Chapter 143: The World Is Too Small

With much difficulty, they finally shook off the clawing and cursing of the two women. He Chang'an and the other three fled back into the courtyard, slamming the doors and windows shut. Only then did the old scholar let out a long breath, saying, "It has been a long time since I had such a refreshing experience."

A Fei, the sword cultivator, rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. He Chang'an suppressed a smile as he poured tea for the two "exalted figures" and arranged a few delicate pastries he had bought from the demon-clan town back then.

Gazing at the exquisite pastries, the old scholar clicked his tongue in wonder, picked up a small piece, popped it into his mouth, and savored it slowly. With deep emotion, he sighed, "It has been many years since I last tasted the osmanthus cakes of Exquisite Town. The flavor is still as wonderful as ever."

A Fei, however, did not care much for demon-clan snacks. He took a few perfunctory sips of tea and appeared somewhat absent-minded.

He glanced casually at Lang Fei a few times, then muttered irritably, "Those old Taoist priests on the mountains are simply too unreasonable," leaving He Chang'an rather bewildered.

The demon youth cowered behind He Chang'an, not daring to make a single sound.

At first glance, these two "friends" of He Chang'an seemed utterly ordinary, perhaps even too plain. Yet, they terrified him to his core, making him feel as though he were standing at the edge of an endless abyss, completely draining him of any courage.

"He Chang'an, you boy did quite well on your trip south this time." The sword cultivator A Fei seemed to recall something amusing, offering a mischievous smile and a wink at He Chang'an.

Unable to make sense of A Fei's implication, He Chang'an cupped his fists properly and asked for guidance. This immediately killed A Fei's mood, and he complained with annoyance, "Studying, studying! Ever since you started following this old pedant to read books, you've become utterly boring."

With that, he deliberately looked at Mr. Lu with a provocative gaze. "Am I right?"

The old scholar smiled gently and replied, "It is precisely because it seems boring that it gradually becomes interesting. You, A Fei, love brandishing your sword alone; do you expect everyone in the world to do the same? What fun would that be then?

"As it is clearly written in the books: 'Do not impose upon others what you yourself do not desire.' You are so fiercely competitive and eager to win, which is why, in the end, you can only ever be a mere sword-wielder..."

"Enough!"

The plain-looking sword cultivator wanted to slam the table, but thought better of it. He turned back to He Chang'an with a smile and said, "Your teacher here is useless at fighting and even worse at scolding, though his taste in wine is passable. Tell me, He Chang'an, how far along are you in your study of that volume of Sword Qi? Do you need me, a grand sword cultivator, to give you a pointer or two?"

He Chang'an cupped his fists once more and replied warmly, "Thank you for your guidance, Senior."

A Fei looked He Chang'an up and down, a clear look of disdain gradually appearing on his face. With a heavy sigh, he muttered, "I've lost interest."

During their first bout of fist-fighting at Dragon Gate, the fierce, unyielding drive in this He Chang'an had quite suited a sword cultivator's taste. How had a single trip south turned him into someone even more scholarly than a scholar?

In his pristine azure robe, he looked the part quite well, but it somehow irritated the sword cultivator to look at him.

The old scholar, by contrast, was in high spirits. Seeing He Chang'an fully dressed like a scholar made him happy from the bottom of his heart.

However, a single remark from A Fei quickly deflated the old scholar's mood.

"He Chang'an, you had best not acknowledge certain people as your teacher. Being a student of his never ends well." As A Fei said this, he looked out the window at the blazing sun, his spirits sinking.

The old scholar unusually refrained from retorting. He picked up a bowl of tea, took a small sip, and showed no anger, only a lingering melancholy.

The atmosphere grew somewhat heavy for a moment. He Chang'an refilled their cups and told Lang Fei the demon youth to go chop firewood in the kitchen, announcing that they would improve their meals by stewing a pot of mutton.

Relieved of a heavy burden, Lang Fei fled faster than a rabbit, diving into the kitchen with zero desire to show his face again.

"You must still raise this wolf cub with care and keep an eye on him, lest he turns around and bites you someday," A Fei remarked casually, casting a barrier that turned the space within three zhang into a miniature domain.

"It's not a wolf; it's a dog," the old scholar corrected.

Not only was He Chang'an somewhat dazed, but even A Fei turned his head to glance toward the kitchen, then shook his head with a chuckle. "Old pedant, you see the subtle signs and know the whole trend. I yield to you there, but this is clearly of the celestial wolf lineage..."

As A Fei spoke, his expression turned somewhat peculiar. Suddenly, he burst into laughter. "So it wasn't those old Taoists playing dirty tricks; someone else of higher caliber was scheming."

"Come, come, let's drink!"

