Chapter 86: A Solitary Journey Through the Martial World (Part Four)

In the alley of Yellow Clay Lane, He Chang'an's house had been bustling lately. There was always someone peeking in at the door, which made Ah Jiu terribly uneasy.

The world outside was in chaos. The officials of Chang'an County had posted proclamations throughout the city, declaring a purge of the remnants of the Night God Sect—a terrifying prospect. Moreover, shady characters often appeared, using the pretext of seeking He Chang'an to scrounge for food and drink. More than once, Ah Jiu had nearly drawn her bamboo sword to drive them off.

But what vexed her most was that dignified, fair-skinned figure known as Lord Zheng. She had heard the old scholar call him several times, so she knew his name—Zheng Xiaomei.

This Lord Zheng always came empty-handed, seemingly unaware that when paying a visit one ought to bring some small token of goodwill—how tactless. The old scholar, Mr. Lü, was much better.

The old gentleman was upright and kind-hearted, always arriving with his hands full—wine, meat, and other treats. Whenever he saw Ah Jiu, he would beam and hand her wine or meat, offering gentle advice: for example, never salt the mutton before stewing, and when braising pork knuckle, add plenty of syrup—ideally, toss seven or eight star anise pods into the pot while the water is still cold.

He explained everything clearly and meticulously, leaving nothing to chance, making others feel utterly at ease. To be warmed by a spring breeze—this must be what it felt like.

Even the little spirit fox adored the old scholar. Whenever the gentleman entered, the tiny fox would wag its three snowy tails, following him around with fawning devotion. It was clear who she favored.

The old scholar always carried sweets in his pocket—beans the size of broad beans, some fiery red, some green, fragrant and delicious. Toss one to the little fox, and with a crisp crunch, she would devour it. Only later did Ah Jiu learn that these were actually elixirs.

Lord Zheng loved chess, but Mr. Lü did not; Mr. Lü loved wine, but Lord Zheng did not. Thus, whenever both arrived at He Chang'an's home, feasting and drinking while enduring Ah Jiu's cold stares, Lord Zheng would always feel stifled.

This was because he could never best the old scholar.

"Mr. Lü, care for a game?" One day, Lord Zheng finally lost his patience and produced a chessboard. "Just one match, what do you say?"

The old scholar, eyes hazy with wine and his smile gentle, replied, "Ever since I lost to the man on the mountain, I haven't touched a single black or white stone."

Lord Zheng fell silent for a long moment, then asked, "Is there much wind on the mountain?"

"There is wind, and there is moonlight, but no trace of the smoke of mortal life." The old scholar seemed lost in thought, raising a cup of wine but forgetting to drink, murmuring, "No trace of mortal smoke..."

And so, the two of them fell silent.

In late spring, Chang'an was truly beautiful—willows shaded the streets, flowers bloomed, and birds sang. Even with war raging in the north, the entertainment quarters teemed with visitors and business flourished.

On the third floor of Phoenix Song Pavilion, in the private hall, noble guests drank and made merry amid music and dance.

"All thanks to that damned Lord Zheng. After so many great battles, our Tang Empire is spent. Now, we are beset on all sides."

"Indeed. And the Chang'an County office just stirs up trouble, following others' lead. It's infuriating!"

"The Ministry of Rites should rein in those academy scholars. Have you seen how arrogant they've become? They even dare submit memorials directly to His Majesty, proposing this nonsense about specialized disciplines—utter folly!"

"Absurd, truly absurd. How can the words of the sages be divided into disciplines?"

This time, He Chang'an truly fought with all his might, but the punch he threw was almost weightless.

He braced himself, pushing off the ground with such force several river stones beneath him crumbled to powder, leaving two half-foot-deep pits on the riverbank.

The punch flew fast. His fist seemed not to touch the ghastly white skeletal hand—just a brush, as light as a dragonfly skimming water, like a lithe snow leopard kicking twice in midair before flipping back.

He landed on one knee three yards before the Monkey Chief, spitting a mouthful of blood, and raised his head, fixing his enemy with a ferocious glare.

He was gravely injured. The force of his own punch had torn his meridians to shreds, and his spiritual sea in the dantian throbbed with pain, clearly wounded.

But that punch forced the Monkey Chief back two stumbling steps, spiderweb cracks spread across the bone hand.

The Monkey Chief, suppressing agony, let out a low growl and was about to lunge.

Suddenly, his legs buckled, the strange red glow in his eyes flickered wildly, and he staggered forward half a step before dropping to one knee—like a drunk. He Chang'an had pierced him with the little black rod.

He had spent months beneath the Demon Suppressing Tower absorbing baleful energy, and was now adept at subduing lesser demons and spirits. But the Monkey Chief was a seventh-rank martial artist; even gravely wounded, he was not someone He Chang'an could contend with head-on.

He had risked everything with that punch, not to defeat the Monkey Chief, but to ensure the little black rod could be driven in with absolute certainty—using his fighting intent to pin it inside.

A seventh-rank martial artist was like iron and stone; he had feared the rod would not pierce this wretch.

At last, he could leech again.

With his experience, He Chang'an could now refine the soul imprints left by demons or spirits under any condition, in any posture.

The little black rod jabbed the Monkey Chief’s mind a dozen times, turning him into an idiot before He Chang'an began to refine him with confidence.

In less than ten breaths, a fine black thread appeared. Without hesitation, He Chang'an controlled the rod to sever it immediately, lest the ghost behind it trace its way back.

The Monkey Chief was a simple brute, his soul weak. After a few pokes from the rod, he was already a wreck.

He opened his mouth wide, clutching his own throat with skeletal hands, letting out a hoarse, strangled noise as his eyes rapidly shriveled, leaving two ashen holes.

He Chang'an staggered over, drew the bamboo sword from his waist, and with a gentle thrust, pierced the Monkey Chief’s brow.

Letting out a final wail, the Monkey Chief collapsed. After a few spasms, he finally died.

Xiao Hui had witnessed the Monkey Chief’s transformation, her face pale as death, clutching her grandfather’s arm, trembling like a frightened fawn.

“It truly was Lady Black Jade’s poison…” the burly old man muttered, his body shaking violently.

He Chang'an sensed something wrong in the old man’s aura. Forcing himself upright, he turned—and saw black mist swirling at the old man’s brow, growing more solid.

“Damn it, another mutation…”

“Look out behind you!”

He Chang'an shouted, startling both the old man and Xiao Hui.

Xiao Hui spun around, but saw nothing.

The old man did not turn. His aura surged, a thick plume of black mist erupted from his brow, rapidly condensing into a ghostly dog’s head.

He Chang'an launched himself forward, landing another light punch.

The little black rod was driven into the old man’s body and began to swiftly devour and refine.