Chapter 113: The Peculiar Little Town

He Chang’an studied late into the night, only going to bed in the early hours before dawn. Yet, he found himself restless, unable to sleep, so he simply closed his eyes to rest, treating it as a rare moment of self-cultivation and refinement.

The collection of books before him was simply too captivating.

There were Confucian texts, Taoist scriptures, Buddhist writings, and even more—volumes resembling “unofficial histories” filled with strange and supernatural tales.

Even the few books on Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism were unlike the solemn, didactic texts he had encountered before. Instead, they were light and narrative, more like storybooks.

No wonder he devoured several at once without feeling fatigued. Some of the wisdom within those stories, if explained by scholars at the academy, might take days to unfold in tedious lectures.

But woven into tales, these truths were crystal clear—even a half-educated man like He Chang’an could grasp much.

Truly, these were remarkable leisure books.

At dawn, He Chang’an rose promptly, washed up simply, and practiced martial arts within his room.

His mind was calm, his fists thunderous.

This had become his new habit—even during the three days he spent recuperating in the town of Bluestone, whenever he had time, he would train.

His recent battle with Hei Da had unexpectedly opened two more mysterious energy channels, a pleasant surprise that made those hours of being overwhelmed worthwhile.

Finishing his exercises, he stepped outside to see a burly old man carrying a large bucket of water, sighing as he trudged toward the backyard, muttering about the unfairness of having to bathe so early.

He Chang’an was taken aback, guessing that the “handsome young master” from Mount Longhu must be fussing again.

No—that man was wealthy, from a prominent family; his fussing wasn’t poverty-driven but rather, a matter of taste and refinement.

He shook his head with a wry smile. That great celestial master of Longhu Mountain often said: one must learn to enjoy life, to compromise when needed, but also to appreciate refinement.

Very well, the scion of a grand household could be as particular as he wished.

He Chang’an strolled out of the mountain inn, wandering the narrow alleys paved with bluestone. The air felt peculiar—more refreshing and comfortable than even some peaks brimming with spiritual energy.

This was odd indeed.

Unbeknownst to him, the cool, invigorating air was the very spiritual energy cultivators yearn for.

The inn provided only lunch and dinner; breakfast had to be found in the alley—there were bun shops, places serving pickled vegetables and porridge, and steamed bread vendors.

After a long walk, He Chang’an returned to a bun shop and ordered two baskets of vegetarian buns. Sitting down to eat slowly, he relished the simplicity of such tranquil days.

By now, the sun was high, smoke rising from chimneys throughout the town as women busied themselves preparing breakfast.

Children slung blue cloth schoolbags over their shoulders, stumbling their way toward the schoolhouse, each carrying a small lunchbox, looking somewhat reluctant.

He Chang’an was surprised that such a small town would have a school.

He had traveled extensively across the Tang Empire, even in Chang’an itself, where schools were rare. The Yellow Clay Alley School was an exception, so unusual it had drawn the ire of the imperial academy’s scholars, leading to disputes at the city gates.

This southern land was indeed extraordinary.

He watched the children, their unsteady, half-awake movements reminding him of old scholars.

He wondered whether there was an elderly teacher in the town’s school, dressed in an old cotton robe.

The children were all bright and clever. When they passed the bun shop and noticed the stranger watching them, one particularly bold child glared and asked loudly, “What? Haven’t seen such pretty children before?”

He Chang’an smiled silently.

The buns were delicious, and the children’s spirits were good.

He had already used his spiritual sight to observe the town—no one bore the mark of demonic or ghostly afflictions; their eyes were as pure as those of A Jiu.

“Why is this person staring at me? Hey, what’s your name?” the bold child puffed up and asked.

“My name is He Chang’an. What’s yours?” He Chang’an returned the smile.

“I’m Li. Why should I tell you? The teacher said my name is powerful—don’t tell it to just anyone,” the child winked slyly and dashed away.

From afar came cheerful laughter.

The other children laughed and chased after him, disappearing in a flash.

He Chang’an shook his head with a gentle smile and bent down to finish his buns.

He ate slowly, giving off an air of refinement, as if performing a strange ritual.

The bun shop’s matron, a kind-faced woman, finished her work in the back room and brought a stool to the door to sew. She appeared deeply focused.

She was mending a child’s garment—simple blue fabric with small floral prints, seemingly a little padded jacket.

He Chang’an noticed her hands—nimble, steady, with neatly trimmed nails, fair and slender fingers, flawless like those of a young maiden’s; tender and endearing.

Such hands, whether wielding a sewing needle, a sword, or even a fire poker, were clearly dangerous.

After finishing his last bun, He Chang’an produced a small silver coin and smiled, “Auntie, please give me two more baskets.”

The Longhu Mountain master was probably still soaking in his hot bath…

The woman put down her needlework, shyly rubbed her hands on her apron, and obediently went to the back room, returning with two baskets of steaming vegetarian buns.

“Young master, would you like them packed in lunchboxes or take the whole baskets?” she asked with a smile, her teeth white and neat.

Seeing He Chang’an slightly bewildered, she quickly added, “If you take the baskets, there’s no extra charge. Just return the steamers when you have time.”

“Lunchboxes, then,” he replied.

She bent down, took a lunchbox from a chest beneath the table, carefully lined it with wax paper, and placed the buns inside.

He Chang’an accepted it warmly and began his slow walk back to the Mountain Inn.

Along the way, he encountered more children heading to school, their bright black eyes studying him curiously.

It seemed visitors were rare in this delicate little town; the children’s curiosity was natural.

To each child, He Chang’an offered a kind smile, like an affectionate older brother.

Upon entering the inn, he immediately heard Zhang Xiaoyan’s startled and irritable voice, complaining, “I told you I hate osmanthus wine the most! You insisted on getting a jar. Fine, drink it yourself. I’ll just have plain water.”

An elderly man with graying temples and a thin face was storming out, muttering angrily, “Damn it, this is a thousand-year-old osmanthus wine! I tricked my way into getting this jar—nothing but ungrateful idiots around here! Blind fools! Morons!”

The old man cursed vehemently and collided headlong into He Chang’an just as he was about to enter.

The lunchboxes He Chang’an carried flew from his hands, smashing against the door and spilling buns all over the floor.

“Boy, are you blind? Ow! You broke my old back!” the old man shouted.

He cursed again, then suddenly changed expression, dropped to the ground, and began howling in pain and outrage—a practiced performance of a scammer.

He Chang’an’s face twisted in confusion but said nothing.

This town was strange—and this old man stranger still.

His gaunt face, spirited demeanor, and scholarly aura were exactly like Hu Buyan, whom He Chang’an had encountered at the demon-slaying bureau—identical in appearance, manner, and expression.

What unsettled He Chang’an further was the old man’s cultivation level, which felt unfathomably deep.

He knew that, with his current skill, even a punch from an ordinary seventh-rank warrior wouldn’t make him drop the lunchboxes.

Yet this thin old man’s mere collision, resembling a casual bump between common folk, was something He Chang’an couldn’t evade—and it sent the baskets flying.

“Help! Murder! My back’s been broken!” the old man wailed loudly, quickly drawing a crowd.

Even Zhang Xiaoyan hid within the throng, covering her mouth to stifle laughter, eager to see He Chang’an’s reaction.