Chapter Nine: Keeping Watch at Night

More than three hundred of these “whimpering fiends” were wiped out at once by He Chang’an with his little black rod, and then spent a full hour grinding away in the spiritual sea of his dantian before finally being refined completely. The satisfaction was undeniable, yet because his soul force wasn’t strong enough, the anguished screams of the disheartened ghosts as they were ground to pieces in the black millstone nearly drove him mad.

When the refining was finally done, He Chang’an found that he had broken through his bottleneck and advanced to the second level of the Qi-Consumption Technique. The speed of his progress made him seriously suspect that, perhaps, he was some sort of cheat character.

The most obvious benefit of his advancement was that his dantian’s spiritual sea had doubled in size—nearly as large as two mouthfuls of saliva now. Next was the transformation of his physical strength, which increased by about twofold. Even the little black rod had gained some enhancement; ordinarily, it was a bit shorter and thinner than a toothpick, but it had become much more agile.

“These whimpering fiends are perfect for leveling up...”

With little risk and quick improvement, He Chang’an began to ponder how he might quickly track down the lairs of the disheartened ghosts.

“Boss, the pit’s dug, but the lads are all exhausted. Let’s just head back for now,” Quick-Hand Ma Liu said, shuffling over, drenched in sweat.

He Chang’an put away the “Ghost-Hunting Handbook” he had just pulled from his chest, stood up, and smiled cheerily. “Let’s go back, eat some lamb, drink some strong liquor, and keep vigil for Captain Zhang.”

The quick-hands exchanged uneasy glances. He Chang’an was known as the epitome of a scoundrel and a madman—a petty hoodlum even he dared not provoke when he lost his temper. To see him sporting such a smile now felt like a bad omen.

“Boss, how about... we skip the vigil tonight?” Quick-Hand Hu Fourth hesitated. “Let me treat the lads to the brothel for some music?”

“Yes, yes, the brothel and music—whoever lasts until the third crow of the rooster wins!” the others echoed, making it clear that none wanted to keep vigil for Captain Zhang.

It was standard practice.

In these turbulent times, human bonds were thin as mist. The closest camaraderie between colleagues rarely went beyond wine, meat, and music. If someone’s family fell on hard times, people might lend a hand if they could—but for a mere “squad leader” to die and expect everyone to keep vigil...

“It’s settled. We’ll keep vigil for Captain Zhang,” He Chang’an declared, final and uncompromising.

His past life and education had taught him that, having become teammates, one ought to act as such. Even if you couldn’t take a blade for your comrade, the least you could do was not become a burden or a liability...

He had no illusions about this lot of destined “pig teammates,” but he didn’t intend to end up utterly alone, either. This Great Tang was perilous; more teammates meant more chances to survive. When danger struck, as long as he could run faster than the others...

When they returned to Zhang Tiger’s house in the southern part of the city, dusk was falling. A murder of old crows circled above, cawing raucously, like an ominous cloud hanging over the sky.

He Chang’an felt uneasy—a sense that something was off. If the one “kept” was dead, and the ghost who kept him was severed from this world, then what was with this flock of crows circling overhead?

He noticed the others didn’t react at all, as if this was nothing unusual.

“This Great Tang—how exhausting,” He Chang’an sighed with a wry smile.

He entered the courtyard, once again burning incense and paper offerings in earnest before Zhang Tiger’s spirit, bowing his head to the floor before rising.

“Boss, over here,” Hu Fourth called, having already laid out the wine and meat.

He Chang’an took his seat, face expressionless. He raised a bowl of rough liquor, downed it in one go, exhaled deeply, then broke into a wide grin. “Good wine!”

The quick-hands exchanged glances, baffled by his demeanor.

“Truly, one’s seat determines one’s mind. Look at He Chang’an—a petty scoundrel just days ago, and now after his promotion, suddenly a man of consequence...”

After several catties of lamb and a few bowls of bad wine, even these men, long ground down by years of ghostly oppression, grew a little bold, their tongues loose and thick.

“Boss, to be honest, Captain Zhang was good to us these past years. We are grateful for his kindness.”

“From now on, whoever you want us to rough up, Boss, just say the word—we’ll bring our knives without a second thought!”

After a while, seeing He Chang’an remain gloomy and withdrawn, the group quietly fell silent.

“Brothers,” He Chang’an finally spoke after a few moments’ thought, “we quick-hands live with our blades at our lips—no telling who might be next. Come, drink.”

They drank in somber silence as the night deepened.

Within Weiyang City, lights twinkled here and there. On the surface, at least, a hint of ordinary life lingered.

The crows circling above gradually dispersed, allowing He Chang’an a measure of relief.

Yet inside Zhang Tiger’s cold, deserted home, as moonlight pooled across the courtyard and the great locust tree by the gate cast a wide, shifting shadow, He Chang’an found no true peace.

Gusts of cool wind swept through, the leaves of the locust tree rattling like countless ghostly hands gesturing, as if some unknown presence lurked in the dark.

Suddenly, He Chang’an recalled something and, feigning nonchalance, said, “After we finish Captain Zhang’s affairs tomorrow, let’s swing by Weiyang Academy.”

In the scoundrel memories of “Quick-Hand He Chang’an,” grand places like Baiyun Monastery in the north, Lingyin Temple in the west, and Weiyang Academy in the south were all considered “heretical, fallen places”—best avoided.

What ignorance, he thought. After all, he was just a petty thug who knew only how to brawl and brandish a knife...

He reasoned that, since they were in the southern part of the city, Weiyang Academy couldn’t be far...

But as soon as he finished, the quick-hands all looked at him with strange expressions, eyes wide as eggs, staring straight at He Chang’an.

Was there something wrong? Wasn’t it just a visit to a school...?

He Chang’an felt a vague unease but said nothing more, only raising another bowl of wine and drinking in silence.

From what he knew, the quick-hands of this Tang dynasty were particularly sharp-tongued—faster and sharper with their mouths than their fists. Each one was a master of verbal sparring.

Sure enough, one could no longer hold his tongue. Glancing nervously about, he finally leaned in and whispered, “Boss, do you have a death wish? Daring to go to the ruins of the academy...”

The ruins? How had the original’s memories contained nothing about this? Why was the academy a ruin now?

Right—he was just an ignorant thug, after all.

“The County Captain’s orders,” He Chang’an said, bringing up their superior again. “We quick-hands may not be the strongest, but we can’t be ignorant of our own territory.”

He pulled out the “Ghost-Hunting Handbook” from his chest, waving it nonchalantly. “This is the arrest manual Lord Yang gave me. Just follow it from now on.”

Official authority only lasts so long.

This was his chance to lead the quick-hands in a thorough sweep of the entire county. They might not have the strength to hunt demons or catch thieves, but without a grasp of their surroundings, he would never feel truly secure...

As for the so-called ruins of the academy, he would be content to observe from afar—no need to go courting death.