Chapter Eighty: Journey to the Northern Frontier

As soon as war erupted in the northern territories, the entire court was shaken. Every office across the three ministries and six departments sprang into action, gathering provisions and readying the troops—military matters for which preparations had long been made. Thus, on the whole, things proceeded in an orderly fashion, and no major mishaps occurred. Even the county office in Chang’an strengthened its patrols, launching a sweeping campaign to eradicate the remnants of the Night God Sect. Within the Demon-Slaying Bureau, demons filled every corner; many surviving members of the Night God Sect, after cursory identification and interrogation, were swiftly executed and their remains reduced to ashes.

He Chang’an looked on, lamenting the waste of so much Yin energy and sighing deeply, wishing he could indulge in a frenzy of effortless gains. Yet, he was about to depart for the northern frontier. Demon-Slaying Envoys like Zheng Hongxiu, Zhang Yichao, and Luo Daqi were dispatched to various borderlands. Even the Yellow-rank envoys, Jiang Jifeng and Wu Jincao, among others, had been sent out in droves, leaving only a handful behind to defend Chang’an.

Truth be told, He Chang’an wished to stay and guard the city. But before he could voice his desire, Lord Zheng sent him sprawling with a kick and, as a parting gift, barked at him to get lost.

Dusty and disheveled, He Chang’an returned to Yellow Mud Alley, sighing as he packed his belongings, grumbling incessantly that he was but a weakling, ill-suited for the northern border, unable to make full use of his talents.

At last, Old He, unable to tolerate his son’s complaints, rushed forward intending to give He Chang’an a sound thrashing. Only the intervention of Ah Jiu, the little fox spirit, Li Yishan, and others pulled him away after much persuasion, prompting him to storm off to drown his frustrations in wine.

The old frontier soldier was heartbroken, convinced his son lacked courage and was fearful of death—unlike his own youthful days—suspecting perhaps the boy was really Old Yang’s child from next door.

In truth, there was little to pack. He Chang’an, long accustomed to traveling light, kept all valuables on his person. Packing, in essence, meant Ah Jiu and the little fox spirit preparing some dried lamb, rope, bamboo skewers, and other necessities for him.

Ah Jiu, working through the night, whittled a bamboo sword and solemnly handed it to He Chang’an, saying earnestly, “He Chang’an, scholars say a precious sword is gifted to heroes. This Spring Dawn is yours now—do not bring shame upon the name of Bamboo Sword Mountain.”

She personally tied the Spring Dawn to his waist, cautioning him repeatedly, warning that the northern frontier was rife with demons and spirits.

“If you face something you can defeat, don’t back down. If it’s beyond you, run.”

He Chang’an gazed at Ah Jiu’s dark, delicate features with a tragic air. So much for Bamboo Sword Mountain! She had been so clever masquerading as a boy, with her fierce glare. But ever since her true identity was revealed, it seemed her wits had gone astray.

Nonetheless, he reached out to tousle Ah Jiu’s hair, smiling gently. “All right, all right. If I encounter any monsters or spirits on the way, I’ll slay them with Spring Dawn and uphold the honor of Bamboo Sword Mountain.”

“It’s our Bamboo Sword Mountain,” Ah Jiu fixed her gaze on He Chang’an, her tone resolute.

“Yes, yes, our Bamboo Sword Mountain,” He Chang’an nodded vigorously.

“Remember: if you can win, go all out; if not, flee.”

“I’ll remember.”

Ah Jiu murmured softly, seeming relieved, her hand resting on her modest chest, her dark, delicate face breaking into a satisfied smile.

He Chang’an owned a storage artifact, though its space was limited. Inside, it was crowded with pills, talismans, literary treasures, and magical tools—all gifts from Master Lü.

The old scholar escorted He Chang’an out of Chang’an, chattering endlessly about scholarly principles: “Do not impose upon others what you yourself do not desire,” “If you wish to stand, help others to stand; if you wish to succeed, help others to succeed,” and so forth.

He Chang’an didn’t fully grasp these teachings, but he committed every word to memory.

The old scholar had once said that He Chang’an would never be a proper scholar but would make an excellent student, and that gave him comfort.

Outside Chang’an, at the Ten-Mile Pavilion, three hundred academy scholars, led by Li Yishan, stood ready, bags packed and swords at their waists.

Watching the scholars with their flowing sleeves and elegant bearing, He Chang’an was puzzled and turned to Master Lü.

“They’re accompanying you to the northern frontier,” the old scholar said warmly, looking at the students with a contented smile. “This is the academy’s tradition: when idle, we study and write, cultivating both land and mind. When war calls, we must sacrifice ourselves for righteousness.”

These simple words struck He Chang’an deeply, filling him with righteous spirit—sadly, it was immediately devoured by the gluttonous Little Black Rod.

He looked back at the scholars, each one surging with righteous energy, their auras swelling before his eyes. He felt a twinge of envy.

Li Yishan had changed into a blue cloth robe, his unruly white hair neatly combed, hand resting on his sword. He bowed deeply to Master Lü and declared loudly, “Li Yishan of the academy, leading three hundred scholars to the northern frontier, requests guidance and instruction, Master!”

The old scholar chuckled, walked over, ruffled Li Yishan’s hair, and said, “Liu Hedong wasn’t as handsome as you in his day, but he had more grit—a promising scholar.”

Li Yishan’s mouth twitched, muttering under his breath, “Master, could you be more flattering?” Yet he still respectfully bowed and saluted.

“But Zhao Zheng, Du Shisan, and Wen Taiyuan each have their shortcomings compared to you,” the old scholar continued, ignoring Li Yishan’s complaints.

“You have a better appearance than all of them, and, every time you visit the music halls, you rarely spend a coin—sometimes you even get paid! And, Yishan, your catchy rhymes are indeed better than He Chang’an’s; you have more talent. As you head north, I hope you’ll be as adept at slaying demons as you are at composing verse. I await your good news.”

“Also, before you leave, let me gift you a poem to embolden your journey: ‘This journey to the northern frontier may last a year; you’ll face a hundred thousand deadly ghost women!’”

With hands clasped behind his back, the old scholar gazed toward the north, exuding the air of a master, clearly pleased with his rousing farewell verse.

Neither Li Yishan nor He Chang’an, nor the three hundred scholars, could endure any more. Master Lü was truly something else!

Li Yishan forced a laugh and whispered, “Master, could you spare me a little dignity?”

“Any perks? For instance, at the Palace of Music, could you mention your name for a twenty percent discount?” The old scholar patted Li Yishan’s shoulder, smiled, and turned to walk back toward Chang’an.

Along the Yellow Mud Road, the old man walked alone, his steps faltering, white hair tousled, clad in a threadbare cotton robe—a sight that tugged at their hearts.

Spring breezes caressed the willow branches.

On the Ba River, sunlight danced on the waves.

From afar, the old scholar’s chant drifted back: “Eight streams encircle Chang’an; sword in hand, I ascend the Heavenly Mountain.”

His voice carried the qualities of metal and solemnity, filled with the chilling air of battle. Sword energy surged, grand and magnificent, stirring He Chang’an, Li Yishan, and the three hundred scholars with fierce courage and lofty ambition.

Then, his tone shifted to a stately, elegant melody, resonant as a great bell, singing: “Guan, guan, calls the osprey on the river islet; graceful lady, gentleman’s fine match...”