Chapter 142: Every Force Has Its Counterforce

Three days later, He Chang’an returned to Dasanguan and immediately went to pay respects to Zheng Hongxiu.

The Ghost Clan tribe had launched several fierce battles only in early spring. Afterwards, they gradually retreated to the area around Gazihu, some seven or eight hundred miles from Dasanguan, and for more than four months now, they had not launched any attacks.

Thus, during this period, the atmosphere around Dasanguan was quite good; the shops along the streets prospered, and the alleys bustled with people, quite lively.

Lang Fei followed closely behind He Chang’an, carrying a scholar’s satchel, dressed as a young apprentice. Unless a high-level cultivator deliberately investigated, it was almost impossible to discern his demonic tribe identity.

That demonic town truly held some secrets.

Zheng Hongxiu looked very weary, her face pale as if she had not slept for days and nights, dark circles under her eyes. She received He Chang’an inside the main tent.

“Did you deliver it to Longhu Mountain? Did the big shots up there say anything? That Grandmaster Zhang didn’t give you trouble, did he?”

Upon meeting, Zheng Hongxiu bombarded him with questions, leaving He Chang’an speechless. He forced a smile and said, “Zhang Xiaoyan led me into a demonic town, and then… he was grabbed away by a giant hand.”

He Chang’an recounted the events that took place in the demonic town in detail, withholding little except for some personal encounters, which he considered unimportant.

Zheng Hongxiu listened silently, sighed, and said, “Those big shots on Longhu Mountain always look down on worldly affairs too lightly. As for the Ghost Clan tribe now… forget it, you should go back and wait for orders.”

She waved her hand, dismissing He Chang’an to return.

“Oh, He Chang’an, don’t wander around recklessly these days. The great battle is imminent, and I can’t spare the time to look after you.”

He Chang’an bowed and exited the tent.

Though Zheng Hongxiu’s words were veiled, He Chang’an immediately understood: it was still that Night God Cult, stubbornly lingering, targeting him for reasons unknown.

Moreover, it seemed the Buddhist Kingdom had also developed enmity.

And the demonic and ghost tribes as well… never mind. The more fleas, the less they itch. After all, this was the headquarters of the town’s guardian commander. If he couldn’t guarantee He Chang’an’s safety here, where else could he hide in this world?

...

When He Chang’an returned to the humble alley where he lived in Dasanguan, he happened upon two women fiercely cursing each other. They stood under their eaves, hands on hips, chests thrust forward, hurling insults with florid language.

Judging by how long they had been bickering, the center of the muddy dirt road was wet and darkened—surely with spittle.

These two women were natives of Dasanguan, their ancestors border soldiers. Their families had generations of soldiers, with at least one male heir to continue the lineage, while other men mostly died on the battlefield.

In times of war, they fought bravely; during peace, they helped cultivate the land or manage business. This practice was common in several military towns of the Tang Dynasty.

This was the so-called “military agricultural system.”

At court, soldiers stationed at the borders received generous pay and death benefits and were generally exempt from various taxes and duties, so their livelihood was relatively good.

The biggest trouble was that the women were usually fierce; having witnessed death and separation, some women’s hearts were even tougher than men’s.

Of course, more often, they were just sharp-tongued but soft-hearted. Every household’s wife looked rather ordinary in appearance and complexion but could curse fiercely.

He Chang’an had met several “masters of cursing”: Ajiu and Old Master Alan were one level; Yu Youwei was higher; the best was Sword Cultivator Afei, who was a top-tier figure in this art.

As for the wives in Dasanguan city, they held much pent-up strength and plenty of spittle but lacked substance in their insults, repeating the same few points—mostly about infidelity, theft, and other personal attacks.

The only point of interest was their passion.

He Chang’an wanted to return home but was blocked by the quarrel, unable to pass.

He stood aside listening for a while but found nothing new and then turned to leave.

He went to find the scholars.

Li Yishan, Shen Yan, Ma Dai, and the other scholars of the academy—truth be told, during the time trapped in the demonic town, He Chang’an missed them quite a bit.

However, the academy scholars seemed to be on some secret mission; not a single one was found, not even Shen Yan, the leader of the Divine Weapon Camp, was at his post.

Feeling puzzled and with nowhere to inquire, He Chang’an returned to the alley, planning to settle Lang Fei in first. Having another demonic youth wandering around all day made him uneasy.

Near the alley’s entrance, he saw two familiar figures squatting, intently watching the two women curse at each other. Occasionally, they chimed in, giving a comment or two, provoking the two women to curse even more fiercely.

It was none other than Mr. Lü and Sword Cultivator Afei.

“Liu Xiaoqi’s wife—how can you tolerate her cursing your man like that? Her father-in-law even peeped on you while you were urinating.”

“Nonsense! It was clearly her little hussy who was peeping…”

...

He Chang’an pointed at his eyes, lightly cleared his throat, and said seriously, “What is improper should not be heard or seen. Two esteemed gentlemen here, witnessing two shrews quarrel...”

Before he finished speaking, he suddenly felt a tightening on his body. The two women stopped cursing and glared at He Chang’an fiercely.

“Hmm?”

He Chang’an felt a headache coming on and tried to make a quick escape, but the old scholar grabbed him gently and said kindly, “If you have something to say, just say it. Hesitating like this isn’t the way of a scholar, He Chang’an.”

“Yes, yes, yes. If you have grievances with these two ladies, just say it. We’ll back you up,” Sword Cultivator Afei smiled cheerfully, fanning the flames of trouble.

The two border soldier wives quickly came over, each grabbing a sleeve of He Chang’an, crying, fussing, and yelling wildly, spitting everywhere, launching a tirade.

...

After a tea’s time, He Chang’an gently wiped his face and smiled, asking, “Ladies, finished cursing?”

The two women wanted to continue, but He Chang’an’s sudden intervention made their curses fall flat. No matter how florid their language, they could only spit upon themselves.

Most importantly, how could such a handsome youth provoke anger?

Gradually, the two women came to their senses and noticed the two old lechers watching nearby, realizing they were the true culprits. Furious, they turned to curse at Mr. Lü and Afei.

The battle of words began.

Afei jumped up, uttering a few clever insults, confident in his skill, certain no one could withstand his verbal traps.

But the two women ignored his tricks, continuing their curses unabated, insulting the ordinary man’s eighteen generations of ancestors and mercilessly exposing his unexpectedly handsome appearance.

Soon, Afei was defeated, squatting aside, sighing deeply, looking utterly dispirited.

Then the two women turned to curse Mr. Lü.

The old scholar opened his mouth and spoke great truths, explaining profound teachings in simple terms. Even a dry, saintly phrase was delivered with emotion and reason, earnest and patient.

It was just that... his pace was too slow, and his voice too soft.

Two women used to shouting and spitting in quarrels across the street drowned out his “reasoning” with their loud, spitting tirades.

Thus, the old scholar could only straighten his neck and say, “Only a petty man is hard to raise, and so is a woman!”

Squatting nearby, the foot-picking Sword Cultivator watched with great amusement, took off his purple leather gourd, took several hearty swigs, and laughed uproariously, happier than if he had won a pile of copper coins gambling.