Chapter 837: Another
Spring Mountain Academy, like the Linlu Academy at Piyun Mountain, was an official academy established by the Great Li court.
The mountains stretched in an unbroken chain, wind and smoke all cleared, the river waters surged ceaselessly, and the grasses and trees flourished in abundance.
An old gentleman was strolling alone within the academy. He wore a set of Confucian robes, his figure thin and small, his hands clasped behind his back. He walked until he reached the outside of a classroom where a master was teaching, then stopped in his tracks, not approaching the window too closely.
This place was originally the old site of the Great Li Cliff Academy. Because the name "Cliff" had been given to the Gao clan of Great Sui, it was renamed and became Spring Mountain Academy.
It was still an official academy of the Great Li court. In truth, regarding this matter, there had been no small controversy within the Great Li government back then. Some officials who had graduated from Cliff Academy—found in various ministries and bureaus—all shared the same opinion: abandon the name, just maintain the site properly. Even the officials of the Ministry of Revenue, who were most fond of penny-pinching and could be showered with spittle every day, seconded this motion. Actually, at that time, both the civil and military officials of Great Li felt that Cliff Academy's return to Great Li was only a matter of time.
In the end, it was a single sentence from Chancellor Cui Chan that changed the name. After that, there was no further dissent in the court.
A teaching master who was temporarily not required to give lectures and was responsible for patrolling the academy—a man of no great age—caught sight of that old gentleman and asked with a smile, "Sir, have you come to the academy to visit someone, or are you simply traveling?"
Even with the academy's relaxed atmosphere, there were still some rules to follow.
The old scholar stroked his beard and chuckled. "Life's journey is an inn, all are travelers. A passerby need not ask names; where the sound of reading is heard, there is my homeland."
The young master was momentarily speechless. Was this old man trying to out-quote him with literary allusions?
The old scholar let out a soft "eh," finding it rather strange.
By all logic, now that the various Confucian temples in every country of the Baoiping Continent, from the capital to the local prefectures, should have hung up his portrait again, this young man, as a Confucian scholar of the academy, should have no reason not to recognize him.
Ah, it must be that the portrait hanging in the temple failed to capture even half of his appearance and spirit.
When he got back, he'd have a good word or two with that old drunkard who bore the title of Painting Sage—saying that although his painting skill had already reached divine levels, there was still an opportunity to go a step further.
The young master from the academy smiled and reminded him, "Old sir, looking around and touring is fine, as long as you don't disturb the lectures of the teaching masters. Just walk softly, and there'll be no problem. Otherwise, if the teaching masters have objections, I'll have to ask you to leave."
The old scholar nodded and praised, "Young man, you have quite a good temper. Your patience in teaching is probably not bad either. Good things you state upfront; bad things you warn about early. When doing things, there's a clear method. From a small sign, one can see the whole. I'd say the atmosphere here at Spring Mountain Academy is far from bad."
The young master felt a bit helpless. This old gentleman… was rather fond of playing the teacher?
Still, it was all good words, not really annoying. It just seemed a bit presumptuous.
The old gentleman's Great Li official speech was not very authentic—he was most likely a Confucian scholar from a vassal state. Having come this far at his age, traveling by cart and boat to the capital's academy, it was truly not easy. So the young master took the initiative to tell the old gentleman about a few scenic spots at Spring Mountain Academy. The old scholar smiled and nodded in thanks, then walked slowly to the window and quietly listened to a Q&A between the lecturer and a student inside.
The young master looked back, feeling that there was something vaguely familiar about him.
That old gentleman, hands clasped behind his back, stood in the corridor, ears pricked as he listened to the lecturer inside transmitting the Way and imparting knowledge.
Sensing the young master's gaze, the old gentleman turned his head and smiled.
The young master turned and walked away, shaking his head. He still couldn't recall where he had seen that old gentleman before.
The old scholar continued listening to the lecturer inside resolving doubts. Mm, very good. Today, the lecturer was using a commentary on one of his own works by a Yang clan descendant from Lingbao County. What they were discussing now was content from the "Dharma Practice Chapter," which had just touched upon a line: "Why does the gentleman value jade and despise jade-like stone?"
Commentaries, collected explanations, simplified interpretations, simplified annotations, and modern annotations with modern explanations… In the old days, there had been countless such works in the Haoran World. So-called prominent schools of thought were nothing more than this.
