Chapter 139: Journey with a Pack on the Back

He Chang'an took out a snowflake-patterned dagger. The blade was razor-sharp and forged from superior steel, emitting a long, clear hum with a flick of his finger.

The blade was nameless, picked out from his storage pouch. It must have been given as an extra token when the old scholar had previously taken him to "reason with" Li Qinglian of the Daoist sect and Director Zheng of the Demon-Slaying Bureau.

As to whether it was a Daoist magic artifact or an item from the Demon-Slaying Bureau, He Chang'an cared little. Since the old scholar had handed it all over to him without reservation, it belonged to He Chang'an.

Of course, in front of Director Zheng, it was best to flaunt it sparingly. Who knew if Director Zheng might be in a foul mood one day and toss over a three-inch-long embroidered bound-foot shoe—would you wear it or not?

The moment He Chang'an drew the snowflake-patterned dagger, the demon youth, Lang Fei, felt his heart tighten. He quietly shifted his buttocks backward and reined in the somewhat insolent and venomous thoughts simmering in his mind.

Then, through the gaps between his fingers shielding his face, he saw He Chang'an sitting there, wearing a smile as he began to hack and trim the lush, jade-green bamboo.

He Chang'an’s technique was light and deft, not particularly fast, but exceptionally steady. His gaze was focused and serene, as if he were crafting a beloved treasure.

Lang Fei had no idea what kind of artifact He Chang'an intended to make, but it was bound to be exquisitely intricate and clever. Even he felt a faint, lingering flutter of anticipation.

After all, he was only eleven or twelve years old; it was natural for a youth to harbor such expectations.

After the time it took to brew a cup of tea, a so-called "book pouch" was finally born.

Lang Fei finally understood what it meant to have eyes like dog's eyes looking down on people, what it meant to be willfully blind, and what it meant when you clearly looked at someone's demeanor and assumed they must be dexterous and clever...

Yet in reality, the "book pouch" He Chang'an had crafted was, at best, nothing more than a crude back-basket haphazardly woven by a village child.

Its sole merit was that it was sturdy.

Then, when He Chang'an placed that crooked, crude "book pouch" onto the demon youth's shoulders, Lang Fei finally realized that this contraption wasn't just sturdy to look at—once strapped to his shoulders, it was even sturdier.

A "book pouch" weighing a solid twenty or thirty jin—how could it not be sturdy?

He Chang'an looked at it from left to right, quite satisfied with his handiwork. Smiling, he produced a book, along with an inkstone, inkstick, brush, and paper—the paraphernalia of a scholar—and arranged them neatly, one by one.

Taking two steps back to survey his work, he nodded and smiled, "Not bad at all."

*'Not bad your father's hammer, you dog of a He Chang'an, I screw your mother!'*

Lang Fei cursed endlessly in his heart, stopping just short of spitting in He Chang'an's face, while his exterior displayed a docile and shyly smiling demeanor.

He even wrung his hands with a hint of awkward timidity.

He Chang'an was fully aware of what Lang Fei was thinking, yet he paid it no heed. He patted the youth's lean shoulders and said warmly, "From now on, I will teach you one character a day."

Having said that, he turned and walked away, refusing to look at Lang Fei's expression any longer.

He Chang'an also harbored a slight concern: upon hearing that he was to follow him to study and read, would this little wolf cub spit in his face?

It was best to ignore it. Once the fellow spat in your face, beating him to death with a punch wouldn't do, and enduring it was even less of an option.

So, he would simply leave the bastard to hold it in.

Lang Fei indeed wanted to spit. He had even convinced himself that at worst, he would let He Chang'an beat him to death with a single punch and be done with it. If things continued this way, he suspected he would go mad.

Yet He Chang'an gave him no such opportunity. He simply turned and walked away, acting like an indulgent yet unyielding father who hands down an edict that is only natural to obey, leaving you to execute it as commanded.

Lang Fei stood on the mountain path, rooted to the spot for a long while.

He glanced back at the road he had come from, then cast a few more looks at He Chang'an, who had already strode a hundred paces ahead. For a moment, he felt so aggrieved he nearly wanted to wet himself...

***

The mountain was named Two Wolves Mountain. It sounded imposing, easily giving one the false impression of a vast battlefield.

