Chapter Seventy-Seven: When the Vessel Overflows, It Spills

After advancing the Breath Cultivation Technique to the thirty-sixth level, He Chang’an estimated that he could now make thirty Mr. Ma Dai weep with a single punch, or withstand a direct blow from a warrior of the eighth rank. Of course, such calculations were tinged with humor and not to be taken seriously.

Yet over a month of “healing the sick and saving the wounded” had not only dramatically increased his own strength, but also won him the genuine goodwill of the scholars at the academy and the disabled old border soldiers.

The venerable scholar had lent him the glyph for “sword,” bestowed upon him a thread of northern murderous intent, granted him a wisp of the Tang Dynasty’s true dragon energy, and even veiled his fate so no one could divine it. Such grand gestures were entirely unknown to He Chang’an.

In Yellow Clay Alley, only two or three dozen scholars remained behind to manage the bookshop and stationery store; the others had returned to Mount Jiuhua to study and cultivate. Zhao Zheng, Du Shisan, and Wen Taiyuan—three great Confucian scholars—could not forget the rascal He Chang’an, yearning for another round of scolding and beatings, hoping to nudge their own attainments just a little higher.

He Chang’an was still hesitating when Mr. Lü lost his temper. The old scholar lectured the three great scholars for more than two hours right in front of He Chang’an, punctuating his admonishments with several kicks apiece, and drove them away.

In truth, He Chang’an had been genuinely willing to help this time—not with their cultivation, of course, as the two previous public “displays” had been mere accidents of fate. Those scholars had already spent decades immersed in mountains of classics and oceans of prose, accumulating enough to need only an opportunity to break through. He Chang’an’s crudeness had conveniently provided just such a catalyst.

Now, if he were to beat to death scholars like Ma Dai or Shen Yan, it wouldn’t just grant them a breakthrough for nothing. These were truths He Chang’an hadn’t understood at first, but after spending some time with Mr. Lü, he began to puzzle them out for himself.

Perhaps this is what is meant by “when the vessel is full, it overflows”…

He had once earnestly sought instruction from Mr. Lü on this matter. After a long thoughtful silence, the old scholar bowed to He Chang’an and said kindly, “When three walk together, there must be one I can learn from. He Chang’an, your thoughts are correct.”

He Chang’an, in turn, blushed fiercely, returned the bow, and practically fled in embarrassment.

…

Afterward, He Chang’an mulled things over and finally made the trip to Mount Jiuhua. It was his first time visiting the academy, and everything was novel to him. Accompanied by the three deans, he paid respects to the Great Sage Confucius, as well as the Restorer Sage, the Ancestral Sage, the Narrator Sage, and the Sub-Sage, before returning to the lecture hall beside the pool.

It was then that He Chang’an finally understood: Confucianism… had once been immensely powerful.

This time, Zhao Zheng and the other two deans did not mention anything about “breaking through with beatings and scoldings.” Clearly, after a thorough dressing-down from the old scholar, they understood the reasoning behind it. Still, they observed all proper courtesies; after all, the academy owed He Chang’an a great debt.

---

So Zhao Zheng, wearing a pained expression, brought out a jar of wine, said to have been brewed decades ago by Lord Zheng himself when he was still Minister of War—a rare and precious vintage.

“Zheng Xiaomei’s character is questionable, but his winemaking was once unmatched in the world,” Du Shisan remarked at just the right moment, eyes shining; clearly, he had been longing for this aged wine for some time. “He Chang’an, it’s thanks to your reputation that Wen Taiyuan and I get to enjoy this.”

Wen Taiyuan laughed and said, “Indeed, Du Shisan speaks truly. He Chang’an’s ‘face’ can now be traded for wine.”

He Chang’an could only shake his head and smile wryly, not daring to reply. These scholars seemingly couldn’t stomach the words of the sages, nor eat meat or drink wine, unless they spent the day bickering and arguing.