Of course, they had later been banned by the Confucian Temple. Now that his accompanying sacrificial status had been restored, all sorts of commentary works naturally sprang back to life… Forget it, that phrasing was a bit awkward. Anyway, they were as numerous as bamboo shoots after a spring rain or fish crossing a river.
Inside, the lecturer, while teaching the students, seemed to reach a point of personal enlightenment. He closed his eyes, sat upright, and began reciting the entire "Dharma Practice Chapter" in a loud voice.
The old scholar then leaned on the windowsill, lowered his voice, and asked a young Confucian student with a smile, "Your teacher is lecturing on the 'Dharma Practice Chapter'—do you understand it all?"
The young Confucian student had actually noticed the eavesdropping old gentleman long ago, and this academy student was clearly bold. Taking advantage of the lecturer still shaking his head and humming, he grinned and said, "What's there not to understand? The actual meaning of the 'Dharma Practice Chapter' is quite simple. It's those commentaries by the erudite scholars that go deeper and further afield."
Seeing the old gentleman nod with a look of profound agreement, the young man nodded back.
Then the old gentleman asked, "In your opinion, what is the biggest problem with the Literary Sage's writings and teachings?"
The young Confucian student was taken aback, then laughed angrily. "Old sir, asking a question like that is downright heretical! You might dare to ask it, but I, as a disciple of this academy, dare not answer it."
After all, Spring Mountain Academy's predecessor was Cliff Academy, one of the seventy-two academies of the Haoran World. The former academy head, Mr. Qi, was a direct disciple of the Literary Sage. So for him, as a disciple of Spring Mountain Academy, to say such things—wouldn't that be departing from the classics, betraying the ancestors?
The old gentleman said with a beaming smile, "What's there to dare or not dare? Some people even dare to say 'the Six Classics annotate me.' What are you afraid of? I've heard that your headmaster encourages you to avoid arrogance and impatience in your conduct, avoid narrow-mindedness in your studies, avoid clichés in your writing, and to express your own views, saying what previous scholars haven't. I think that's very good. So why have you come to the point where you don't even dare to have your own opinion? Do you think all the world's knowledge has been completely spoken by the sages of the Confucian Temple, so we only need to recite books and aren't allowed to have our own views?"
The current headmaster, Wu Linzhuan, had been an insatiable learner since childhood, reading every book he came across, rigorous in his scholarship. He had served as the provincial director of education for several prefectures in Great Li, spending his whole life dealing with the knowledge of the sages. Although the rank of education director was not low, he was not a true official. After retiring in his later years, he served as a head lecturer at several government academies. It was said that during the time when the Literary Sage's teachings were banned, he painstakingly collected a large number of book editions and personally engraved and collated them. In the early years of the Great Li dynasty's imperial examination reforms, it was this man who first proposed that the court must add the three subjects of economics, military preparedness, and mathematics.
The young Confucian student hesitated for a moment. Alright then. This old gentleman in front of him must be a frustrated scholar who had never passed the imperial examinations and had mediocre scholarship, feeling disheartened. Otherwise, why would he say such "big words"? But he had indeed struck a chord with the young Confucian student. So the youth mustered his courage and said in a low voice, "I think that Literary Sage's scholarship is extremely high, but he talks a lot about ritual law and too little about benevolence and righteousness. That seems somewhat inappropriate."
The old gentleman continued to ask, "Then what do you think should be done? Have you ever thought of a remedy?"
The young Confucian student looked a bit shy. "I've secretly thought about some things idly. Of course, they must be very crude and biased. But the two masters at our academy who lecture on the Literary Sage's works—one of them is the one right now—often walk around the academy, repeatedly reciting the Literary Sage's works. When they get carried away, they even shed tears. They hold the utmost reverence for the Literary Sage. I wouldn't dare to show them that nonsense I wrote."
The lecturer, who had just finished reciting the "Dharma Practice Chapter," noticed that "inattentive" student whispering to someone outside the window. He suddenly slapped his warning ruler and shouted softly, "Zhou Jiagu!"
The young Confucian student was dumbfounded. Not only had he been caught red-handed by his teacher, but that old gentleman outside the window had been utterly disloyal—he had suddenly vanished.
