Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Scholar Buries His Head in Lofty Ambition, the Lame Taoist Still Calls the Young Master "Little Mountain"

The world often speaks of the fickleness of human relationships, but who says that a heart without concern can remain unfazed? Such a heart is as changeable as the mind of a petty man. Song Mo’s cold words startled everyone present.

Tang Yi, too, looked at Song Mo in surprise, while Shu Mingli and Zhao Yue Shu were utterly astonished; they had not expected that there would exist a mortal in this world willing to speak out righteously on behalf of a demon.

“Brother Song, what do you mean by this?” Shu Mingli shook his head, his short frame trembling slightly with agitation.

Song Mo sighed and said, “The inscrutability of the human heart was displayed in all its fullness in the Zhang family’s ancestor. Would you like to know how he recounted these events to his descendants?”

“Please, sir, speak freely,” Zhao Yue Shu now spoke up, her curiosity piqued.

After a moment’s thought, Song Mo began to tell a completely different story.

It turned out that after Song Mo had witnessed the lantern-lit memories of the Zhang family’s old steward, Lu Sheng, on the night of Zhang Xiaoguang and Zhao Yue Shu’s wedding, he had also learned of a secret told by the old master Zhang Changlin to Lu Sheng.

According to Zhang Changlin, the Zhang family’s ancestor had shown a sanctimonious face during the public case a century ago. He claimed that he and the other temple restorers were all residents at the foot of Mount Yangchang.

Mount Yangchang, with its graceful and spiritual aura, was once a perfect place—a veritable abode of immortals. But unexpectedly, a demon infestation broke out in the mountains, turning this paradise into a desolate and cursed place.

The people of Changning County suffered greatly under the demon’s scourge. The Zhang ancestor and his companions chose to stand up and battle the fox demon. After many lives were lost, only the Zhang ancestor survived, aided by a wandering master, and finally ended the demon’s reign.

Upon the master’s advice, he took a reishi mushroom from the mountain as a reward. In the ancestor’s version, he made no mention whatsoever of the golden sand or the mountain god’s temple.

“The Zhang family is truly despicable and deserves to be wiped out,” Shu Mingli said through gritted teeth, a thick demonic aura swirling around him.

“Uncle Shu, cultivation is not easy. Do not let anger drive you to kill,” Zhao Yue Shu, though grim-faced, managed to keep her composure.

Song Mo had heard much about demons and monsters during his time at the Burial Bureau and knew that great demons faced countless hardships in their cultivation. If they committed murder, they would surely incur the wrath of heaven.

“Jiao Niang’s reminder is apt,” Shu Mingli conceded. Unlike Zhao Yue Shu, he lacked spiritual insight, which was why he had yet to assume human form after all these years.

Tang Yi’s expression darkened upon hearing this. After all, the person he had gone to such lengths to protect turned out to be the true villain—how could anyone feel at ease about that? Fortunately, a century had passed, the wrongdoers were long gone, and those who remained were merely pitiable souls.

“In truth, the Zhang family has already received its due retribution over the past century. I have gradually let go of my resentment and focused on cultivation,” Zhao Yue Shu said calmly.

“The Zhang family has suffered retribution already?” Song Mo frowned in confusion.

He had just visited the Zhang household and seen its grand, imposing estate—hardly the image of a family that had suffered divine retribution.

“It is a matter of hidden virtue. Heaven is just; the Zhang family lost its hidden virtue, and so their descendants have withered—rarely are sons born,” Tang Yi reminded him.

Suddenly enlightened, Song Mo recalled how the Zhang family’s line had indeed dwindled; for such a vast clan, only Zhang Xiaoguang remained as the sole heir.

“Exactly. With their hidden virtue gone, the Zhang family’s halls have grown cold,” Zhao Yue Shu affirmed Tang Yi’s words.

Just as Song Mo was about to reflect on the impartiality of heaven’s justice, someone stumbled into the garden.

“So this is how you repay my sincerity—with betrayal behind my back, plotting against the Zhang family!” A frail, scholarly youth clung to a stone pillar, glaring furiously at Zhao Yue Shu.

“Zhang Lang, your lung ailment has relapsed and the medicine’s effects have just worn off. You are still weak—let me help you back to your room to rest,” Zhao Yue Shu gazed at the scholar, Zhang Xiaoguang, her tone filled with concern.

