Chapter 134: The Master, Healing, and the Bastard

When the small black sword was about half an inch from Ying Shiyi’s brow, He Chang'an was suddenly snatched away by a hand and flung dozens of yards away.

At the same time, a cold snort echoed throughout the entire town.

"Three days from now, all those who are not residents of Linglong Town must get out." The voice resonated deep within everyone’s soul, turning faces pale with dread.

He Chang'an, already at the end of his tether, was grabbed and thrown by that massive hand, tumbling across the ground a dozen times until he was completely disoriented. He slowly crawled to a sitting position, spat out a mouthful of black blood, and stared coldly at Ying Shiyi—whom he had nearly beaten into a cripple—and his four attendants.

It was a pity. He Chang'an felt a pang of frustration that he hadn't managed to kill this so-called "big shot." He could live by the old scholar’s words of "wiping spit from one's face without complaint" only if the other party lacked murderous intent and posed no threat. But this Ying Shiyi had harbored an intent to kill him from the very beginning. Furthermore, he possessed the capability to carry it out. Against such a person—no, such a demon—one had to strike hard and show no mercy. Leaving behind a massive hidden danger was an unforgivable mistake. He Chang'an understood this clearly.

But this time, it was truly a shame.

Ying Shiyi struggled to draw a breath, intending to utter some harsh words, but as he opened his mouth, he broke into a fit of coughing, spitting out clots of blood that seemed to contain fragments of flesh. His four attendants, unable to pursue He Chang'an, swarmed around their master, shoving healing pills into his mouth as if they cost nothing. Only when they saw Ying Shiyi’s aura stabilize and the coughing cease did they scramble to carry him into the inn.

Since "those above" had spoken, they dared not cause further trouble in the town. Thus, the task of killing He Chang'an would have to wait until they were outside.

This inexplicable clash between a human and a demon ended in such a manner, leaving the onlookers among the townsfolk greatly disappointed. In truth, the vast majority had hoped to see the Eleventh Prince of the Demon Imperial Court brutally kill the detestable human, He Chang'an, even though He had never provoked them. Human and demon are fundamentally different; even in such a place beyond the mundane world, this divide seemed unavoidable.

Of course, there were a few experts who had been ready to intervene, waiting for the moment He Chang'an was in mortal danger to save him from Ying Shiyi’s fists. This man was too significant; if he were beaten to death inside the Linglong Secret Realm and provoked the people "above," the consequences would be unimaginable. No one had expected that He Chang'an, a mere ninth-rank martial artist, would suppress Ying Shiyi, and that if not for the intervention of a master, the prince would likely have ended up a cripple, if not dead, from that sword strike.

More than a hundred miles away from the town, on a vast expanse of water, a small boat drifted without anyone to row it. On board, Hu Buyan and Master Qingyu sat drinking together. Between them, on the slightly rippling surface of a wine jar, the battle between He Chang'an and Ying Shiyi was reflected—not perfectly detailed, but clearly visible.

They had intended to intervene should He Chang'an face mortal peril. But seeing He Chang'an at the end, relentlessly beating Ying Shiyi, they looked at each other in disbelief. This human martial artist was truly unexpected. With merely the strength of an eighth-rank martial artist, he had used a set of ancient fist techniques that looked clumsy—and were indeed clumsy—to unleash a momentum akin to a god beating a war drum. One had to admit, this kid He Chang'an was a fine specimen of a rough-and-tumble martial artist.

When that hand from the sky snatched He Chang'an away and threw him dozens of yards, Hu Buyan muttered, "Damn it, good thing I didn't try to scam him out of more silver..."

"Oh? You scammed him?" Master Qingyu tilted his head, looking at Hu Buyan with an ambiguous smile, rolling his eyes toward the sky. "Impressive. You even dare to scam He Chang'an."

Hu Buyan spat into the lake and sulked, ignoring the impoverished man. Scamming a few taels from He Chang'an was nothing; he had even scammed Zhang Xiaoyan before...