Zhou Jiagu stood up trembling with fear.
Then Zhou Jiagu saw a large group of academy elders, led by the headmaster, approaching in a grand procession.
And then, the old gentleman, who had just ducked down, squatting against the wall outside the window, rose awkwardly.
That old gentleman was truly thick-skinned. He said to Zhou Jiagu with a grin, "Well, I've been standing for a long time and got a bit tired."
Zhou Jiagu saw that the lecturer's face was flushed bright red. Thinking the teacher was angry at having his lecture interrupted, the young man immediately forced himself to explain, "Mr. Fan, this is my distant uncle. He came to visit me today. He doesn't know the academy rules well—it's my fault."
The old scholar stroked his beard and nodded with a smile.
Very good indeed.
An elderly scholar should speak fewer strange words meant to shock. Don't be afraid that young people won't remember you.
And don't be so quick to label the young with things like "people's hearts are no longer what they were, the world is in decline." Forget it. It's just that you've changed from a little bastard into an old bastard.
An old man who is disappointed should still always be full of hope for the young.
The future world will get better, and better still.
Then Zhou Jiagu saw that Mr. Fan was extremely agitated. He stumbled and staggered out of the classroom.
Finally, standing in the corridor under the eaves, Mr. Fan composed his robes, his expression solemn, and bowed to that old gentleman with a deep obeisance.
Furthermore, all the academy elders, including headmaster Wu Linzhuan, did the same, bowing and not rising.
It seemed that if the Literary Sage did not speak, they would keep bowing forever.
The old scholar waved his hand and said with a gentle smile, "Don't stand around like that. I haven't eaten cold pig's head for years—I'm not used to it anymore."
All the academy masters slowly straightened up.
Spring Mountain Academy headmaster Wu Linzhuan stepped forward quickly and asked softly, "Literary Sage, would you like to go elsewhere for tea?"
The old scholar shook his head, walked over to Mr. Fan, and said with a smile, "Mr. Fan, how about we make a deal? For the second half of the lesson, let me lecture the students on the 'Dharma Practice Chapter'?"
Mr. Fan bowed again, his lips trembling, unable to speak.
The old scholar walked into the classroom. Inside, dozens of academy students had already risen and bowed.
Especially that Zhou Jiagu, who had been chatting with the Literary Sage for quite a while—he was still in a daze.
The old scholar raised a hand. "No need for formalities. Scholarship is what matters—everyone sit down."
All the academy masters, including Mr. Fan, stood outside by the window, listening to the sage's teachings. Not one of them tried to take a seat inside.
The old scholar smiled. "Before I begin explaining the 'Dharma Practice Chapter,' I'll first explain to Zhou Jiagu why I speak more of ritual law and less of benevolence and righteousness. But before that, I'd like to hear Zhou Jiagu's own views on how to remedy this."
The old scholar looked at the young Confucian student and teased, "Zhou Jiagu, don't be afraid of saying something wrong. Even if you're wrong, I don't care. Who would dare to care? Isn't that the reasoning?"
Zhou Jiagu said in a trembling voice, "Literary Sage… I'm a bit nervous. I can't… speak."
The old scholar smiled and asked, "Should I start lecturing first? When you're no longer nervous, you can let me know?"
Zhou Jiagu wiped the sweat from his forehead and nodded vigorously.
Outside the window, Mr. Fan chuckled to himself. "You little rascal, you've got some nerve, daring to discuss scholarship with the Literary Sage? No wonder you're my student."
He would have to get the full story from Zhou Jiagu later.
That day, nearly a thousand masters and students of Spring Mountain Academy crowded densely outside that classroom.
The Confucian Literary Sage, after having his offering tablet restored in the Confucian Temple, delivered his first teaching—transmitting the Way, imparting knowledge, resolving doubts—right here at the Great Li Spring Mountain Academy on the Baoiping Continent.
———
After Chen Ping'an swaggered away, the three people in the alley—formation master Han Zhoujin, Capital Dao Registry Ge Ling, and yin-yang master Sui Lin—exchanged glances. They all felt somewhat deflated. Despite all their careful planning, they still couldn't detain him. For this battle, which they had originally thought would be extremely dangerous, the eleven of them had deduced dozens of possibilities in the inn. And these three were responsible for setting up the formation and laying the trap.
