Chapter 101: The Young Man Sets Forth on a Journey

An old scholar once said that at the northern border lay a certain fate tied to He Chang’an. But what exactly was this fate? He Chang’an did not know.

He sat atop the towering walls of Dasan Pass, hundreds of feet high, his gaze stretching across the scorched earth. After several fierce battles, the land within a hundred miles was ravaged and desolate.

The blackened soil bore the taint of dissipated dark spirits from the slain ghost soldiers; patches of red mixed with black came from the blood of human border guards, scorched under the relentless sun.

The devastation was overwhelming, a grim spectacle.

To the south of the city, the air was not rich with spiritual energy but remained clear and fresh, the sky vast and bright.

To the north, however, the atmosphere was thick with sinister energy. Under a shroud of gloomy clouds, the land wore a strange gray hue that unsettled He Chang’an deeply.

Even with his little black rod constantly absorbing and refining the dark energy, merely extending his arm beyond the wall sent a chill through him.

It was the same damp chill he once felt from the female ghost he had “kept” before—cold and penetrating to the bone, soon spreading through the meridians and inner spirit sea.

At first, he wondered why the ghost army insisted on attacking Dasan Pass directly, bypassing the military towns to strike straight through.

Now, he had a faint understanding: the military towns built along the Tang border, coupled with the mysterious great formation within Chang’an city, formed a gigantic protective array preserving this land.

Such knowledge was beyond He Chang’an’s comprehension, and he owed this insight to the Grand Master of Longhu Mountain.

Zhang Xiaoyan, who enjoyed dressing as a woman with graceful and captivating movements, hailed from a prestigious family and possessed a breadth of knowledge far beyond He Chang’an’s reach.

Reclining lazily on a folding stool, a few casual remarks from him often enlightened He Chang’an profoundly.

Yet He Chang’an still feared him.

Zhang Xiaoyan had a habit of stomping his foot or pouting, and several times had poked He Chang’an’s forehead with delicate orchid fingers, only to be brushed aside without anger, followed by a teasing smile.

This “beauty” was a constant headache for He Chang’an.

At last, unable to bear the teasing, He Chang’an grimly took to practicing martial arts on the city wall—repeating an ancient boxing form over two hours without fatigue.

Only then would Zhang Xiaoyan quiet down, watching with amusement as his phoenix-like eyes curved into smiles.

On the desert city wall, a young man in a green robe practiced his punches and forms with meticulous care, his martial intent like the gentle strokes of an ink painting—truly a sight to behold.

Zhang Xiaoyan then took out brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, focused quietly, closed his eyes for several breaths, and began to paint.

With just a few strokes, he captured He Chang’an onto the scroll.

Not fully satisfied, he added a line of poetry: “At that time, the youth wore thin green robes.”

Originally, Zhang Xiaoyan intended to let He Chang’an admire the portrait of his own refined appearance but reconsidered.

He knew He Chang’an was illiterate and likely had little appreciation for art or poetry, so he decided not to embarrass him and spare some dignity.

Later, the Grand Master of Longhu Mountain could no longer hold back, and during a break after He Chang’an finished a boxing set and drank water, he gently told him:

“Your boxing is passable, and your appreciation of poetry and painting might be poor, but don’t be discouraged—I can teach you.”

He Chang’an flushed with frustration, gulped down a large mouthful of water, exhaled deeply, and muttered, “Good drink!”

—

After a month of boxing on the walls of Dasan Pass, fully refining the dark energy absorbed from the wounded border guards, He Chang’an’s Qi Refining skill reached the thirty-ninth layer—peak mid-stage for a ninth-grade warrior.

He had reached the limits of his cultivation.

Others broke through after nine layers to reach the tenth grade, and at eighteen layers entered the ninth grade realm, but he simply could not.

He comforted himself inwardly: a man cannot be said to be incapable; rather, he was accumulating strength for a sudden breakthrough.

Perhaps his meridians were thicker, his training longer, and his fists harder.

There was a subtlety to practicing at the border that He Chang’an did not share with Zhang Xiaoyan—he had finally sensed a sword intent.

It was elusive and invisible, mysterious beyond words.

This sword intent did not manifest when deliberately sought but appeared quietly when he gazed northward, his heart longing for the mortal world.

It was the feeling of lifting a sword and yearning to charge north—a sensation to be understood, not explained.

—

After another week or so, Zheng Hongxiu personally ordered He Chang’an to escort Zhang Xiaoyan southward to Longhu Mountain.

There was no arguing with someone senior in rank; Miss Hongxiu outranked him by several levels, and before he could protest, he would have been crushed.

He wanted to bring Ajiu along—the girl was honest, diligent, and most importantly, skilled with a sword, useful for fighting.

But Ajiu told him she had to stay at Dasan Pass to temper swords and would need some silver if he could spare it.

She explained that tempering swords drained her greatly, requiring at least three meat meals a day, an expensive affair. If not for recently tagging along with Zheng Hongxiu to eat and drink freely, she would have returned to Chang’an city long ago.

He Chang’an frowned and tossed a hundred taels of silver her way before turning to leave.

—

They were all heartless, no better than Li Yishan and his band of scholars—freeloading, cheating, and all shamelessly bold.

He Chang’an wanted to buy local specialties for the old scholars and his father but found that goods at Dasan Pass were outrageously expensive and limited—mainly knives, spears, swords, and crossbows.

There were some rarities like ghost cores, demon pills, and talismans, but when he inquired about the price, they didn’t accept silver coins at all, only spiritual stone ore.

After visiting several shops, He Chang’an’s face darkened, muttering, “I have shed blood and sweat for the Tang dynasty…”

The sorghum wine was decent—a jar could intoxicate two camels—so he bought a dozen jars and stored them in his storage pouch.

After packing, He Chang’an slung on his backpack and sought out the Grand Master of Longhu Mountain, only then realizing how poor he truly was.

Zhang Xiaoyan dragged He Chang’an around the entire city for two whole days.

He ignored the sword and weapon shops as well as those selling pills, talismans, and secret manuals, focusing solely on stores offering “local specialties.”

Beast hides, bones, ghost cores, demon pills, and various flowers and herbs from the northern snowfields—if he liked it, he immediately told the shopkeepers to pack it.

Hundreds, even thousands of taels of silver, and fist-sized spiritual stone ores were casually placed on counters without a blink, breaking He Chang’an’s heart to watch.

Thankfully, Zhang Xiaoyan was not a woman.

Otherwise, which man could afford to support him?

Fortunately, he carried several storage pouches; filling one and hanging it at his waist freed He Chang’an from lugging heavy loads.

In contrast, He Chang’an had less than a hundred taels of silver and carried a large backpack, much to Zhang Xiaoyan’s amusement.

His storage pouch was small, and the dozen jars of sorghum wine took up half its space.

“Here, with that big burden, how can you protect your sister?” Zhang Xiaoyan tossed He Chang’an a storage pouch disdainfully.

After hesitating, He Chang’an accepted it calmly and said seriously, “I’ll borrow it for a few days; I’ll return it once you arrive at Longhu Mountain.”

“No need to return it, Mr. He. What’s given is yours,” the Grand Master of Longhu Mountain smiled, covering his mouth, then extended his orchid finger to tap He Chang’an’s forehead playfully.

“Even if you want me, that’s fine. Once we’ve met the family back at Longhu Mountain... I’ll marry you.”

He Chang’an silently stepped back two paces, sweat beading on his palms and forehead.