The only resident who remained undisturbed was the old manager of the Chen Family Pharmacy. He was an old man living in the demon town who always kept a distance from the demons—neither too close nor too far. If a resident fell ill or was injured, he never refused to sell medicine or provide treatment. As long as they had the silver, precious ores, or rare herbs to pay his fees, he would greet anyone with a smile.

However, if you could not complete an "equivalent exchange," then get out! His pharmacy was a legitimate business; equivalent exchange was only right and proper. Many experts and low-lifes in the demon town had tried to test the old man’s methods, and without exception, they had all been beaten until they were half-dead and tossed into the stinking gutter at his doorstep.

At this moment, he was puffing on his pipe, squatting on the threshold, surrounded by smoke that obscured his face. When that hand appeared in the sky, the old man showed a hint of surprise, his foot-long pipe trembling slightly as if he considered reaching out. That hand was far too unreasonable, forcibly tearing through the barrier to intervene in this realm; that was rather uncouth.

However, after a moment’s thought, he let it be. A doctor selling medicine in a demon town—what kind of ill intentions could he possibly have?

He Chang'an sat on the ground, regulating his breathing through two major and minor cycles to barely stabilize his energy before standing up and staggering into the Mountain Dwelling Inn. The old woman and the burly man at the inn seemed oblivious to the battle at the entrance, as if two chicks had been fighting, not worthy of a glance.

The two elders went about their business. The old woman washed laundry, rinsed rice, and picked vegetables, occasionally looking up at the sky where white clouds drifted leisurely. The burly man drew water from the well in two large buckets, let it sit in the sun for a while, and then carried it to the vegetable garden in the back to water the sprouts at a leisurely pace. The garden was filled with common vegetables like radishes, cabbage, and greens, but under his meticulous care, they grew lushly; a single radish weighed seven or eight pounds and stood half as tall as a person.

The four attendants silently carried Ying Shiyi to a room in the back, and the two elders did not even look at them. When He Chang'an stumbled into the inn, the old woman didn't react, but the burly man, while sunning the well water, turned to look at He Chang'an and grinned silently. He said nothing. Zhang Xiaoyan had entrusted this young human to them before leaving, but there was no need to coddle him like a nanny.

He Chang'an was doing well—very well. Using the cultivation of a ninth-rank martial artist to shake the body of a half-demon at the peak of the sixth rank had indeed impressed them; the kid looked promising in every respect. As for the grudges between humans and demons, sorry, that had nothing to do with old folks like them.

He Chang'an entered his room, struggled to lock the door and window, took a meditation cushion from his storage bag, and collapsed onto it. The distance from the inn’s entrance to his room, less than a hundred yards, felt like ten thousand miles. Every step required his entire strength, more taxing than any punch or kick thrown during the battle.

This battle had been his all. On the surface, he had been the one relentlessly beating Ying Shiyi, but he knew that every punch he landed was also a blow to himself. A peak sixth-rank martial artist with demonic bloodline abilities was the most formidable opponent he had ever encountered. The Heaven-Swallowing Ape he had killed previously was a simpleton compared to this Ying Shiyi.

Arrogant, overconfident, and absurdly reckless—He Chang'an did not fear mindless opponents like that; he just had to find a way to wear them down and kill them. It required no real technique. But this "Eleventh Prince" of the Demon Imperial Court was a more sinister opponent than He Chang'an himself. Not only was his strength formidable, but his heart was cold to the extreme; a moment of carelessness could lead to being swallowed whole, without even a bone left behind.

Though his "Ancient Fist Technique" was devastatingly powerful, every ten parts of force unleashed carried five or six parts of backlash. It was a case of "hurting the enemy by one hundred while damaging oneself by fifty or sixty." Had he not undergone several thorough tempering processes and recently grasped the "breathing and exhaling method" taught by the old man at the pharmacy—allowing him to maintain a continuous flow of energy—he would likely have been beaten into a cripple by the backlash before he ever injured Ying Shiyi.