Setting up a formation was a matter where the smallest error could lead to a vast difference. Especially when it involved the operation of a small heaven and earth. For example, choosing a wider street outside the alley, which was Chen Ping'an's inevitable route, meant more contact between the formation and the actual heaven and earth. This not only made maintaining the formation more difficult but also created more flaws. And a sword immortal's sword strike was precisely the best at breaking all methods with one sword.
The female ghost Gai Yan and Lu Hui stood side by side on top of a wall. She complained endlessly, "Not exciting, not exciting! It's over before it even started."
She really didn't believe it—could she not even touch a corner of Chen Ping'an's clothes?
Inside the alley, Han Zhoujin smiled bitterly and walked out of the alley with Ge Ling. "Dealing with an Inspector is really tough."
Since no fight broke out, Ge Ling, having nothing better to do, tapped on the alley wall. "Indeed, a headache."
The Great Li intelligence agency had very few records on the mysterious Fei Ran. They only knew he was the foremost of the Hundred Sword Immortals of Tuoyue Mountain. However, there were extremely detailed records on the sword immortal Xiu Chen, the senior disciple of Wen Hai Zhou Mi. The earliest records dated back to Xiu Chen's sword duel with Zhang Lu. After that, the files on Xiu Chen's deeds were voluminous. And at the end of that top-secret file, there were two handwritten annotations by the Chancellor: "Top-tier assassin, likely to reach the Flying Ascension Realm."
Sui Lin put away six rare golden lock-sword talismans, along with several talismans specially designed to capture Chen Ping'an's qi flow.
Chen Ping'an had hit the nail on the head with one sentence: these Eleven Earthly Branches were truly wealthy.
For example, this fight hadn't even started, but they had already consumed quite a few Guyu coins.
Not only did each of them have at least one semi-immortal artifact, but whenever they needed to spend money, the Ministry of Rites and the Ministry of Justice had jointly established a private treasury for them. As long as they asked, regardless of whether they wanted money or goods, the Great Li court would provide. Each ministry had a vice minister personally overseeing the matter. The person in charge from the Ministry of Justice was Zhao You.
Han Zhoujin felt a bit frustrated. Having lost two rounds in a row, even if it was to Chen Ping'an, it was still hard to swallow. "Where did we slip up? It's as if he knew from the beginning that it was a trap. Does that mean every time he goes out, every few steps, when he meets someone on the street, he does a divination?"
At a distance, Yu Yu transmitted her thoughts. "It might have been that address of 'Mr. Chen.' Or it could be a kind of intuition honed on the battlefield, like how punches are fed. Intuition can also be nurtured. We've just experienced too few battles."
The one nicknamed "Painter," Gai Yan, looked a bit embarrassed. She had been the one pretending to be the young Zhao Duanyang.
Yuan Huajing said, "Everyone, withdraw."
Chen Ping'an returned to the inn. Before stepping over the threshold, he took out a paper bag from his sleeve.
Seeing Chen Ping'an, the old man put down the book titled "Jialing Bamboo Carvings" and said with a hearty chuckle, "What a busy man you are. Where did you go to find a bargain and earn some conscience-lacking money again?"
Chen Ping'an smiled. "Come on, I almost got sacked by a group of small-time thieves."
The old man didn't take it seriously, joking, "In our capital these days, there are still kidnappers? Even if there were, shouldn't they find a rich person first?"
Chen Ping'an placed the bag on the counter. "I bought too much on the way back. If you don't mind, boss, you can have it with your wine."
The old man nodded and smiled. It was a bag of fried dough twists—hadn't cost much, but it was the thought that counted.
Chen Ping'an glanced at the book. "Boss, you don't just like porcelain, but this stuff too? At my place, besides a few bamboo fans, I have a pair of armrests with carvings of magpies on a plum branch and three thousand peaches, signed by Man Xian. I'm not bragging—even if they're forgeries, they're worth something."
"How could it possibly be real bamboo carvings by Man Xian… Forget it, you're good at spinning tales. I'm sure you'll find some sucker to buy them as genuine."
The old man, seeing that this kid was also a fellow enthusiast, teased him while pushing the book over, saying proudly, "Porcelain and bamboo carvings are nothing. I even know a thing or two about black tigers."