Zhang Lang?

Cockroach?

Song Mo felt a sudden chill; he had been caught off guard and force-fed a mouthful of public affection. A fox demon and a scholar—another ill-fated romance. What a sin, what a sin. It was as if a Strange Tales story had unfolded before his eyes.

Zhang Xiaoguang, though aggrieved and angry, could not bring himself to be cross with the delicate beauty before him, so he vented his frustration on Song Mo and Tang Yi instead.

“Gossiping behind people’s backs—is that the behavior of a gentleman?” Zhang Xiaoguang’s words bore all the hallmarks of a scholar.

“A villain’s descendant speaking of gentlemanly virtue—what a joke,” Song Mo retorted sharply.

“Cough, cough, cough...”

Zhang Xiaoguang, furious, began to cough violently, prompting Zhao Yue Shu to quickly pat his back in concern.

“All you say is utter nonsense! How could my ancestor have been so despicable?” Zhang Xiaoguang, barely recovered, could not wait to argue.

“Heh.” Song Mo sneered and pressed on, “Do you want to know how many holes there are in your ancestor’s story?”

Without waiting for Zhang Xiaoguang to reply, Song Mo continued coldly, “First, the county annals are a record of fact. With the thickness of your ancestor’s skin, if he’d truly been so ambitious, would he have failed to leave his mark in the county records? Is there any mention of your ancestor’s heroic battle with the demon in the annals?”

Zhang Xiaoguang’s expression shifted, but he stubbornly replied, “That’s because my ancestor was indifferent to fame and fortune!”

Song Mo laughed, “That brings me to my second point. If your ancestor was truly so uninterested in fame, then after the Zhang family prospered, he should have secretly assisted the descendants of his fellow demon-slayers. Did he?”

Clearly, he had not. Otherwise, Han Bing, Chen Aniu, and the others would not have fallen to such straits; even the best off among them was only Lu Sheng, the Zhang manor’s steward.

Zhang Xiaoguang’s face had turned ashen, his confidence shaken.

Song Mo cast him a disdainful glance and continued, “Third, look over there.”

He pointed to Shu Mingli at the side.

Zhang Xiaoguang, puzzled, followed Song Mo’s gesture and, upon seeing Shu Mingli’s appearance, let out a shriek and dove into Zhao Yue Shu’s arms in fright.

Song Mo glanced at the two soft mounds pressed together in Zhao Yue Shu’s embrace, and whatever satisfaction he felt quickly faded.

You laugh at him for being kept in the dark, but he laughs at you for never knowing a woman’s tender warmth.

“Do you see now? Did you really think your ancestor, with only a band of ragtag followers, could have defeated a fox demon? Are you that naïve, or just plain foolish?” Song Mo spared no harshness in his words, knowing that a blunt shock was better than gentle persuasion.

Zhang Xiaoguang’s face was pale as paper, his body trembling.

After a long silence, he finally looked up sadly at Zhao Yue Shu and asked in a small voice, “Jiao Niang, is everything he said true?”

Zhao Yue Shu hesitated, but still bit her lip and nodded.

Zhang Xiaoguang stood there, his face ashen, murmuring, “If my ancestor was truly like this, how can his descendants hold their heads high in the world?”

He looked like he had lost all will to live.

Bookish types are the most troublesome, but Song Mo nevertheless tried to persuade him: “The grudges of a century ago have nothing to do with you, a mere descendant.”

“Who says it has nothing to do with him?” A cold voice came from beyond the garden.

Everyone turned to see a burly, broad-shouldered man stumbling into the courtyard.

Song Mo, recognizing him as Xia Yu, breathed a sigh of relief. He quickly checked him over—arms and legs all intact—and the weight in his heart finally lifted.

Before the two could exchange greetings, another figure entered.

It was the old Taoist Song Mo had seen at the Zhang house. He walked in with a limp.

“And this is...?” Song Mo frowned to himself.

“Who says it has nothing to do with him?” the old Taoist repeated.

“Who are you?” Zhang Xiaoguang asked, staring in confusion.

“Let me take a guess,” Song Mo suddenly cut in.

The old Taoist looked at Song Mo with interest but said nothing.

“Should I call you the Lame Taoist,” Song Mo paused, lowering his voice into a weighty tone, “or should I call you Young Master Xiaoshan?”