Chapter Thirty-Five: The Wind Rises

The scholars did not resort to violence; for them, as long as reason was on their side, words were a far more effective weapon than fists. Want to debate, to reason things out? Sorry, the academy could casually send forth a renowned scholar who, standing atop the walls of Chang’an, could berate an army of a million for an entire day and night without repeating himself.

The twelve eunuchs dared not act rashly either. Scholars of the academy held little official status in the Tang Empire, not because they were weak, but because no one wished to provoke them. People avoided, shunned, and sidelined them whenever possible... Even the emperor himself turned a blind eye, preferring to muddle through rather than risk having his palace gates besieged by scholars wagging their fingers in rebuke. Scholars, after all, were notorious for their tireless lectures and admonishments.

As for the county yamen officials, they simply stayed out of it.

So both sides stood their ground at the gates of Weiyang Academy, neither willing to yield. The scholars knew full well that He Chang’an had disappeared; even after the headmaster and the two great scholars, Du Thirteen and Wen Taiyuan, had exhausted all their efforts, employing the Confucian divine art of "Perceiving the Finest Detail," they could not divine where the rascal had fled. They only sensed vaguely that the scoundrel had not gone far and that a righteous aura was shrouding his tracks from their divinations...

“There’s no way the Qi-Consuming Technique could reach the eighteenth level! Wait, no—the energy is still surging. He’s about to break through to the nineteenth level!” He Chang’an found himself unable to stop.

With each level the Qi-Consuming Technique ascended, his physical strength grew markedly. Impurities were expelled from his organs, meridians, blood, flesh, sinews, bones, and skin. Oddly enough, the foul, pungent odor seemed to alleviate the little nun’s hunger, stopping her from sucking on her own fingers...

Li Yishan had long since regained consciousness. The old man kept his eyes closed, feeling the righteous energy within him circulate in accordance with a martial artist’s regimen, channeling it through his body. His heart was a jumble of emotions.

He, a scholar, was actually cultivating the crude methods of a martial artist just to “heal his wounds”...

Yet, he couldn’t deny it felt wonderful—lying still and gaining power, so much easier than burning the midnight oil over the classics. With a robust physique, he thought, he could add a new item to the price list when helping those courtesans set their bones: “One squat when the rooster crows once, two squats when it crows twice...”

Truly, those two lines of poetry by that scoundrel He Chang’an captured the spirit perfectly. They really were kindred spirits.

At the main gates of Weiyang Academy, seven or eight bonfires were ablaze. The yamen runners huddled together for warmth, none daring to make a sound. The twelve eunuchs sat in a circle, whispering amongst themselves, casting wary glances at the scholars.

The scholars, by contrast, were at ease. The academy gates were their own turf, after all. They sent Ma Dai and other students into the woods to fetch wild hares and pheasants for the pot.

A scholar fetched out the academy’s great iron cauldron, and, after skinning and cleaning the wild game, it was all thrown in to stew. Headmaster Zhao Zheng himself took up the ladle, serving out meat and broth.

After hours of verbally sparring with the eunuchs, they truly were weary—their lips scorched, swollen, and red from the effort.

Once fed and warmed, the three great scholars opened a private “group chat” through their shared sense.

“Zhao Zheng: Taiyuan, Thirteen, do you feel that? The wind’s picking up.”
“Wen Taiyuan: An ominous wind.”
“Du Thirteen: It’s blowing only toward the academy.”
“Zhao Zheng: There’s something strange about this wind.”
“Du Thirteen: It is odd. My heartbeat’s racing.”

Later in the night, the wind truly rose. At first, it rustled the leaves and brushed their faces; then suddenly, the stars dimmed as a great black cloud swept across the sky. A sinister wind carried with it endless sighs, grudges, and moans, spreading through the air.

Beneath the dull, starless sky, a phantom statue began to materialize, lowering itself to gaze coldly down upon the earth.