Chen Ping'an leaned on the counter and shook his head. "Calligraphy and rubbing reproductions are not something you can learn just by reading a few books. The knowledge there is too deep, the threshold too high. You need to look at genuine works, and lots of them, before you can truly enter the gate. Anyway, there's no shortcut or trick. Just grab those genuine works and do one thing: look. Two things: look more. Three things: look until you get sick of them."
The old man laughed and cursed, "Standing there talking without pain—you've seen a lot, have you?"
"To be honest, I've seen quite a bit."
"You, a guy who wanders around gates and sects, think you're a mountain immortal? Don't boast without a draft."
"Boasting that needs a draft isn't true mastery."
Chen Ping'an was relaxed, casually chatting nonsense with the old man. He leaned sideways against the counter, idly flipping through the book, one foot lightly tapping the ground, and memorized the paintings, illustrations, rubbings, and phrases like "great simplicity, no carving" from the famous masters.
When you get along with others cordially, even non-relatives become like kin.
The Ministry of Revenue official, the old woman at the Fire God Temple, the old cultivator Liu Jia, the young boy Zhao Duanyang, the innkeeper.
The Great Li Empress Dowager—stopping, words exchanged, able to look each other in the eye.
These small, subtle details—it's not about who the other person is, but who you are. And then it's about caring about who you are as well as who the other person is.
After returning the book and going to their room, Chen Ping'an found Ning Yao also reading a book, but a different one.
Chen Ping'an gently closed the door. Ning Yao didn't acknowledge him. Although the previous book had never revealed the true identity of the green-robed, red-faced man reading the Spring and Autumn Annals by lamplight, and there wasn't much space devoted to him, Ning Yao felt that this character was the most vivid in the book—a true strongman.
Chen Ping'an poured himself a bowl of tea and took a light sip.
Ning Yao didn't look up. "Your words at the alley entrance earlier weren't like your usual style."
Chen Ping'an leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, and smiled. "It's something Daoist Sun taught me. On the path of cultivation, while the young geniuses you meet are still young and not high in realm, you should beat them up a few times, give them psychological trauma. Then when you walk the jianghu later, you'll have prestige."
In the world of cultivation, everyone has their own style.
Baidicheng's Zheng Juzhong, Suichu Palace's Wu Shuangjiang—they're one type.
Fu Lu's Yu Xuan, the Dragon Tiger Mountain Grand Celestial Master—another type.
The Great Xuandu Temple's Daoist Sun, the Crouching Peak's Fiery Dragon True Lord—yet another type.
Ning Yao suddenly showed a hint of a smile. "Where do you get all that nonsense? Do you have an endless supply?"
Chen Ping'an suppressed a laugh. "I heard it on the road, read it in books. Savings, you know—you accumulate them bit by bit."
Ning Yao asked, "Nothing you figured out on your own?"
Chen Ping'an rubbed his chin, putting on a serious face. "The ancestors gave me the talent?"
Ning Yao casually said, "This batch of cultivators really got the short end of the stick against you. They had so many backup plans, but none were useful."
Chen Ping'an nodded. "To be honest, though, in the future, when I eventually reach the Immortal realm, and if we only talk about the mountains of the Baoiping Continent, this group of Great Li death warriors—once they fill the gaps in the Twelve Earthly Branches—will be the biggest potential hidden danger for me."
After all, each strike imitating the Jade Capital followed rules. And the thing Chen Ping'an feared least in his life was rules.
That's why Chen Ping'an took the initiative to visit that immortal inn. Besides taking their measure and figuring out the general background and cultivation paths of the eleven, he genuinely hoped this group would grow faster. In the future, on the Baoiping Continent's mountains, it was highly likely that every one of them would have a seat at the summit.
Chen Ping'an's thoughts and actions seemed contradictory. Since they were a hidden danger not to be underestimated, why help them grow?
Chen Ping'an casually picked up a book from the table and flipped a few pages. In fights, martial arts masters always announced their moves, afraid their opponent wouldn't know their trump card technique.
See, at the Confucian Temple, Cao Ci was like that. Next time they met, as a friend, he'd have to advise him.
Besides, you, Cao Ci, created a few punches—less than thirty moves? I'm the same—less than thirty.
Ning Yao suddenly said, "What's wrong? You seem a bit unsettled. Is there a problem at the Fire God Temple, or at the Ministry of Revenue office?"
