Chapter 141: At Dawn, Witnessing the Dew-Kissed Crimson Scene

Monks and priests do not ask for names, and river or mountain deities do not inquire into past lives. Only scholars explain the origin and details before speaking or acting, laying out the cause and effect clearly and distinctly for you.

He Chang'an felt that in this regard, scholars did things the right way.

Yet one could not say that those Taoist practitioners lacked refinement, nor could one claim that the great Buddhist monks and young nuns were in the wrong. In truth, none of them had any real faults; the saying that those following different paths cannot make plans together is not merely empty talk.

The Taoist path strives for the Bridge of Longevity, while the Buddhist path cultivates the Fruit of Merit. Both are far too distant from the mortal world—and growing increasingly distant—devoid of any earthly warmth.

In the words of the old scholars, those who practice immortality and study the Way gradually lose their human touch as they advance.

Scholars are different. If you detach yourself from the mortal realm, failing to plead for the lives of the common people, to inherit the extinct teachings of past sages, and to secure everlasting peace for all generations, what on earth is the use of your studies?

As for establishing the heart for heaven and earth, that matter was far too grand; He Chang'an did not yet dare to ponder it.

The old scholar said he had pondered it, but had not yet fully understood it. Once he figured it out, he would surely tell He Chang'an and all the scholars of the academy.

He Chang'an could not figure out whether he was ultimately a scholar or a cultivator. He had once asked the old scholar about this, but Master Lü had evasively replied, "I examine myself three times a day," and said nothing more.

Later on, he simply stopped dwelling on the issue and wholeheartedly focused on doing his own part—studying, practicing boxing, and comprehending sword intent, leaving none of it undone, with meticulous care.

Therefore, when he drank together with a fallen mountain god from an unknown number of dynasties ago, sharing wine and laughter in the dilapidated shrine atop the peak, he felt completely at ease.

That mountain god, who ate no meat and drank only wine, felt a wonderful, comforting affinity with He Chang'an, and was willing to speak to him of the grievances and injustices of the past one or two thousand years.

Even so, this mountain god did not show a shred of decadence or complaint, only a lingering sense of injustice.

Through the god's words, He Chang'an heard for the second time that this world was vast indeed, and that once there had been immortals, Buddhas, demons, and ghosts.

And naturally, there had been humans.

Only with humans came written words and books, and thus came scholars.

Later still, there arose saints and seventy-two academies, civilizing the world, nurturing the fortune of the human race, and using the Qi of vast righteousness to suppress demons, monsters, and evil spirits, preventing them from running amok.

Thus, rules came into being.

"Rules are greater than the heavens"—did not that phrase sound utterly imposing? But did he know what a heavy price the human world had paid for this phrase, concocted with ulterior motives by the Taoists, Buddhists, demons, and fiends?

"Perhaps only the phrase 'to sacrifice one's life for righteousness' can capture the bitterness within it." The mountain god drank quickly but spoke slowly. At the break of dawn, he rose to his full height, turned to look toward the north, and continued:

"I am a crude martial warrior. Many profound principles are merely secondhand knowledge, heard during casual chats with the scholars who followed our human armies in years past. Perhaps they are not to be taken too seriously.

However, the rainy night is long, the mountains are tall, and the wind is fierce. Passing the time by telling stories to swindle a few bowls of wine from you is not a bad way to spend it."

The mountain god possessed a remarkably bold and unconstrained temperament, much like a great general guarding the frontier. A few words from him made He Chang'an's blood boil, prompting him to rise as well, lift a bowl of wine, and say, "I offer another bowl of wine to my senior!"

The mountain god's face, shrouded in his straw raincoat, was deeply blurred, but He Chang'an could sense that a pair of piercing eyes were fixed intently upon him.

"Pour this bowl of wine before the offering table," the mountain god said softly after a long silence. "For more than a thousand years, this is only the second time I have tasted human incense."

Daybreak was near, and the rain was gradually stopping.