“The Night God Cult...” The three scholars were seized with alarm, exchanging glances as they released waves of righteous energy, shielding Ma Dai, Shen Yan, and the other students.

The twelve eunuchs braced themselves, back to back, swords drawn, faces ashen as they stared up at the phantom overhead.

The county yamen runners, meanwhile, were utterly unaware of the threat; like livestock in the cold, they simply pressed together for warmth, oblivious to the shadow of death that had descended. Their cultivation was far too shallow for them to sense anything.

The phantom’s visage was twisted and pale, blood dripping from its lips—a sight of pure malevolence. Its eyes were vacant and confused, as though caught between bewilderment and despair.

For the twelve eunuchs, the three third-ranked scholars, and the lowly yamen runners and students, the apparition in the sky was no less than a god.

A compulsion to kneel and worship this so-called “Night God” seized them.

The eunuchs, in particular, clutched their heads, eyes bulging, a swirl of black mist gathering at their brows, making them look all the more uncanny.

In the end, it was the scholars who managed to hold onto a sliver of clarity. After a struggle that felt like wrestling with demons, Zhao Zheng, Wen Taiyuan, and Du Thirteen were the first to break free.

The three exchanged glances and shouted as one, “If one cannot serve men, how can one serve ghosts?”

And again, “Within thirty zhang of this place, no living soul shall be touched by evil or specter!”

Three brilliant lights burst forth, forming a vast protective dome of gentle, silken radiance that enveloped the twelve eunuchs, the fifty or sixty yamen runners, and the dozen white-clad scholars.

The crowd collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, terror-stricken as they looked up to find nothing visible.

Here, all evil spirits and ghosts were banished.

The headmaster produced a sage’s classic and an iron brush; Wen Taiyuan brought out an inkstone; Du Thirteen, with a wave of his hand, produced a scroll entitled “The Thatched Cottage Broken by Autumn Wind.”

“Zhao Zheng: Du Thirteen, your scroll is rather out of season.”
“Wen Taiyuan: It’s fine. This is an ominous wind, not an autumn breeze.”
Du Thirteen silently stowed away the “Thatched Cottage” and took out a new scroll, “The Lonely Path through Shu,” bellowing, “By day we flee the tigers, by night the serpents; gnashing their teeth and sucking blood, they kill without mercy! Slay them!”

His entire body shone with righteous light, which transformed into dozens of sword beams, soaring upward to strike the ghostly visage above.

Wen Taiyuan remarked, “That line from the ‘Shu Road’ poem suits this moment, though it lacks sufficient killing intent.”

Zhao Zheng replied, “Killing intent? That’s easily remedied. Du Thirteen’s fury is sky-high right now!”

With the headmaster’s support, Du Thirteen’s righteous sword light surged in power, turning from white to blue, becoming pure and refined as it pierced the ghost’s face.

A faint, wet sound followed.

The ghostly visage rippled briefly, then recovered as though untouched, prompting the twelve eunuchs to jeer, “Scholars, take it easy—don’t hurt us!”

The scholars flushed in embarrassment and fell silent.

Everyone knew the Confucian Sage’s way had lost its true inheritance; while it was effortless to suppress petty ghosts just entering the ranks, true killing moves were lacking.

With such a gulf in strength, even the thickest skin was of no use.

Against such a powerful ghost, even third-ranked scholars found themselves at a loss.

“Zhao Zheng: What now?”
“Wen Taiyuan: What should we do?”
“Du Thirteen: It won’t go through...”
“Ma Dai: Maybe... try dissolving it with righteous energy?”
“Zhao Zheng, Wen Taiyuan, Du Thirteen: Shut up!”

“Damn, why are they all gathered at the gate?” At the entrance of the academy’s sacred hall, Li Yishan was flustered. “It’s over, we can’t escape. They’re here...”

“No, I can’t—my father’s out there too...” muttered the scoundrel, He Chang’an.