Chapter 148: The Great Battle Concludes, Venturing Far into the Rivers and Lakes

Chapter 148: The Great Battle Concludes, Into the Jianghu We Go

The fierce battle, lasting less than two hours, slowly came to an end.

Standing upon a high ridge alongside the Northern Protector, Lady Zheng Hongxiu, with a panoramic view stretching before him, He Chang'an had witnessed firsthand how the human heavy cavalry collided head-on with the ghost tribe horde, tearing through their formations at an oblique angle.

What followed was a bloody, mud-churned melee of flesh and bone.

The human forces relied on nothing more than the crushing charges of their heavy iron cavalry, followed up by the sweeping assaults of light cavalry and archers.

For He Chang'an, a rookie at the ninth rank of martial arts, there was simply no opportunity to display any real combat prowess. He wisely chose to hide behind Zheng Hongxiu, silently "refining" his gains...

The Soul-Calling Banner quickly advanced to the level of a magical artifact. It even began to ravenously devour the malevolent Qi continuously fed through that thin black thread, showing a strong tendency to break through to the next realm in one go.

The little black sword also began its refinement...

After another half-an-hour of this, the battlefield spanning a hundred miles around was littered with the haphazardly fallen bodies of human soldiers and half-man, half-beast monsters of the ghost tribe.

Some, not yet entirely dead, struggled and groaned in the bloody mire.

The survivors had retreated to their respective camps, glaring at each other with hostility, as if preparing to launch another bloody charge at any moment.

However, with the sudden snapping and shattering of that black thread, the ghost army seemed to receive an order and retreated like a receding tide.

They paid zero attention to the wounded soldiers left behind on the battlefield, leaving them to wail in the bloody pools and struggle as they crawled northward.

The battle, just like that, was over?

Of the hundred thousand border troops of the human race, fewer than twenty thousand remained, and almost every single one of them was heavily wounded, utterly incapable of enduring another charge into battle.

Zheng Hongxiu’s pale face remained expressionless.

She turned her head and nodded slightly to He Chang'an, indicating that the malevolent Qi within her body was now under control.

"Rear guard becomes the vanguard, retreat into Dasan Pass."

At Zheng Hongxiu’s command, the human army dispatched a rescue team to search through the blood and mud for human soldiers. Dead or alive, they were hoisted onto horsebacks and transported back to Dasan Pass.

As for the wounded soldiers of the ghost tribe, blades flashed mercilessly, and they were all executed on the spot.

Corpses littered the field, and blood flowed like rivers.

One by one, the dying screams, pale and feeble, vanished instantly with the wind...

...

When the human army retreated back into Dasan Pass, there were no cheers, nor any depression or despair. All the generals and soldiers were covered in dried blood, yet their expressions remained completely normal.

It was as if true hunters never discussed the day's harvest.

What they talked about was merely the quality of the gunpowder and the recent weather.

Such were the border troops of the Great Tang.

They had long since grown accustomed to life and death on the battlefield. As long as the city walls of Dasan Pass were not breached, the victory or defeat of a battle or two mattered not at all.

This quality astonished He Chang'an.

In his impression, the Great Tang was poor and weak, its common folk struggled for survival, and for hundreds of years, it had been relentlessly ground into the dust by powerful enemies on all sides.

Yet after observing and experiencing this period firsthand, and truly participating in a massive battle, his perspective changed.

This Great Tang looked gentle, cowardly, and even gave off a deceptive aura of lowliness.

Yet almost everyone, once they became a border soldier, donned that ordinary uniform, stepped onto the battlefield, and faced a mortal enemy in a life-or-death struggle, revealed themselves to be a man of unyielding backbone!

This sensation was quite peculiar.

He Chang'an felt that this must be the true temperament the human race ought to possess...

"For a time, the ghost tribes will be incapable of further battle. He Chang'an, go out and walk about," Zheng Hongxiu said casually, not even sitting down upon returning to the Protector's grand tent. "Your strength is still too weak; you are of no great use."

"Remember, no matter where you are or what realm you achieve, when you receive my summons, return immediately."

He Chang'an nodded without a word.

The slaughter of the battlefield had just ended, and no one felt much like talking. Having spoken more than usual, Zheng Hongxiu waved her hand and dismissed him.

Stepping out of the tent, He Chang'an stood beneath the sun, tilting his head up to gaze at it for a long while.

At last, his state of mind regained a measure of tranquility and peace.

Having witnessed too much bloodshed, death, and slaughter, a martial artist's state of mind easily develops cracks—either driving them bloodthirsty and obsessed with killing until they suffer a deviation, or plunging them into depression until they are reduced to cripples.

He walked slowly through the quiet streets and alleys.

Vaguely, he heard suppressed weeping drifting from some courtyards—the normal reaction of families mourning the men who had died on the battlefield upon hearing the grim news.