At the entrance of the ruined shrine of Two Wolves Mountain, the mountain god stood lonely in the mud, glanced up at the sky, and lowered his head to murmur to himself: "It was an old scholar, leading a little brat who called himself a swordsman, that made me drunk for over a thousand years..."

The mountain god's figure grew gradually faint until it finally dissipated, and his voice faded away until it was barely audible.

He Chang'an walked over to the offering table, retrieved the last jar of wine from his storage bag, broke the clay seal, and poured the entire contents onto the ground in a steady stream.

"The moment I return, I will ask the old scholar whether mountain and river deities can indeed nurture human fortune and suppress demons and monsters. If so, I, He Chang'an, will surely reshape your golden body in the future."

The words lacked dominance and were even somewhat rambling, but they were the sincere thoughts of He Chang'an.

Descending the mountain, the weather was thoroughly clear, and Two Wolves Mountain bathed in sunlight appeared exceptionally enchanting.

He Chang'an was very silent.

In truth, ever since his leap at Dragon Gate Waterfall, his words had grown fewer and fewer. Especially after emerging from the demon town, he practically stopped speaking altogether.

The demon youth, Lang Fei, had already grown accustomed to He Chang'an's taciturn nature.

Having endured a night of terror that left his soul nearly frightened out of his body, Lang Fei could not stop shivering as they neared the foot of the mountain, his complexion terribly pale.

While the mountain god and He Chang'an drank wine together all night and talked nonsense for most of it, he had curled up and shivered for the better part of the night.

Yet toward that mountain god, he felt only dread without a shred of disrespect, and naturally did not dare to harbor any endless inner complaints.

As for He Chang'an, the moment they reached the foot of the mountain and the murderous intent radiating from the mountain god completely vanished, Lang Fei began to "vent his heart's fragrance," greeting all eighteen generations of He Chang'an's ancestors.

He Chang'an was well aware of this.

The moment they descended the mountain, He Chang'an began teaching Lang Fei how to write characters—not on paper, but in his heart.

The very first character was "Yao" (Demon).

He Chang'an told Lang Fei that since he considered himself a member of the demon race, he should first figure out his own origins so as to form a relatively correct judgment.

So, what is a "demon"?

He Chang'an squatted down, used a twig to write the character "Yao," and told Lang Fei very earnestly that a demon originates from "Yan" (grace/beauty)—it is that most splendid period in a young woman's life, resembling a flower just about to bloom, kissed by a few drops of dew.

Naturally, the same applied to a young man.

As for certain profound principles that he himself did not fully grasp, he did not elaborate.

What he spoke of were only the things he understood and had thought through clearly, not expecting Lang Fei to comprehend very much, but simply seeking to maintain a clear conscience, just like the scholars of the academy—doing the utmost within his power.

Perhaps for the very first time in his life, the demon youth pondered and mused very earnestly, then shook his head and said nothing, though his general meaning was quite clear.

He Chang'an patiently held nothing back, choosing his words carefully to explain the relationship between the characters for "Yao" (demon) and "Yan" (grace/beauty) all over again.

He told Lang Fei very gently that if he could not figure out this character "Yao" by today, he would not be getting any dinner.

Then, watching Lang Fei display an expression that seemed to say life was no longer worth living, He Chang'an felt quite pleased inside.

A pint-sized youth with a mind full of schemes to harm and kill others, or else repeatedly recalling and meticulously picturing the scene of peeping at the Heavenly Fox Lady bathing—with such a fine memory, it was simply a crime not to study.

Oh, right, this brat was named Lang Fei.

What a waste...

The reason the demon race was called "demons" was largely due to suffering from a lack of culture. Clearly capable of being exceedingly beautiful, like a flower-like maiden on the verge of blooming, they had somehow managed to turn it into associations of "seductive and demonic," "weird and sinister," "alluring," and "spirit-monster"...

A miss by a hair's breadth leads to a thousand miles of error.

When Lang Fei grew a bit older, read a few more books, and gained some worldly experience as a demon, he would recount to him lines like: "At dawn, look at the damp red places; the flowers weigh heavy on the Brocade Official City."