Chapter Thirteen: The Scheming Old Man

After three days and nights, He Chang’an finally woke with a faint sigh. The first thing he saw upon opening his eyes was a smooth, gleaming bald head, followed by an adorably dazed and handsome face. The small nose was less than a foot from his own.

“Venerable nun, I’m not ready yet…” he thought.

“Thank you, little nun, for saving my life,” He Chang’an said gently.

“Oh, Amitabha!” The young nun, who had just been checking his injuries, was startled to see him awake and speaking. Her slender hands fluttered to her chest as she exclaimed, “Head Constable He, you’re awake? That’s so frightening—blessings upon blessings!”

He Chang’an forced a dry laugh and, still somewhat weak, thanked her again. Internally, he mused, “This little nun doesn’t have much up top, and she doesn’t seem too bright either. Is this really possible?” He sneaked a glance—indeed, her chest was as flat as a board.

“Head Constable, you jest. I’m hardly capable of saving you,” the young nun replied, her cheeks reddening. “It was Magistrate Yang of the county office who slew the corpse puppet and rescued all of us.”

“The county magistrate? As expected, the second strongest in Weiyang County.” He Chang’an understood. In truth, what Magistrate Yang had destroyed was merely the outer shell of the corpse puppet. The real threat—the century-old red-haired specter that had possessed Zhang the Tiger’s body—had been slain by his own “little black rod.”

Not only had this allowed him to ascend to the third level of the Qi Absorption Technique, he had also gained his first offensive skill: Soul-Hooking Finger. Yet, the entire refining process had been indescribably arduous. With his fragile soul, enduring a day and night of the red-haired ghost’s wailing had nearly driven him mad.

He felt his physical strength had multiplied several times; his body brimmed with power. Yet his soul remained frail, leaving him dizzy and nauseated when he tried to get up.

“There’s a problem with the martial path,” he thought, silently cursing the Qi Absorption Technique as he steadied himself on the bed, adjusted to his breathing, and finally stood.

“Amitabha, are you alright?” The little nun, concerned, wanted to help him, but then awkwardly drew back her hands and pressed her palms together in an awkward gesture.

“I’m fine. Come, let’s walk in the courtyard,” He Chang’an said as he slowly left the thatched hut.

The sun was already high, dazzling in the sky. Shielding his eyes, He Chang’an saw the scruffy scholar crouched by the vegetable patch, grim-faced as he brewed medicine. When He Chang’an emerged, the scholar did not turn, but sat ramrod straight—a posture exuding dignity.

“Sir, Venerable Nun, why are both of you in my home?” He Chang’an asked, confused. By rights, after the magistrate had rescued them, he should have assigned a few constables to care for the wounded. Why were these two ‘masters’ tending to him instead?

“Hmph! The Great Tang is destroying its own foundations!” The scruffy scholar could no longer restrain himself. He leapt to his feet, his wild white hair bristling. “To ruin Daoism and extinguish Buddhism is one thing—those outsiders hardly understand the hardships of the people. I’ve long despised them! But to slander and suppress Confucian sages at court, to elevate a pack of coarse martial men to high office and call all scholars heretics—this is digging their own graves, undermining the very roots of the nation!”

Forgive me, thought He Chang’an, for I am but a lowly constable, ignorant of such grand affairs—this scholar’s tirade was so dense with information that he could scarcely process it.

“Sir, mind your words!” He Chang’an quickly tried to smooth things over.

He was but a humble county constable—discussing affairs of state was as reckless as an old man hanging himself out of boredom.

“Mind my words? See, see! This is exactly what a coarse martial man would say!” The scholar’s beard and hair bristled as if blown by an unseen wind. “Even on the imperial court, I would dare to speak righteously! What could a mere county office do to me?”

“Enough, enough. Sir, you are truly a disciple of the Confucian sages, so loyal and concerned for the people—heaven and earth bear witness…” He Chang’an hastily laid on the flattery until the scholar’s righteous indignation subsided.

Scholars, he thought, are certainly a stubborn breed.

“Elder, little nun, how about we…” He Chang’an, seeing the scholar calm down, thought to suggest a meal of wine and meat—partly to reward himself, partly to thank these two for their care.

But before he could finish, the scholar and the little nun suddenly turned cold. The little nun silently produced a wooden fish and small mallet, glaring at He Chang’an with fierce cuteness. The scholar tore a page from his book, ready to fling it at him.

