Chapter Eighty-Eight: A Lone Wanderer’s World, Part Six

After a day and a night, He Chang'an awoke.

He got up from the ground, sat in silence for a while, then turned to glance at the broad-shouldered old man and Xiao Hui, who both looked as though a great weight had been lifted from their hearts. He smiled at A Fei, who sat cross-legged on a boulder, slowly drinking wine.

He said nothing.

Within the still lake of his mind, the cycle of suffering, accumulation, extinction, and the Way over that day and night had left He Chang'an in a wondrous state. He even felt, absurdly, that if he did not practice a set of ancient fist methods, his whole body would feel wrong.

So he slowly rose and staggered toward the waterfall.

When he was still a hundred paces from Dragon Gate Waterfall, the thunderous roar and dense spray of mist swallowed him whole.

He Chang'an circulated the inner and outer circuits of breath, regulated his breathing for the time it takes to brew a cup of tea, swallowed a small mouthful of rising hot blood, and then, swaying unsteadily, threw his first punch.

His fist intent was like clouds; his hands and feet were like insects.

Indeed, if one did not work hard for a while, how could one prove that one was trash...

...

"Senior A Fei, has he... broken through just like that?" the broad-shouldered old man asked A Fei with great deference.

A Fei snorted. "Eighteen bends on the mountain road, and this is only the beginning. What is there to make such a fuss about?"

"Then what level is his cultivation? Fifth rank, or sixth?" The broad-shouldered old man was a seventh-rank martial practitioner, and he could not see through He Chang'an's level.

"Fifth rank? Sixth rank?" A Fei froze, took a swig of wine, and burst into laughter. "He's only at ninth rank in the martial path now. A little spicy chicken."

The broad-shouldered old man's expression stiffened; he did not quite believe it.

This A Fei had quite the mouth on him. Somehow, he did not seem very reliable...

Seeing the old man's face, A Fei cleared his throat, patted the bamboo sword laid across his knees, and said with great swagger, "When have I ever lied to anyone? Let me tell you, I am a sword cultivator!"

His plain, unremarkable face was practically written all over with shameless pride.

...

He Chang'an went through the ancient fist routine over and over again, each round slower than the last.

At length, when it could grow no slower, he finally stopped.

He was somewhat puzzled.

Was this fist method really nothing more than a simple body-tempering art for martial practitioners? Why did it feel like there was more to it than that?

In martial cultivation, whether it was cleansing the marrow with spiritual energy, opening the mystical apertures, or tempering the body again and again, the essence was actually to keep one breath from leaking away. Only then could power cycle without end, returning again and again, unstoppable.

To put it simply, it was roughly: either kill you in one breath, or be killed by someone else in one breath. It sounded convoluted, but that was indeed the crude martial practitioner's path.

Yet this ancient fist method, after being practiced hundreds or thousands of times, seemed able to make that one breath continuous and unbroken, cycling in endless succession, thread by thread, the force never ceasing.

Could it be a Daoist art? The thought made He Chang'an laugh at himself.

In the end, it was simply the loss of having no education.

He had once asked Zheng Gong in a roundabout way, and also Zhao Zheng, Li Yishan, and the others, whether he could, like everyone else, take a master and begin from the most basic martial knowledge, proceeding step by step.

All of them had shaken their heads with bitter smiles and said that someone had given orders: anyone who dared take He Chang'an as a disciple would have his dog legs broken...

And none of them would say, even under threat of death, exactly who had issued that command.

Later, he asked the old scholar, and Mister Lu kindly told He Chang'an that the person was none other than himself, Lu Chen, Lu Boyong.

The old scholar's reasoning was simple. He said that since the system of martial cultivation had been established thousands of years ago, not even a single sage had emerged; who would dare call himself a teacher?

"Whoever dares to mislead a disciple, to ruin a life without ever getting tired of it, I will break his dog legs. That is the reason I explained to them, and now I will explain it to you as well."

He Chang'an remembered that when Mister Lu said this, he rarely sat upright and spoke sternly, almost to the point of taking him aside and lecturing him face to face...