In reality, the mountain was unexpectedly secluded and refined. In the northern regions, dominated by deserts, gobi, and grasslands, it appeared especially blessed by nature and refreshingly charming.

Winding up the mountain path, the way was canopied by lush trees and filled with the sounds of birds and fragrant flowers. From time to time, roe deer, hares, snakes, and insects were startled by the footsteps of He Chang'an and Lang Fei, hiding among rocks and vegetation to peer out warily.

Two small streams flowed alongside the path; their volume was modest, but the water was crystal clear. Colorful little fish, less than an inch long, swam near the bottom. Unfazed by the sight of humans, they leisurely drifted, gently swaying their tiny white whiskers.

Near the mid-mountain slope, the mountain path split into two.

One branch continued to wind its way deeper into the cloud-shrouded mists, while the other cut between steep cliffs, leading directly to a vast canyon.

Standing atop a massive boulder, He Chang'an gazed into the distance, vaguely discerning that the far end of the canyon gave way to a government post road as thin as a chicken's intestine. He could not help but feel a twinge of hesitation.

He was headed to the northern border to assist Zheng Hongxiu, and this meandering detour had delayed him for so long that it truly felt a bit unreasonable.

Yet, having stumbled upon such a pleasing and famous mountain, to pass it by without ascending seemed equally unreasonable.

Moreover, during his conversation with the Earth God Lin Xiuzhi in the bamboo grove at the foot of the mountain, He Chang'an had developed a keen interest in the mountain's deity. Even if he lacked the fate to pay a formal visit, going to the summit to reflect for a moment would serve as an expression of respect toward that ancient sage of the human race.

Just as He Chang'an was hesitating, a gust of mountain wind swept through, rustling the pine waves across the entire mountain with a resounding roar. In the distance, the cries of apes and the roars of tigers echoed faintly from the direction of the summit.

Lang Fei turned pale and instinctively took half a step back.

The youth's startled and suspicious expression greatly pleased He Chang'an, instantly cementing his decision: they would ascend the mountain.

Anything that made this youth uncomfortable made He Chang'an feel quite comfortable. Since they served as whetstones for one another, enlisting a little external assistance was hardly cheating.

***

"Seeing a mountain and running a horse to death" was a rather generalized saying, carrying a hint of carefree detachment from reality. Those who had genuinely ventured into deep mountains and old forests paid no heed to such breezy platitudes.

Lang Fei was a prime example.

Watching He Chang'an stroll leisurely along the rugged mountain path with his wide sleeves billowing, the youth was filled with grievance and resentment, yet he dared not utter a complaint.

Given his constitution and physical frame, climbing a mountain path should have been nothing out of the ordinary—at most, the soles of his feet would ache.

Yet this damned He Chang'an had crafted a twenty-to-thirty-jin book pouch for him, and then loaded it down with writing brushes, ink, paper, and an inkstone, making the journey thoroughly agonizing for him.

The weight of the book pouch and the books could technically be ignored; after all, he was descended from an ancient demon lineage, naturally blessed with a tough hide and thick bones. The real problem was that those scholar's items were far too delicate, instilling in him a helpless terror of neither handling them too lightly nor too heavily.

It was just like back when Master Qingying used to teach their cohort of demon youths and maidens to read and write: he had spent nearly two years failing to master the correct grip for a thin writing brush, suffering countless raps across his palms from that down-and-out scholar. The memory alone made his hands sting.

The few items in the book pouch had been arranged with meticulous precision by He Chang'an. If he were to let them get jumbled up, even if the dog of a He Chang'an didn't say a word, Lang Fei would find it humiliating.

*You, He Chang'an, want to watch me make a fool of myself? Not a chance.*

Even if he were to drop dead of exhaustion on this mountain path, he refused to be looked down upon by this human. Lang Fei refused to believe it—a single book and a few scholar's trinkets would reach the summit with every single item intact and pristine, maintaining their original arrangement!

***

He Chang'an spent the journey admiring the scenery, paying very little attention to the demon youth's internal struggles.

He merely had a vague sense that the little fellow's footing was remarkably steady. Even across steep, craggy rocks, despite breathing heavily like an ox, the boy managed to maintain a brisk pace, trailing closely behind him.

This caught him somewhat by surprise, convincing him that the brat had a certain grit to him.