Perhaps, otherwise, life would feel bland and tasteless.

“This jar is called Jianmen, or ‘Ghost Hits the Wall.’ The idea is that the aroma seeps through the vessel; once unsealed, the sword energy bursts forth, sending any demons or spirits drawn by the scent rolling on the ground or banging their heads against the wall.

Back then, Zheng Xiaomei was a mediocre scholar. Seeing academy students ostracized and suppressed at court, finally forced to leave Chang’an in sorrow, he was moved by compassion and sent this jar of Jianmen Ghost Hits the Wall. I suppose he meant to say, ‘The academy is like an old jar of wine—one day, it too will burst with sword energy…’”

Reminiscing, the three deans’ expressions turned somber, their smiles bitter. Even Du Shisan, usually the most argumentative, fell silent.

It was a rare moment of peace.

He Chang’an gazed at the jar and sensed an elusive sword intent within, as well as a faint, inexpressible aura of baleful yin. His expression grew odd.

“Can wine really have such a flavor?”

“Dean, is this jar truly a gift from Lord Zheng?” He Chang’an asked, somewhat doubtful.

“Of course,” replied the dean. Seeing He Chang’an’s uneasy expression, he pressed, “Why, is there a problem?”

“I was just speculating,” He Chang’an replied after a moment’s thought. “Perhaps I’m overthinking it, but… why does there seem to be an aura of baleful yin in this wine jar?”

The three deans’ faces changed dramatically as they sprang to their feet.

They trusted He Chang’an’s words, knowing full well his unique constitution and skills—just days ago, he had helped heal more than three hundred academy students.

The three of them each employed lesser Confucian arts: Insight, Perception, and Discernment.

Within a few breaths, Zhao Zheng, Du Shisan, and Wen Taiyuan exchanged glances, then turned to He Chang’an. “There is indeed something wrong.”

“What did the three deans discover?” He Chang’an asked.

---

Zhao Zheng said, “I saw a sea of blood, where a million Tang soldiers lay dead, their corpses rotting, vultures swooping, flesh devoured for a thousand miles.”

Du Shisan said, “I saw ten thousand miles of scorched earth, everywhere broken walls and desolation, the people homeless, resorting even to cannibalism.”

Wen Taiyuan said, “I saw smoke and flames throughout the Tang realm—demonic armies rampaging, ghost tribes cruel and murderous, the witches and sea monsters running rampant, and Chang’an itself fallen…”

The three looked at each other in dismay.

That a single jar of wine could fill three master scholars with such dread, as if thrust into a nightmare of horror, was truly bizarre.

…

He Chang’an, too, felt his heart race. He quietly extended his spiritual sense, and in the ripples of his heart’s lake, he “saw” the ruins of a battlefield—shattered swords everywhere, the towering bones of giant beasts, white as snow and chilling to the bone.

As he walked through this place, he finally understood what a world of swords truly meant.

No, it was a world of sword intent.

Every broken blade, more or less, retained a trace of sword intent—some vast, some unfathomably deep, some clinging like maggots to the bone…

With each step forward, He Chang’an was pierced by several sword intents at once. It hurt, but he endured.

Ever since he began to comprehend sword intent, his every thought, day and night, revolved around it.

He Chang’an did not consider himself a born genius; he would never believe that just by practicing from a sword manual, one could become a sword cultivator.

The old scholar had hinted more than once that, just as with Confucianism and Buddhism, the Taoist sword arts had also suffered from broken lines of transmission—meaning those so-called “secret manuals” were riddled with flaws.

He gave no definite answers; rather, he wanted He Chang’an to explore on his own for a time before making any decisions.

Travel ten thousand miles, read ten thousand books, only then can you write with divine inspiration.

A true lover of learning, indeed.

…

Upon the surface of his heart’s lake, gentle ripples spread; within the ruins of an ancient battlefield, bones were piled high and sword intent surged.

In those days, the youth pressed forward, alone on a rugged road.