The sword cultivator's mood suddenly improved. He unhooked his purple-skinned gourd, shouted heartily, and told He Chang'an to go out and buy a ram, repeatedly instructing him that it must be a wether that had never known a mate.

He Chang'an agreed with a smile and stepped out.

As soon as He Chang'an left, the sword cultivator's expression gradually grew solemn. Turning sideways toward the old scholar, he asked in puzzlement, "Didn't that old immortal of the Chen family ascend ages ago?"

The old scholar smiled. "You refuse to leave this mortal world yourself, so why must you assume he would ascend?"

"This world is still far too small."

The old scholar slowly nibbled on his osmanthus cake, occasionally sipping his tea. His eyes were so clear they seemed bottomless, baffling even A Fei.

"Mr. Lu, tell me, why do you torment yourself like this all these years?" The sword cultivator took a gulp of wine, held it in for a moment, and exhaled a breath of alcoholic vapor. The vapor condensed into a tiny, fiercely agile sword that zipped rapidly around his mouth and nose.

"Your three students: one buried his nose in books until he became a block of wood, another set off with his sword and wandered off to parts unknown, and the other... Never mind. Really, you are something else. You wouldn't let me go poke those damned bastards with a couple of swords.

"You often say a student need not be inferior to his teacher, but it seems to me you are simply asking for trouble."

The old scholar chuckled and said warmly, "As a teacher, how can I meddle in a student's later affairs? As the saying goes, the teacher leads you through the door, but cultivation depends on the individual. Am I supposed to be like you—whenever a disciple of yours fails to measure up and goes straying down the wrong path, you rush over and stab him to death with your sword?

"There is no such logic in this world. A path is one's own to walk; you cannot interfere with everything simply based on your personal preferences. How else could the waves behind drive the waves ahead?"

A Fei felt utterly stifled. He swallowed down the tiny flying sword condensed from his wine vapor, chewed fiercely on it a couple of times for show, and gulped it down his throat with a heavy *thud*.

"The scenery on the mountains is fine, the wine is good, the ethereal fairy-like maidens are pleasing to the eye, and if you want to fight, you can always find a match or two. The trouble is, it completely lacks the mortal warmth you old pedants always talk about..."

As A Fei spoke, he grew angry. Drawing the bamboo sword tied at his waist, he thrust it fiercely toward the west, muttering disgruntled curses under his breath: "The Buddhists are black-hearted, the Daoists are ruthless, and the Confucians are foul—this whole world is foul!"

With that single sword thrust, far away across countless miles, a white-haired old monkey squatting in a bodhi tree—grinning widely as he stared at a female monkey on the opposite branch—let out a shrill shriek and tumbled straight out of the tree.

"A Fei, you just wait! See if I don't curse you to death one of these days!" clutching its backside, the white-haired old monkey hopped around and shrieked curses.

A tiny hole had been pierced in its rear, and blood was spurting out vigorously. Panicking, the old monkey tried to plug the wound with its hand, only to accidentally poke one of its fingers right into the hole, making it grimace in agonizing pain.

The female monkey on the opposite tree wanted to laugh, but did not dare. She could only turn away quietly, hugging a thick tree branch while her shoulders shook uncontrollably.

Infuriated, the white-haired old monkey was about to leap over and cause trouble when, out of thin air, another streak of sword qi flew in and stabbed fiercely into its other buttock.

Yet this strike clearly showed that the damned sword cultivator had held back; it was merely a warning not to hurl random curses.

...

Having bought the mutton, He Chang'an passed by a bookstore on his way back and could not help casting an extra glance at it.

In this frontier military town, bookstores were rare indeed. In a place where people killed and were killed constantly, who had the leisure to read? Anyone who eagerly ran all the way to Great Scatter Pass to sell books was bound to lose everything.

However, recalling the tradition of the scholars from the Academy—who always dispatched hundreds of their own to participate in every major war—it suddenly made sense.

What truly caught He Chang'an's attention, however, was the down-and-out scholar sitting upright on a small wooden stool by the doorway, engrossed in a scroll.

This involuntarily reminded him of Li Yishan. Though their temperaments were vastly different, their sole similarity was that both looked somewhat unkempt.

Of course, in the terminology of scholars, this was known as "paying no attention to one's appearance." The man had a stubbly beard, a shock of white hair as messy as weeds, and a scholar's robe whose age and lack of washing were impossible to guess.

After walking a dozen steps past, He Chang'an turned back for another look, only to catch the scholar's gaze meeting his own, causing a slight ripple in his heart.

This scholar felt remarkably clean.

Why did he give He Chang'an such a familiar and endearing feeling? It made him hesitate whether he should drop by on his way back, pick up a few casual books, and consider it a way of supporting this scholar.