Chapter Seventy-Six: The Hidden Dragon Awaits

He Chang'an's method for making a living was simple: practicing medicine and healing injuries in Yellow Clay Lane. In truth, it was little more than selling dog meat under a sheep's head—a pretense for treating the sick and wounded, while in reality, he was refining the marks on people's souls and purging the baleful yin energy. He could hardly help it. Facing demons and ghosts head-on carried great risk and easily drew the Night God Sect's attention, so he had sought Master Zheng’s counsel first, and only after receiving a clear answer did he dare make a move. Out of caution, he practiced first on his own father.

To save lives, he began with the scholars from the academy, following Master Lü’s advice. The old saying proved true: you don’t know until you look, and when you do, it’s shocking. Among the hundreds of scholars, nearly three hundred had their soul marks tampered with. It was outrageous.

To suppress monsters and ghosts, Daoists, Buddhists, and Confucian disciples each had their own techniques and strengths. Overall, Confucian righteous energy surpassed Buddhist chants, Buddhist chants were stronger than Daoist talismans, and Daoist talismans were better than the tricks of the fringe sects. As for rough warriors, they were helpless against these supernatural beings.

Master Lü held that all things, in the end, converge; all schools return to the flow, and whether Confucian, Daoist, Buddhist, or rough warrior, when they reach the highest realms, they can break all spells with a single force.

Afraid of Night God Sect’s revenge, He Chang'an acted swiftly, refining the soul marks directly. Then, his little black rod, wrapped in sword intent, severed the black threads. Thus, he could ‘heal’ a person in the time it took to drink a cup of tea—a remarkable speed.

He Chang'an's father and Alan's father arrived together. Seeing the crowd, they were quietly astonished: “Good heavens, why are so many people lining up?”

Alan's father, though a long-time resident of Chang'an, was a wounded old border soldier with little status. Seeing those distinguished scholars ahead, he felt somewhat ashamed.

“Brother, maybe we shouldn’t bother…” Alan's father hesitated.

“No way, you wait in line; I’ll find a way to smooth things over,” He Chang'an’s father said, pushing through the crowd to the small courtyard, quietly asking people to make way. He soon reached the door where He Chang'an was consulting.

Standing at the threshold, the old man peeked in and saw his son treating a scholar. Pride swelled in his heart.

After refining the scholar's soul mark, He Chang'an turned and saw his father leaning by the door, as if he had something to say.

“Father, what brings you here? How are you feeling?” He Chang'an stepped outside with a smile.

He Chang'an deeply respected his father—not only for raising him but also for surviving deadly battles against the ghost tribes in the northern frontier, coming back scarred yet alive. Old border soldiers evoked a sense of sorrow.

Looking around, He Chang'an’s father saw the crowd was inconvenient, so he pulled his son aside and whispered, “Could we cut in line?”

He Chang'an was taken aback. “Father knows how to pull strings…” he thought, then joked, “What, am I getting a stepmother?”

The old man spat and, feeling it improper, quietly scuffed it away. “Damn rascal, always acting up—just like his old man!”

“It’s this: an old border soldier from back then, same as me. Can you…”

“Bring him in,” He Chang'an said at once.

The scholars' soul marks weren’t immediately life-threatening, but the border soldiers’ wounds were genuine baleful yin; the sooner treated, the less they suffered. It wasn’t because of his father’s ‘pull.’

He Chang'an returned to the room, just as he picked up a bowl of tea, noise rose outside.

“What, even rough warriors are joining the fun? Trying to cut in line, did they ask us scholars?”

“Quiet, that old man looks like He Chang'an’s father.”

“So what if he is? Isn’t it true that, whatever else, scholars’ rules matter most? If He Chang'an breaks the rules, does he want to hit us?”

The scholar’s eye socket received a heavy punch; next came a knee to the gut and an elbow to the soft spot. In just a few breaths, the scholar was beaten to the ground.

The surrounding scholars reacted, shouting together, “How dare two old ruffians start a fight!”

He Chang'an’s father and Alan’s father, two old border soldiers, coordinated perfectly; despite their wounds, without even a glance exchanged, three punches and two kicks took down a scholar of the eighth rank.

Seeing the scholars bristling and ready to retaliate, the two old border soldiers, white-haired and upright, stood firm and silent. Their warrior’s vitality wasn’t strong, but it was dignified, suffused with the aura of battle and tragedy.

The scholars’ momentum immediately faltered.

All were educated men, and they knew: the vitality of an ordinary warrior was different from that of someone who had fought on the battlefield. In every era, those who bled and fought at the front, crawling through mud and risking their lives for their country, deserved respect. In the Great Tang, this was especially true.

The scholars instinctively opened a path, letting the two white-haired, wounded veterans walk through, as if welcoming old heroes.

Standing on the steps, He Chang'an watched in silence, his nose tinged with emotion.

The Great Tang had men of true mettle, who braved snow with bow and blade to vanquish the enemy.

Heroes, once forged at the Tower, are gone; banners hang, heads turn white before they are furled. Human sorrows and joys follow each other, now as then.

A couplet sprang to mind—he wasn’t sure if he’d copied it or pieced it together himself, but He Chang'an felt it fit.

Master Lü had said it well: matters of scholars could never be called plagiarism; it was merely borrowing words to express one's feeling.

A faint sword intent appeared, mysterious and subtle. Even He Chang'an didn’t notice it: on the little black rod in his spiritual sea, a mysterious rune was inscribed, as if lightning streaked across distant heavens.

In the Yellow Clay Lane school, Master Lü, teaching the children about ‘sacrificing oneself for righteousness,’ looked out the window and nodded.

The old scholar wrote: “Life is what I desire; righteousness is what I desire. If both cannot be had, one sacrifices life for righteousness.” His calligraphy was strict and forceful, meaning radiating through the paper, sharper with age.

After finishing a scroll of the Confucian sub-saint's ‘Sacrifice for Righteousness,’ the old scholar, still unsatisfied, took a small wolf-hair brush, focused for a moment, and said softly:

“Brother, your so-called sacrifice for righteousness back then, was truly grand.”

“To sacrifice for righteousness, how could one lack a sword? He Chang'an, you rascal, not bad—but you’ll never truly be a scholar.”

The old scholar, as if inspired, curved his brush to draw a fist-sized character for ‘sword,’ stared at it for several breaths, then scolded:

“Hidden dragon, do not act!”

The ‘sword’ character vanished.

As He Chang'an treated Alan’s father, a ripple stirred within him; he heard water lapping at his ear, as if a lazy serpent stirred and sent waves across his heart.

He Chang'an gained a new understanding: “Hidden dragon, do not act.”

On the Star-Picking Tower, Li Qinglian, sipping tea, suddenly looked north and sighed.

Deep in the palace, on the shimmering lake, the emperor of the Great Tang stood alone at the prow. At the sound of a splash, a golden dragon fish vanished before his eyes.

The emperor looked down at the glittering lake, shook his head and smiled wryly. “Ah, scholars…”