Chapter Forty-Five: You Look So Handsome When You Drink!

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Moonlight flowed like water, sword energy thundered like a storm.

At the entrance of the Yellow Mud Alley, twelve black shadows darted forward, swift as vultures, their moves ruthless, venomous, and cunning, accompanied by a foul, nauseating stench.

A disheveled youth gathered strength under his feet; his tattered straw sandals instantly crumbled to dust, and his whole body shot forward like a sharp sword, piercing into the crowd in a flash.

Draw the sword. Return it to the sheath.

In the span of a breath or two, the battle was over.

The twelve shadows halted abruptly, each frozen in their attacking stance, their eyes filled with confusion.

A fine red line appeared at each of their throats. After two or three breaths, blood began to seep out slowly…

The ragged youth lifted his bamboo sword, studying it carefully under the moonlight. He noticed a trace of blood on the blade, so faint it would escape anyone’s notice unless examined closely.

His eyes dimmed as he lifted his head toward the moon, murmuring softly, “Still not fast enough…”

“I owe him a few baskets of steamed buns. Killing twelve people for him should be enough to settle the debt, right?”

…

He Chang’an sat cross-legged on a piece of sheepskin, cultivating, running his energy cycles with some unease.

He sensed a hint of danger, fleeting and elusive, which made him more vigilant. A layer of clear radiance shimmered around him—the prized defensive technique of a scholar, the Righteous Aura…

Suddenly, someone vaulted over the wall, landing lightly on the ground without making any effort to conceal himself, bare feet catching the moonlight.

He Chang’an opened his eyes, blinking in surprise: ‘Ah Jiu, the boy who glared at the steamed buns?’

He rose to open the door, catching a lingering sword aura and a faint scent of blood.

This boy had killed someone not long ago.

His sword energy still radiated outward, the murderous intent not yet dissipated.

“Where are your shoes?” He Chang’an glanced at Ah Jiu’s bare feet and asked with a smile, “Your pants are torn too—how did you get so careless?”

As he spoke, he turned back inside, found a pair of his own cloth shoes, and tossed them to Ah Jiu. “They might be a bit big, but try them on for now.”

“I don’t want your shoes,” Ah Jiu said a little awkwardly. “My mother told me not to take other people’s things.”

“And didn’t your mother also tell you it’s time to find a wife? Why haven’t you listened?” He Chang’an teased.

He realized he rather liked this youth.

“My mother never said that. She wouldn’t,” Ah Jiu replied stubbornly. “She always said women are trouble—the prettier they are, the better they are at lying.”

‘Now there’s a story…’

You’re not Zhang Wuji, and your mother’s no Yin Susu, so where does that idea come from? Seems that whether in Great Tang or Great Yuan, you should never try to guess a beautiful woman’s heart.

Guess right, you get nothing. Guess wrong—sorry, you’re just a nice guy.

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He Chang’an stooped to pick up the cloth shoes and crouched in front of Ah Jiu, smiling. “They say the barefooted don’t fear those with shoes. But do you want the constables scouring the city for a bare-footed hero?”

He caught Ah Jiu by the ankle and slipped the shoes onto his feet.

“Alright, I owe you a pair of shoes,” Ah Jiu said, shy but resolute. “I’ll kill a few more people for you.”

“For me?” He Chang’an was stunned.

This boy—had he killed for a few baskets of steamed buns?

Who had he killed? Could it be… No wonder he’d sensed a surge of danger earlier, only for it to vanish. Was it because Ah Jiu dealt with it?

But to kill in a single breath—just how fast was this youth’s bamboo sword…

He Chang’an couldn’t help glancing at Ah Jiu’s waist—a bamboo sword, tied with a thin palm-fiber cord, looking just like a country child’s toy.

“How many did you kill?” He Chang’an asked in a low voice.

“Twelve. All eighth-rank warriors,” Ah Jiu replied, his mood a little downcast. “Still not fast enough. There was a trace of blood on my sword.”