Chen Ping'an paused, then put down the book. "Something's not right. It has nothing to do with the Fire God Temple or the Ministry of Revenue. So it's strange—it shouldn't be happening."
Ning Yao didn't ask further.
She watched as Chen Ping'an took out a piece of red paper from his sleeve, poured some crumbs of ten-thousand-year loess onto it, picked up a pinch of soil, and tasted it.
Ning Yao said, "You really could be a geomancer of the Form School."
As a peddler pack-rat, qi watcher, fortune teller, letter writer, tavern owner…
Chen Ping'an wiped his mouth and smiled. "Having many skills doesn't weigh you down."
Ning Yao asked, "The young ghost cultivator from Qingxia Island—the one named Zeng?"
Chen Ping'an said, "I won't say anything explicit to Zeng Ye. I'll just mention to him that he can travel to the Great Li capital later to gain jianghu experience. After that, it's up to his own opportunities and fate."
Ning Yao suddenly said, "I have a pretty good impression of Ma Duyi. She's broad-minded. Is she still living in that foxskin talisman paper now?"
Chen Ping'an quickly glanced at Ning Yao.
Thankfully, it wasn't a sarcastic remark.
Chen Ping'an immediately nodded. "Yes. She always liked that talisman-skin form. Everyone has a love for beauty."
Ning Yao asked doubtfully, "Didn't you ever think of having them leave Shujian Lake outright and settle down at Luopo Mountain?"
Chen Ping'an shook his head. "Everyone has their own path."
Walking the path of the world is difficult—harder than mountains, more perilous than water.
The dangerous roads of mountains and water break carts and boats; compared to the human heart, they are smooth paths.
So during that journey, Miss Su, the simple and honest young Zeng Ye, the lively and unrestrained Ma Duyi, and many more who traveled together back then—they were all actually Chen Ping'an's protectors.
Chen Ping'an shook his sleeve. Back on the Sword Qi Wall, when he had nothing to do, he had refined that landscape travelogue's words. He had refined quite a few characters. Now, twenty-four characters flew out from his blue sleeve, and they happened to form the names of those eleven Earthly Branch cultivators.
Song Xu, Han Zhoujin, Ge Ling, Yu Yu, Lu Hui, Hou Jue. Yuan Huajing, Sui Lin, Gai Yan, Gou Cun. Ku Shou.
Two sword cultivators, a formation master, a Confucian scholar, a Daoist, a monk, a military cultivator, a yin-yang master, a ghost cultivator.
The young Gou Cun's trump card was unknown for now.
That young cavalryman was named Ku Shou. Apart from that one time during the spirit night parade when he made a move, he hadn't acted in the two subsequent battles in the capital.
Chen Ping'an watched these names while simultaneously immersing his divine sense into his small heaven and earth, carefully examining his soul and various qi apertures. There was nothing unusual. The dharma robe on his body also had no traces of tampering.
The small Daoist temple he had passed earlier, the seat of the Capital Dao Registry, had a couplet: "Pine and cypress, golden court, nourishing truth and blessed land; long cherishing ten thousand ages, cultivating the dao in spirit void."
At the Fire God Temple, Aunt Feng had entertained him with Hundred Flower Brew. Because Chen Ping'an had noticed the secrets of the red paper mud seal and asked about the tribute, Aunt Feng had mentioned two forces by the way: Fengdu Ghost Mansion and Fangzhu Mountain, Lord Qing—who governed all above-ground cave heavens and blessed lands and all earthly immortal registers, removing death records and adding life names.
Especially the latter, and also because Chen Ping'an had mentioned Nine Capitals Mountain of Ai'ai Continent, from Aunt Feng's tone, Fangzhu Mountain had most likely become a thing of the past. Otherwise, the founding patriarch of Nine Capitals Mountain wouldn't have obtained part of the broken mountain peak and inherited a trace of dao charm and immortal vein.
The immortal mansion ruins that formation master Han Zhoujin had refined, and Yu Yu's sword immortal attendant—both were clearly ancient, with a profound antique aura. Could they be some kind of hint from Aunt Feng? Possibly those jars of Hundred Flower Brew weren't really a treat but a trigger for leaking heavenly secrets?