He could tell that almost all the women and children exercised great restraint in their grief.

As if they were afraid of disturbing the emotions of others.

That act of covering their mouths and noses, desperately restraining themselves to suppress any sound of crying, made He Chang'an's heart feel even heavier.

He felt as though a massive boulder—no, an entire towering mountain—was pressing down on his chest, making him feel all the more sorrowful.

...

Locking himself in his room for a full day and night, He Chang'an finally emerged.

His face was pale, and he had grown visibly thinner.

Yet his eyes were dark and piercingly bright. His smooth, raven hair was casually gathered and pinned with a boxwood hairpin. Clad in a faded green robe, his gaze was calm and serene.

He walked into the kitchen and began to boil water to cook.

The demon youth was hiding in his side-room, peering out through a crack in the door. After hesitating for a long time, he finally stepped outside to help chop firewood and tend the fire.

He noticed that ever since He Chang'an returned from the great battle, this odious human's temperament had undergone another transformation.

He was even more tranquil and peaceful.

Yet the cold, murderous aura about him was sharper than ever before, as if a casual glance from him could cause one to drop dead.

This sensation made the demon youth, Lang Fei,'s heart leap in terror while simultaneously filling the depths of his heart with disgust, jealousy, and resentment.

He was like an untamable wolf cub, pretending to be as docile as a dog on the surface, but deep in his bones, he had never abandoned the thought of killing He Chang'an.

However, it now seemed that this goal was slipping further and further away.

This grieved him deeply.

After boiling a large pot of thin porridge, He Chang'an drank only two small bowls before pushing away his bowl and chopsticks. He commanded indifferently, "Finished the porridge? Pack up; we're going on a long journey."

Lang Fei did not ask where they were going.

Even if he asked, He Chang'an probably wouldn't tell him.

Thus, half an hour later, the two quietly slipped out of the city and headed south.

Initially, He Chang'an had intended to meet with the scholars of the Academy, Mr. Lu, the swordsman A-Fei, and others to bid them farewell.

On second thought, however, he gave up the idea.

Heading into the Jianghu, the road was long and the date of return uncertain. Rather than dwelling on parting sorrow, it was better to leave quietly, hoping that by the time they met again, his strength would have improved.

The saying goes that tearful farewells and sentimental attachments are inferior to forgetting one another in the rivers and lakes; such must have been this state of mind.

...

The two journeyed southward, deliberately picking uninhabited and desolate paths. They walked and stopped, traveling by day and making camp punctually at night, making it look more like an aimless sightseeing tour.

This puzzled the demon youth Lang Fei, but he dared not and cared not to ask.

Whatever He Chang'an said went. He accepted his lot with resignation and never once rebelled.

He Chang'an's routine was rigorous. Every day before dawn, he would get up and practice his boxing, repeating the exact same set of "ancient fist techniques." Lang Fei estimated that he himself had almost learned the entire set, yet this human never tired of it and never missed a day.

After boxing, He Chang'an would practice the sword for a while.

However, his sword practice was quite bizarre: he held no sword in his hand, merely curling his fists and palms as if an invisible, heavy sword existed between them.

Every single posture and movement was meticulously executed.

It annoyed the demon youth to watch, yet out of sheer boredom, he would often squat not far away, holding a small twig and silently mimicking He Chang'an's "swordsmanship," feeling as though he had learned several rather formidable killing moves.

This excited him somewhat, and he mused that if he could secretly learn a few dozen more moves, he might actually be able to kill He Chang'an, right?

Still, he only thought about it.

If supreme swordsmanship were that easy to learn, he might as well reform, cast aside his resentment, and honestly take He Chang'an as his master...

He Chang'an saw right through the demon youth's thoughts like a mirror, yet he never bothered to conceal anything.

His boxing techniques had distinct forms and postures; with a little focused theft, even a rather dull youth could imitate seven or eight tenths of their appearance.

His swordsmanship, however, possessed no sword forms at all, nor any abstruse theories or inner cultivation methods.

It was merely an intent.

An intent that he currently could neither grasp nor touch.

As for what this intent specifically was, even He Chang'an himself was somewhat confused as to what intent he was searching for.

This was quite profound.

Lately, he had been pondering "Distant Sword Qi." This swordsmanship was peculiar: it lacked any exquisite techniques or practical moves; it was simply a story.

Behind the story lay a tiny trace of intent.

Swords harbor an injustice-bearing intent—that was roughly what it meant... or was it?

This journey into the Jianghu appeared casual and aimless on the surface.

In reality, He Chang'an knew very well in his heart that the place he was heading to was called Sword Gate.

Or perhaps, Mount Zhenwu, or Mount Wudang.

Sword Qi was neither near nor far, just as both edges of a blade could be called "sharp weapons"—anything that could kill made a good sword.