‘Alright then, that’s a neat resolution.’

He Chang’an shook his head with a wry smile. This Ah Jiu was simply…

“You gave me a pair of shoes. I’ll kill twelve more for you, and then we’ll call it even,” Ah Jiu said earnestly.

“No need to kill anyone for me—it’s just a pair of shoes.” He Chang’an smiled and changed the subject. “You must be hungry. Cheap wine and lamb, with a few cloves of red garlic—nothing beats it.”

Ah Jiu swallowed silently, saying nothing.

He Chang’an walked out, muttering, “Past Yellow Mud Alley, about two hundred steps on the left, there’s a small tavern. Wonder if it’s still open this late.”

“It’s still open,” Ah Jiu followed, a little embarrassed. “They usually close near dawn.”

…

“I’ve been in Chang’an for two years now. My mother said there’s no future hiding in the remote mountains all my life—only in Chang’an can you find real sword masters…”

He Chang’an ate and drank slowly, watching over Ah Jiu like an elder brother, listening to him share fragments of his past.

Ah Jiu ate his meat slowly but drank quickly.

According to him, meat was a gift from the earth, something to be cherished, savored slowly; wine, on the other hand, was for the wealthy—he could take it or leave it.

So, he drank fast.

Ah Jiu came from the distant north, a land of snow-capped mountains, deserts, and grasslands—and deep, wild forests.

He told He Chang’an that until the age of fourteen, he had never left those deep forests, never seen an outsider. Other than hunting for his mother, his only task was to draw his sword.

Day and night, unending, relentless sword-drawing.

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Until one day, his mother told him he could go to Chang’an, and he did.

“Did you find any sword masters?” He Chang’an asked with interest.

“I found two,” Ah Jiu said, his expression dim, tinged with disappointment. “But I killed them both.”

“Well, what kind of masters were they then?” He Chang’an laughed, pouring him another cup of the cheap wine.

“They were too arrogant. Besides, they had a sinister aura,” Ah Jiu replied.

“You can sense such an aura?” He Chang’an was a little surprised. “That’s a technique of the Night God Sect. Even the Demon Slayers need special tools for that.”

Ah Jiu picked up a piece of lamb, chewing it slowly, and said no more.

He Chang’an did not press him further.

Everyone has their secrets—sometimes, they’re wounds best left unprobed.

…

“Alright. You killed for me, I fed you meat and wine. We’re even.”

An hour later, as they returned to the mouth of Yellow Mud Alley, He Chang’an paused, eyes flickering in the darkness.

He sensed danger.

Ah Jiu’s sword was swift, but it was pure swordsmanship—he hadn’t learned any cultivation techniques. He Chang’an didn’t want this youth to risk himself further on his behalf.

Besides, even with Ah Jiu’s help, they’d be no match for those after his life.

A sixth-rank warrior, twenty-two seventh-ranks, and a ‘monster’ from the Night God Sect—he himself was bait, and the situation looked grim…

‘Have my colleagues from the Demon Slayers arrived yet? Damn it, don’t leave me hanging…’

“There’s an ambush ahead—twenty-three men. One is sixth-rank, the rest are seventh,” Ah Jiu said, peering into the depths of the alley.

“And there’s one more—strange fellow. Seems half-monk, half-Taoist. Be careful.”

‘Does he have the Spirit Eye technique too? No, it must be a hunter’s instinct…’

He Chang’an had studied Ah Jiu’s eyes before; they were pure, without a single impurity, like a newborn’s.

“A few warriors are nothing I can’t handle.” He Chang’an strode forward. “Ah Jiu, next time I’ll treat you to more buns and lamb.

You look dashing when you drink!”

…

Ah Jiu stood at the mouth of Yellow Mud Alley, silently watching He Chang’an’s figure fade into the distance. In his dark, glossy eyes, a strange light flickered, as if tears were about to fall…