Chapter Sixty-Six: Return to Yellow Mud Alley

After a visit to the Fireworks Alley and the Music Bureau, he ended up squatting in the snow all night, eating lamb skewers; in the midst of such tastelessness, He Chang’an felt rather cheated.

It was akin to booking a room long ago, tutoring his female deskmate in advanced mathematics all night…

So, as he neared the entrance to Mud Lane, passing by a small tavern, he casually bought a jar of wine, intending to invite Ah Jiu for a few sips to warm themselves.

The oppressive feeling of being watched had vanished along the way, bringing He Chang’an much relief. Clearly, the Demon Slaying Bureau was a formidable force in Chang’an; he ought to cling tightly to this support.

…

“Is this… Mud Lane?” Upon reaching the alley’s entrance, He Chang’an was utterly bewildered.

A narrow path of bluestone, newly paved and straight, flanked by rows of lush sycamore trees; where there once was a fetid ditch, now flowed clear, sparkling spring water. Even a few gray fish swam leisurely at the bottom.

Above all, what truly astonished He Chang’an was the presence of an elegant, smooth formation array, radiating upright and noble energy in hundreds of clusters, circulating and enveloping the entire alley in a gentle spring-like warmth…

“The scholars of Great Tang truly have too much time on their hands…”

“What’s wrong with letting the snow fall? Instead, they waste those precious droplets of upright energy on such ostentatious, pointless projects…”

He Chang’an grumbled inwardly, wishing he could find a few scholars he could best and kick them squarely.

Too much of a good thing is worse than none.

Moreover, his greatest worry was whether the rent for his small courtyard would rise, taking advantage of the improvements…

“Those who drive up prices deserve damnation!”

“Damn it, I just got five hundred taels of silver, and now it’s time to pay rent.”

Bookshops, stores, eateries, taverns, inns… As he passed by, He Chang’an suspected he might have come to the wrong place; it was clearly a replica of Fireworks Alley.

These scholars lacked imagination.

Especially seeing several architectural imitations of the Emerald Courtyard, Music Bureau, Phoenix Song Pavilion, Xiang River House—prime locations for entertainment—He Chang’an was even more infuriated.

“If you’re going to copy, then copy, everyone’s short on cash at times, but how can you spend the money and never open for business? What’s the meaning of that?”

“Probably those scholars can’t bear to lose face; none would dare step forward to play the roles of madam or manager…”

Eyeing seven or eight lavishly furnished vacant houses, He Chang’an shivered with distress, beginning to regret scaring off Li Yishan.

If only that old man had come to Mud Lane to run these halls and pavilions, he’d surely be an expert…

…

Mud Lane now had a school, and the children were reading in the evening.

The sound of their recitations made He Chang’an pause, inexplicably moved.

The scholars of the academy, outwardly absurd and mundane, never abandoned their aspirations to cultivate themselves, manage their households, govern the state, and bring peace to the world.

Even in such a strange Tang dynasty, they never gave up; it was something worth pondering.

Following the sound of the children reading, He Chang’an arrived at the gate of a three-tiered courtyard. Looking up, he saw a sign reading “Academy,” the calligraphy dignified and strict, possessing its own style; whose hand it was, he could not tell.

He Chang’an was not much of a reader, only finding it pleasing to the eye.

“Barely a hundred steps away lies a gambling house; this academy’s location…”

He Chang’an did not enter, simply lingered at the doorway, listening as the children recited, “Guan guan cries the osprey, on the islet in the river,” and beyond that, he could not follow.

On the third floor of Mud Lane Academy, a thin, austere old scholar stood by the window, engrossed in a yellowed ancient text. Suddenly sensing something, he looked down to see He Chang’an standing at the gate.

The old scholar set down his book, gazed seriously at He Chang’an across the window, then returned to his reading.

A crude, boorish warrior, of passable character.

This was the old scholar’s first impression of He Chang’an.

…

He Chang’an lingered at the school gate for a while, then turned toward his rented courtyard. Each time he glanced at the sky, the Confucian array blocked his view, prompting more silent grumbling:

“What’s wrong with letting the snow fall? The heavens have turned into a sieve; a layer of upright energy is useless.”

Still, the presence of a school in Mud Lane pleased him, subtly changing his attitude toward the academy’s scholars. He resolved that in future, he ought to seize more opportunities to punch them a few times.

If that didn’t suffice, a couple of kicks would do.

Unlike the newly built houses around, his rented courtyard remained unchanged: blue-brick and tile, the gate not garishly decorated by the scholars, which was a relief.

What puzzled He Chang’an was that the gate was open, and someone inside was drunkenly ranting.

“You brat, get out here and let me smack you a few times to vent my anger.” A tall, burly, destitute old man stood proudly with a stick as thick as his wrist, cursing with pointed fingers.

Ah Jiu hid in a guest room, peeking out but saying nothing.

“Trying to seduce my daughter, who gave you the guts? Take a good look at yourself—skinny limbs, are you hoping I’ll beat you to death or cripple you?”

The old man remained outside, stick in hand, swearing up a storm, reeking of alcohol; He Chang’an frowned slightly.

“Is he here to trouble Ah Jiu?”

He Chang’an cleared his throat and laughed, “Sir, why don’t you come inside?”

…

The old man spun around, his appearance imposing, yet his brow and eyes were etched with bitterness and deep wrinkles, his beard wild and flecked with spittle.

Clearly, he’d been standing in the courtyard yelling for quite some time.

“He Chang’an, you’re here,” Ah Jiu, hearing He Chang’an’s voice, sounded as if he’d found a savior, his tone full of joy, “Be careful, this old man is ruthless.”

“No matter how ruthless, he’s not as wicked as you, you little rascal!” The old man spat on the ground, glared fiercely at He Chang’an, and barked:

“So you’re that damned He Chang’an?”

“My reputation’s gotten that big? Brother, could you be more tactful…”

“Er, yes, I am He Chang’an. Do you know me?” He Chang’an didn’t take offense, instead sitting casually on the steps of the main house, smiling, “Carry on, you two.”

The old man eyed He Chang’an’s lazy demeanor, unable to vent his rage, and roared, “You’re certainly in cahoots! Alan is my daughter—don’t you dogs dare have designs on her!”

He Chang’an paused, thinking, “Well done, Ah Jiu. He seemed so innocent…”

“Ah Jiu, you rascal, get out here and let me give you a thrashing!” The burly old man turned, furious at Ah Jiu peering out the window.

“Not coming out,” now that He Chang’an had returned, Ah Jiu felt inexplicably emboldened, muttering, “If you have the guts, come in.”

“If you have the guts, you come out!” roared the old man.

The two of them cursed at each other across the window, neither able to best the other…

He Chang’an found it amusing and simply took out the wine jar, fetched a bowl, and leisurely began to drink.

He saw clearly now: this “battle” between the old man and Ah Jiu wouldn’t end anytime soon; he suspected this window-shouting match had happened many times during his absence.

“Carry on, it’s none of my business.” He Chang’an took a sip, smiling contentedly, “It’s been ages since I heard such a lively quarrel—feels great…”

“Damned dog!”

“He Chang’an!”

“…!”

The burly old man glared, veins bulging on his forehead, taking a big step forward with his stick; Ah Jiu yanked open the window, eyes nearly blazing.

He Chang’an was confused—he’d only had a couple of sips; what did they mean by this?

Turning his head, he caught sight of Ah Jiu’s expression and was stunned.