This was a trace of intent he had comprehended from "Distant Sword Qi."

Back then, that swordsman who spent years in comprehension before achieving enlightenment in a single morning, casually striking down a Xuanwu that had slumbered for tens of thousands of years and turning its flesh and blood into Mount Zhenwu and Mount Wudang—that kind of terrestrial sword immortal's method was the true intent.

The place he wanted to visit was the very spot where that immortal had attained enlightenment with the sword.

Of course, he was mentally prepared to return empty-handed. After all, cultivation seemed related to daily diligence and hard work, but in truth, such notions were sheer nonsense.

Fate, opportunity, state of mind, and diligence—not a single one of these could be lacking.

In this world, there were countless people who plowed through books and practiced diligently day after day for decades, yet only a handful achieved fame and success.

Most merely served as a cultural legacy, slowly passed down through generations.

Matters of cultivation were no different.

Otherwise, the world would long since have been crawling with sword immortals while martial artists were as common as stray dogs.

...

Days passed insipidly, and the journey of He Chang'an and Lang Fei remained unhurried.

After traveling like this for more than twenty days, they reached the Great River Ferry.

Crossing the river by boat and traveling southward for another forty-odd days, they finally arrived at a vast expanse of towering mountains. Amidst the overlapping peaks, gazing into the distance, one could faintly discern two majestic mountains standing in opposing confrontation.

As if through a millennium or an eternity, they never tired of looking at each other.

Mount Zhenwu, Mount Wudang.

On a modest peak nearby, He Chang'an set to work chopping trees and directed the demon youth as the two of them built two wooden cabins together.

In performing these menial tasks, Lang Fei showed an unusual enthusiasm, which impressed He Chang'an for several days.

The demon youth enjoyed this feeling of wilderness survival. Felling trees, sawing timber, harvesting thatch, hauling stones, and stacking walls—Lang Fei worked until he was drenched in sweat, without ever feeling tired.

Moreover, in a rare display, after hunting a few hares and wild chickens, the youth shyly asked He Chang'an to lend him a sharp short blade, then briskly carried the game down to the stream to skin and clean them.

While stewing the meat, the youth even hummed a discordant little tune under his breath, looking utterly blissful.

Furthermore, every evening when he followed He Chang'an to read and study characters, there was far less resistance on his face, and his "academic performance" naturally advanced by leaps and bounds.

Three days after the wooden cabins were successfully built, he finally stumbled through the recitation of his very first piece of writing in his life:

"To learn and at due times to practice what one has learned, is that not a pleasure?
To have friends coming from distant quarters, is that not a delight?..."

Watching coldly from the sidelines, He Chang'an observed these subtle changes in the demon youth and felt a faint sense of surprise.

He guessed that this feeling of struggling to survive in the wilderness must have activated some mysterious factor deep within the demon youth's bloodline.

Regardless, being able to imbue a demon youth with a touch of human warmth was a decent result.

As for whether demons ought to look like demons, He Chang'an couldn't care less.

To hell with demon culture; he was a human being, and he intended to look like one!

The peak He Chang'an chose for his seclusion was still over a hundred miles away from Mount Zhenwu and Mount Wudang. Every morning and evening, he would gaze into the distance, carefully observing those two towering peaks.

He observed the unimaginable, colossal gorge between the two mountains, imagining that writing-style sword strike delivered amidst the roaring laughter of that down-and-out scholar years ago.

What kind of sword strike was that...

Truly the handiwork of a terrestrial immortal; even standing afar and thinking about it made his palms sweat, urging him to lash out with a sword.

Yet He Chang'an never drew the bamboo sword at his waist.

He was nurturing a trace of intent.

That is to say, the emotion, opportunity, and realization that compelled one to strike with a sword—like a stubborn fellow who would never draw his sword unless driven to the absolute brink.

Because he had once seriously savored a saying of the old scholar: "I do not open the door for one who is not eager, nor help one who is not struggling to express himself."

Moreover, He Chang'an always felt that he had no sword.

No sword in the heart, no sword in the hand—where, then, was the sword?

This was also considered a rather profound method of comprehending the sword, taught to him by the swordsman A-Fei. It required him to completely forget all the swords in the world, so that the single sword belonging uniquely to him would fly down from beyond the heavens.

At the time, He Chang'an had found this explanation utterly baffling.

He always felt that that mediocre and pompous middle-aged man was likely just making conversation, tangling him up in a web of nonsense.

As time passed, and after comprehending "Distant Sword Qi," He Chang'an slowly awakened to it, feeling that the swordsman A-Fei's words were wondrous indeed.

Well, alright, they were practically just nonsense!

...

Just as He Chang'an wished to find a sword that belonged to him, a sword indeed came flying from afar.

Standing atop the sword was a young maiden.