Mountain techniques and divine abilities were endless and impossible to guard against completely. Even just considering the natal flying swords of the world's sword immortals, how many unimaginable abilities were there? Countless.
Chen Ping'an suddenly said, "That old coachman earlier—his temper was quite sharp. Arrogant too. The first thing he said to me was, 'If you have something to say, say it quickly.'"
In fact, Chen Ping'an quite wanted to spar with him.
Ning Yao nodded, then continued reading, casually remarking, "Don't coddle bad habits. Why didn't you just kill him?"
Chen Ping'an was dumbfounded. After a long sigh, he said, "If it really came to a fight, I can't kill him yet, can I?
Ning Yao said something out of the blue, "Guan Yiran understands you quite well. No wonder you became friends."
Chen Ping'an nodded. "Back in Shujian Lake, Guan Yiran helped me a lot. He didn't have any airs of a noble scion."
What he was thinking, however, was: I gave you an inkstone and wine—is this how you repay a friend? What a disaster. Next time at that Changpu River drinking party, I'll be waiting.
In fact, Ning Yao didn't really like to talk about Shujian Lake, because it was the toughest mental barrier Chen Ping'an had to get through.
She couldn't bear to say much. Even when she brought it up, it was about a girl like Ma Duyi. In truth, some past events had never truly passed. Things that had truly passed were of two kinds: completely forgotten, or those that could be casually discussed.
Chen Ping'an rested his arms on the table and smiled. "You know, I was raised on meals from a hundred homes. Besides being grateful and remembering people's kindness, I also had to learn to read expressions and tones, whether I liked it or not. Otherwise, I could easily make those kind-hearted people face difficulties from their own family members in their own lives."
Ning Yao put down her book and asked softly, "For example?"
Chen Ping'an thought for a moment and smiled. "For example, there was an old woman in the alley who often gave me things. She would always hide it from her family and give it to me secretly. Once, when I passed her door, she pulled me aside to chat. Her daughter-in-law happened to be there and started saying mean things—both for the old woman's ears and for mine about how strange it was that household items weren't stolen by thieves, but could have grown legs and run into someone else's house."
Ning Yao asked, "What did you do then?"
Chen Ping'an thought for a moment and shook his head. "There was nothing I could do."
He was silent for a while, then picked up his water bowl. "It's just that when I thought of her, holding her right sleeve with her left hand, standing at the door, with her back to her family—her own children and grandchildren—and yet she forced a smile at me, as if she was afraid I'd be upset. Actually, after I parted with her and walked alone on the road, my heart did ache. What hurt more was that I never knew how she got along with her family that day."
So later, at Shujian Lake's Green Gorge Island, sitting at the same table with Liu Zhimao, who was supposed to beat each other to death—did that count as a big deal? Not at all.
Ning Yao leaned on the table and asked, "When you were a child, did you take the initiative to help with all the weddings and funerals in the neighborhood?"
Chen Ping'an shook his head. "How could I? Some people cursed so terribly. I wouldn't bother with them."
Then Chen Ping'an laughed. "Of course, at that time, my arguing skills weren't great either. Even if I wanted to argue, I couldn't win. But I had ways to not feel wronged. At midnight, when we fought for water, I had to open up the small dams that others used to block water into their fields. You know about that, right?"
Watching Chen Ping'an gesticulate, Ning Yao shook her head. "I've never seen it, but I can imagine."
Chen Ping'an's eyes sparkled with a rare hint of childish pride. "Back then, I could find a spot on the ridge and hide there all night without leaving. No one else had that kind of patience, so no one could compete with me."
In Ning Yao's impression, Chen Ping'an had all sorts of expressions—eyes, looks, demeanors—but he rarely showed this kind of elation, this self-satisfaction.
A little boy, tanned black by the sun, unafraid of walking the night path, afraid of nothing ghostly, often lying alone on the ridge, legs crossed, chewing on a blade of grass, occasionally waving away mosquitoes and flies, just staring at the bright moon or the brilliant starry sky.
A lonely, pitiful child, lying on the ground looking at the sky.
At that moment, with his chin resting on his arm, the man's eyes narrowed into a smile.
Ning Yao picked up her book again.
Chen Ping'an smiled. "I'll read too."