“W-what’s wrong? I just meant to propose a meal as thanks for saving my life,” He Chang’an stammered nervously. Though these two couldn’t defeat the red-haired ghoul, dealing with him would be child’s play.

“I, a nun—where am I ‘little’?”

“I, a scholar—where am I ‘elder’?”

“…”

“So the little nun isn’t little, and the scholar isn’t old… You’re forcing an honest man like me to lie with his eyes wide open,” He Chang’an thought.

“Ahem, slip of the tongue, slip of the tongue. I’m just a rough man—please forgive me, esteemed masters.” He Chang’an coughed, clasped his hands, and solemnly apologized.

That was better. The little nun and the scruffy scholar slowly relaxed, putting away their implements, though they both snorted with contempt—exchanging a glance, equally disdainful of each other.

“The scholarly climate of the Tang is not what it once was,” He Chang’an mused. “The prejudices between the various cultivation sects run deeper than I imagined.”

He couldn’t help but pity himself—why had he transmigrated into such a world? This realm was filled with spiritual energy, where one could cultivate, attain Buddhahood, become a sage—yet it had declined so far. Civilization was in ruins!

Martial artists were indeed formidable in body, with some able to fight even demonkind of equal rank. But their souls were too feeble.

“You two are both masters, while I am but a newly promoted junior constable. If you would honor me, why not join me for a meal and conversation? Perhaps I could learn from your wisdom on the path of cultivation,” He Chang’an offered, producing ten taels of official silver with a smile. “Would either of you care to make the purchases?”

“I—” the nun and the scholar spoke in unison.

This was awkward. To lose their composure over a mere ten taels was shameful for such esteemed figures.

At last, it was the scholar who proved thick-skinned enough. His face flushed slightly, but he quickly summoned a wisp of righteous qi to banish his embarrassment, snatched the silver, and strode off.

“The world is declining, the world is declining…” he muttered, making He Chang’an feel a bit guilty himself.

Half an hour later, the scholar returned, trailed by seven or eight clerks from the restaurant, inn, pawnshop, and bookstore. Upon entering the courtyard, they all bowed deeply to He Chang’an.

“Sir, what is the meaning of this?” He Chang’an was baffled. He hadn’t done much—just advanced to the third level of the Qi Absorption Technique in a few days, wiped out a lair of melancholy ghosts, and slain a century-old red-haired specter. None of that was worth mentioning!

“Head Constable He, ah, well…” The scruffy scholar grinned awkwardly. “It’s just, the silver ran out—and I owe a few more taels. So, well, people’s hearts are not what they used to be!”

He Chang’an’s face turned green. Ten taels of silver—a sum that could keep a family of three well-fed and clothed for nearly ten years—gone in a flash? And he even owed more?

Wait, why were clerks from the inn, pawnshop, and bookstore here, not just those from the restaurant and butcher?

“Sir, how much wine and meat did you actually buy?” He Chang’an realized the truth: the scholar had racked up debts all over town, and now the creditors were at his door, demanding payment.

“Well, Head Constable, how about this,” the scholar stammered, for the first time showing genuine shame, “I have studied the classics for thirty years, understand the great meaning of the Spring and Autumn Annals, and am especially skilled in the Book of Changes. I can divine fortunes, interpret omens; I have even mastered the essence of poetic inspiration and attained the tenth rank in Confucian cultivation…”

“Scholar, cut to the point!” He Chang’an said, suppressing his anger and keeping a blank face. He was on the verge of wanting to punch this guy.

“Cough, cough. Head Constable, here’s the deal,” the scholar said, as if making a momentous decision, “I’ll serve at your side, run errands, predict your fortunes, help you rise in rank and wealth—what do you say?”

“Great, I’ve run into a professional mooch. One meeting and he’s latched on! Look at him—so down at heel… Ten taels of silver could buy half a dozen lower-class girls at the Green Lotus Brothel. Why should I…? Mooch!”

Veins bulged on He Chang’an’s forehead; his eyes twitched as he fought to restrain himself.

“Scholar, what is your name?” He Chang’an asked gravely.

“Uh, I… I am Li Yishan,” the scholar replied in embarrassment.

“Li Yishan? Why does that sound familiar? Damn it—others transmigrate to the Tang and meet Li Bai, or Li Shangyin, or at least Li He or Li Shimin. But I, He Chang’an, have such bad luck. The only ‘Li’ I meet is this Li Yishan… Clearly not a proper man of letters at all!”