He stood quietly before Dragon Gate Waterfall for a long while, but could not make sense of it no matter how hard he thought. At last, he emerged from the surging mist, cupped his hands toward the broad-shouldered old man, Xiao Hui, and A Fei, then packed his belongings and prepared to leave.

The rivers and lakes stretch far and wide; may each of you treasure yourselves.

At A Fei's invitation, on a sudden whim, he had eagerly come to see Dragon Gate Waterfall, only to end up in a baffling fight, nearly losing his life. He was somewhat displeased.

Especially with the broad-shouldered old man and Xiao Hui. Though it had been their first meeting, and they had shared a narrow escape from death, He Chang'an still did not know their backgrounds, and as someone who had always cherished his own life, he intended to keep his distance.

As for this sword cultivator... fine, if he lacked the bearing of an expert, that was one thing. But to go around deliberately imitating a land-sword immortal in every gesture and movement...

The broad-shouldered old man and Xiao Hui said nothing.

But when He Chang'an had walked seventy or eighty paces away, A Fei suddenly laughed, then said leisurely, "Someone asked me to teach you swordsmanship for a few days. With such a heaven-sent opportunity, you just throw it away?"

He Chang'an stopped, hesitated for a moment, then turned back and bowed. "Thank you for your kind intentions, Senior. I am only a crude martial practitioner and cannot become a sword cultivator."

Having said that, he turned to leave again, which made A Fei's expression stiffen.

"Hey, brat, stop right there!" A Fei said angrily, threatening him, "If you dare take one more step, I'll break your third leg!"

He Chang'an's foot faltered, yet he deliberately took one step, then two, then three forward.

Seeing him walk out more than ten paces, A Fei flew into a rage, stepped forward, and appeared before He Chang'an in an instant, driving a fist straight at him.

"Brat, that will teach you to be stubborn!"

He Chang'an was startled. This A Fei, who claimed to be a sword cultivator, looked utterly ordinary and seemed a bit dim, but the punch he threw was the real thing; he was a genuine master.

Though He Chang'an could not tell just what rank A Fei's martial cultivation had reached, that single punch came at him like a mountain being hurled his way, crushing him so hard he could hardly breathe.

He had no choice but to retreat several steps in haste, avoiding the edge of the blow.

Fortunately, A Fei did not seem to want to injure him. Otherwise, that punch would likely have sent him flying.

One punch followed another from A Fei. In the space of seven or eight breaths, he forced He Chang'an all the way back to Dragon Gate Waterfall.

"Go on, then. Take two more steps and let me see. Anyone who dares act tough before me has had grass three and a third feet high growing over his grave mound for years!"

"No, that's not right. He was already swept away by my sword qi long ago, reduced to ash and gone to the wind..."

With hands on his hips, A Fei raged and launched into a stream of invective. His choice of words and turns of phrase were actually several levels above A Jiu's.

Perhaps even better at cursing than Yu Youwei.

As expected, this was very Bamboo Sword Mountain.

He Chang'an was sprayed full in the face with spit, unable to win in a fight and unable to win in a quarrel. In the end, he could only stand there in silence, like a mute gourd stuck in rotten mud.

Only then did he truly understand the frustration, grievance, and exasperation of the scholars at the academy when he had once, in his own reckless way, showered them with verbal abuse.

Karma...

An hour later, A Fei finally quieted down.

He pointed at the waterfall, which plunged down for more than a thousand zhang, dragonlike and tigerlike, and said calmly, "Go there and practice your fist routine. If you can hold on for the time it takes to burn an incense stick, I'll call you grandfather."

Dressed in coarse blue cloth, a bamboo sword tied at his waist, hands clasped behind his back and face lifted to the sky, his expression was serene and unhurried.

He truly looked every inch the manner of a land-sword immortal.

This sudden reversal not only left He Chang'an a little dumbfounded, but even the broad-shouldered old man and Xiao Hui, who had been watching the fun nearby, felt their backs twitch with shock.