A speck of mustard-seed divine sense traveled through his small physical heaven and earth, finally arriving at the shores of his heart lake. Chen Ping'an quickly searched through the secret files of the Summer Palace. There was no entry for Fangzhu Mountain. Still unwilling to give up, he stirred his thoughts again—Undying Record, Longevity Record… He got some fragmented insights, but he couldn't piece together a coherent thread.
On the shore of the heart lake, Chen Ping'an expended a great deal of divine sense and spiritual energy to painstakingly construct a library building. It stored all his books, categorized for easy selection and reference. Searching through memory records was like fishing: the fishing rod was the empty library, the divine sense was the fishing line, and certain keywords, phrases, or sentences served as hooks. Cast the rod into the library, and when you lifted it, you could pull out one or several books like "fish in a pond."
No one had taught Chen Ping'an this method. He had learned it from Wen Hai Zhou Mi and his disciple Pei Qian, integrating and mastering it to produce this scene, this matter, this divine ability.
After leaving the Night Boat, Chen Ping'an was busy with another task. Above his heart lake, he carefully gathered and refined a drop of flowing time, a grain of sword seed, and a bamboo ruler. Each hovered in the air, used by Chen Ping'an to measure time, weight, and length. He had learned this from Ritual Sage—within his small physical heaven and earth, he created his own standards of measurement. That way, even if trapped in someone else's small heaven and earth, he wouldn't lose his bearings.
Unfortunately, when he merged his Dao with half of the Sword Qi Wall, he had completely lost his yin spirit and yang spirit. Otherwise, his cultivation would only have been faster.
At that moment, Chen Ping'an stood by the water's edge. Above his head were the celestial phenomena of sun and moon rising and falling, the Milky Way flowing. The man on the shore looked down at the man in the water.
Chen Ping'an withdrew his gaze. Just as he turned around, he immediately turned back, staring at his reflection in the heart lake water, frowning. He recalled that young cultivator who seemed to have no presence—Ku Shou.
Ku Shou?
That was a term from the game of Go.
For example, his own senior disciple, Pei Qian, was the ku shou of Taiwei Sword Sect's Bai Shou. Of course, Guo Zhujiu was also a bit like Pei Qian's ku shou—a classic case of one thing subduing another.
Then Chen Ping'an of Nipin Alley was the ku shou of Ma Kuxuan of Xinghua Alley.
And Cao Ci was undoubtedly Chen Ping'an's greatest ku shou on the martial path. The sword cultivator Liu Cai was his ku shou on the sword path.
Chen Ping'an hesitated, then turned back to the water's edge, crossed his legs, closed his eyes to rest, and formed hand seals. But he soon opened his eyes.
A small bald head, riding a fire dragon on a patrol, sat high on the dragon's head and said, "If you want to know your past life, look at what you suffer in this one."
Chen Ping'an said helplessly, "I understand the principle."
The small bald head asked, "Do you remember the second vow?"
Chen Ping'an nodded. The Medicine Buddha had twelve great vows. The second was the vow to illuminate the darkness with bodily light and awaken all beings.
"May I, in a future life, when I attain Bodhi, be like lapis lazuli—pure inside and out, without stain or blemish, with vast light and great merit, dwelling peacefully, adorned with a net of flames, surpassing the sun and moon; all beings in the dark places shall be illuminated and awakened, to follow their desires and accomplish all deeds."
A thousand-year darkness can be lit by a single lamp.
The small bald head crossed his arms over his chest and said angrily, "'Praying to the Buddha is useful'—those were words you spoke yourself when you were a child. But what did you think when you grew up? Looking back, when you were young, you went up the mountain to gather herbs and came down to boil medicine. Was it effective or not? Does this not count as sincerity moving the spirits?"
Chen Ping'an softly hummed in acknowledgment.
The small bald head rode the dragon away, cursing and muttering. Chen Ping'an took it all in. After a long silence, he stood up, looked at the water's reflection, and said to himself, "The greatest ku shou is within oneself?"
Then his face turned ashen. "Those bastards—are they tired of living?!"
The mustard-seed divine sense quickly withdrew from his small heaven and earth. Chen Ping'an didn't even have time to say anything to Ning Yao. With one step of shrinking the land, he rushed straight to that immortal inn, punching open the mountain-and-water restrictions.
If he wasn't careful, these guys would summon another "Chen Ping'an."
Pure as a spirit.