lü had spoken plainly, and He Chang’an remembered it well.

According to the old scholar, he was neither a martial prodigy nor a Daoist genius, not even a proper scholar, but rather a promising seed for sword cultivation.

A “sword seed,” so to speak.

At present, he was still just a seed; once it took root and sprouted, it could be called a “sword embryo.” If he could condense a strand of sword qi and break through, then he would be a sword cultivator.

As for the realm of sword cultivation, the old scholar merely smiled and said nothing. The implication was clear: a flea worrying whether the Kunpeng flies with wings or hops with legs was pure nonsense, and likely to lose its tail in the process.

He Chang’an imagined that the heights of sword cultivation must at least allow one to ride the sword, to have flying swords flashing like lightning.

What the old scholar did not know was that He Chang’an’s sword had already broken through, showing the first signs of brilliance.

The “little black rod” could transform into a mysterious millstone, but more often, He Chang’an had already treated it as a “flying sword”—though he had not yet realized it himself.

As the saying goes, ordinary people use things every day without knowing, while the way of the gentleman is rare.

In the end, it still came down to the “rules” the old scholar spoke of.

“Should I ask Ah Jiu to stab me with a few more swords?”

“If I can’t cultivate my own sword intent yet, borrowing a few strands from Ah Jiu to experience might still be of benefit.”

Once the thought arose, it could not be restrained. He Chang’an stood up, beckoned to Ah Jiu, who was chopping wood in the corner, and smiled:

“Ah Jiu, I’ve thought of a way to make money.”

Ah Jiu, angry because Li Yishan had drunk two extra bowls of wine, jumped up, her black eyes wide and earnest as she asked, “How much silver can you earn in a day?”

“About three taels,” He Chang’an replied with a smile.

“Really?” Ah Jiu’s eyes narrowed with delight. “What kind of business makes money so fast?”

“Stab me three times first, then I’ll tell you…”

Before he finished speaking, Ah Jiu stabbed him with three swift strikes, knocking him to the ground, grimacing in pain and twitching all over.

In the Yellow Mud Lane, there was now a school, a bookshop, and several stores selling magical implements, pills, and talismans for cultivators.

Naturally, this attracted a few coarse warriors fond of playing with weapons, as well as some young heroes dreaming of wandering the world with swords.

A-Lan’s little tavern was always crowded—half for the wine, half for her—much to her father’s annoyance, who wished he could take a club and break the legs of those pesky youths.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t best the outsiders, so the old man could only stew in his own frustration.

Recently, another solitary old man had arrived, said to be surnamed He, newly moved in, living right here in Yellow Mud Lane, with some idle silver at hand.

Every time this old man came to drink, half a pound of lamb, a dish of peanuts, two pots of wine, and he could drink all day. When drunk, he said little, sprawled across the table, and could sleep until midnight.

One afternoon, the two old men sat together, half a jar of wine gone, exchanged only a few words before lapsing into silence.

“In that battle back then, I crawled out from a heap of corpses, spent three days and nights in the bloody mud, and barely survived.”

“We all went through much the same.”

“Still holding up?”

“My foundation was tainted by sinister qi—bones cold, weary, aching.”

“Ah, Lord Zheng…”

Both men had once been ninth-rank warriors; among the Tang border troops, they counted as heroes, able to stand against ghost soldiers.

Times changed. After the great battle, both were left crippled, and even if they scraped together enough silver to buy a Reviving Pill, it could only treat the symptoms, not the root.

Moreover, the price of those pills was outrageous—not something destitute border soldiers could afford.

“Brother, cut three pounds of meat, bring a jar of wine and some side dishes.” One morning, the He-surnamed old man came in, ordered food and drink, clearly in good spirits.

A-Lan’s father brought a plate of cold lamb, a jar of wine, and smiled, “Old fellow, something to celebrate?”

Among border soldiers, the word “joy” was never spoken—a taboo outsiders could not understand.

“Hmm. Got something on my mind all night; came to find you first thing.”

He casually broke the seal on the wine jar, filled two large bowls, and said, “Come, let’s drink, then I’ll take you for treatment.”

“Treatment? My ailment is sinister qi…” A-Lan’s father was doubtful, “The court has tried to help, handed out pills, but nothing worked.”

“It’s not medicine,” the old man looked around, lowered his voice, “and it won’t cost a single coin!”

“Is this a scam? Don’t forget—those Daoist fellows once sold us pills at high prices, but they were useless, and we lost ten taels of settlement silver besides.”

A-Lan’s father eyed the old man suspiciously. “You haven’t been duped, have you?”

“Not at all. Truth is, my injury was cured last night.” The old man grinned triumphantly, drained his bowl of wine in one gulp, and belched loudly.

Truly the style of an old border soldier.

A-Lan’s father believed him.

Still, he hesitated, asking, “If they want silver, what then?”

“If the bastard dares!” The old man leapt up, eyes bulging like copper bells, shouting, “If He Chang’an dares to take silver, I’ll beat the dog out of him!”