Still, he had won this fight. He had left a contingency for the four attendants, fearing they might tear him apart while he was killing Ying Shiyi. Fortunately, that great hand had resolved the immediate predicament. As for the fury and pursuit from the Demon Imperial Court he would face after being kicked out in three days, he had no time to consider that.

The only thing He Chang'an wanted to do now was heal his wounds and save his own life.

...

Just as He Chang'an locked himself in his room, swallowed a handful of pills, and began to meditate, the town finally returned to its usual peace and quiet. Night fell, and the stars twinkled.

Deep in a squalid alley, a demon youth had just survived a life-or-death crisis. Most of his body was submerged in a foul gutter, his frame covered in wounds, wheezing heavily, blood continuously seeping from his nose and mouth. There was hardly a patch of unbroken skin on him; he was bruised and bloodied, and heaven knew how many bones had been broken by the kicking.

That gang of ruffians had learned somehow that it was he—this "bastard" with the bloodline of the Celestial Wolf—who had been leaving sugar cubes at the school gate for the past few days, sparking seven or eight brawls. So, after watching the excitement at the Mountain Dwelling Inn, a dozen demon youths cornered him in the alley.

He made no attempt to fight back. He simply curled up, covering his head and using his knees and legs to shield his most vulnerable parts, and slowly collapsed to the ground. It was clear he was used to being beaten and had long since developed survival instincts. He knew that even if he hadn't done it, once someone decided he had, he would suffer for it. Rather than grovel and beg, it was better to silently endure their fists, kicks, stones, and even knives.

For someone as weak as him, the night in the demon town was essentially hell—a hunting ground, a lawless place where the weak had no escape. Expecting mercy from these bloodthirsty little beasts who had not yet fully transformed into humans was impossible. He had no noble bloodline, nor did he have living parents. As for his two older brothers... they hit him harder than anyone else, every blow fueled by the desire to beat this "bastard" to death.

Therefore, he never relied on anyone. He would rather be beaten to death than make a sound; even a whimper of pain from a heavy blow was, to him, a profound humiliation. His stubborn, silent demeanor only incited the ruffians further; they gnashed their teeth, pummeling him and smashing his head with bricks...

In the past, whenever he was beaten, the demon youth would silently curse every member of the families of those who beat him, from their grandmothers to their mothers, sisters, and daughters, down to every female for ten thousand years. He would secretly vow that one day, when he became powerful, he would ravage them all.

The youth gritted his teeth, swearing oaths, the resentment, hatred, and anger in his eyes like ten thousand vipers, crazily devouring his soul and body, trapping him in an endless cycle of curses from which he could not escape. Suddenly, he thought of He Chang'an, that human bastard. If given the chance, he would inflict every torture in the world upon him, making him wish for death.

But that "bastard" was quite impressive—so fierce that he had nearly turned that Eleventh Prince into a cripple. If he could train under He Chang'an and become a supreme expert, he could kill all these bastards who bullied him, break them, and smash them into pulp with bricks!

The thought alone was intoxicating.

But He Chang'an was human. Could a "bastard" like him, despised by all, become his disciple? The divide between humans and demons wasn't just a matter of words. From the fragments of conversation among the old demons in town, he had heard more than once how cruel and treacherous humans were during the great wars between the races, specifically hunting demons just to dig out their precious demon cores. Of course, the demons were no saints either, often keeping entire human villages or cities as livestock, letting them fatten up before snacking on a few...

*When will I be able to bully others?*

*If it comes to it, I'll just be his adopted son? No, I am a demon with the blood of the Celestial Wolf. He Chang'an is merely a lowly human, fit only to be blood-food for demons. How could I call him foster father?*

*Foster father, foster father, I want to ravage your ancestors for eighteen generations...*

The youth’s thoughts wandered until he fell into unconsciousness.

In the darkness, a flickering light appeared. A thin, gaunt figure walked over slowly, squatted down, and extended a finger to test the youth’s breath. He grinned and said, "A bastard indeed. A tough life."