The Daoist Boy

The old man with snow-white hair and beard, nicknamed "Killer Ghost" in his youth, felt his chest heaving like a bellows. After delivering those two fierce strikes, he felt his arms tremble slightly, his heart pounding in his chest as though it would leap out.

Yet his body was filled with blood that had turned scorching hot once more. He experienced again that unrestrained, destructive exhilaration.

He remembered a long, long time ago, beheading people beneath torrential rain. Gushing hot blood had sprayed across his face, just as it did now. The blood tightened his skin, and its faintly sweet stench kept him alert.

He also remembered how, over the past several decades, he had watched Eldest Son grow up bit by bit, marry, have children, and take charge on his own. He was crippled, a household servant, but he felt that Eldest Son had become his own son.

Now, he had nothing left.

He felt hollowed out. But that emptiness was swiftly filled by something else... the violent fury and brutality suppressed beneath certain emotions erupted like a hidden volcano.

Meng E, the Killer Ghost, straightened up and closed his eyes. A dull, prolonged wheezing came from his chest. A quarter of an hour later, he abruptly opened his eyes and gave a muffled grunt. His joints crackled all over, and as the old man straightened his back, he seemed to grow several feet taller in an instant. The Seven Kills Blade, driven to its very peak, was madly burning away his life—the tyrannical technique he had stumbled upon in his youth, which had made his name, had now become lethal poison, as well as blazing fire.

He slowly exhaled.

White mist shot out like an arrow-like dragon, piercing the night sky.

Three breaths later, the old man easily lifted the thirteen-pound heavy-backed ring-hilted saber and walked toward the western courtyard. After taking several steps, he saw a maid approaching him.

The little maid had originally been watching Qiao Jiaxin. But Qiao Jiaxin had surprisingly neither cried nor made a fuss that night. The two of them grew sleepy and hungry, so she headed for the kitchen to find something to eat.

But in the darkness, she heard a rattling sound and vaguely saw the old man's snow-white beard and hair illuminated by moonlight. The sleepy, exhausted little maid snorted inwardly. As she hurried along, she muttered, "Old bastard, you scared the hell out of me in the middle of the night."

Three more steps, and she finally saw the old man clearly.

She saw the blood on his face.

The little maid stopped instinctively. After thinking for a moment, she was about to scream.

But the old man had already reached her side. He neither stopped nor looked at her.

He merely raised his hand. The saber rose, the head fell, and he continued onward.

The smell of blood spread through the spring night breeze, mingling with the scents of wine, meat, and cosmetics. Meng E reached the gate of the western courtyard and pushed it open. Lewd banter and laughter crashed over him again, but they could no longer knock him down.

With urgent desire in his heart, he limped toward the pavilion. The night wind rose. Candlelight flickered uncertainly within the pavilion. The blade tip struck the ground, metal screeching across stone slabs—only then did the three people turn their heads.

Even the dullest person could sense that something was unusual about the old man. At that instant, Qiao Wangshi finally recalled something Qiao Duanhong had once mentioned by accident.

"...They called him Murder Ghost. Don't be fooled by the way Master Meng looks now... When he was young, he had nowhere else to go and came to the escort agency..."

"...They called him Killer Ghost. Don't judge Master Meng by how he looks now... he came to the escort agency with nowhere else to turn..."

"You've never seen him fight, have you? He's a real expert."

An inexplicable terror immediately rose in her heart. Staring fixedly at the blood on his face, she raised a finger at him and cried in disbelief, "You... you killed someone? You killed someone?!"

"Yes. This old man... killed someone." The white-haired old man spoke in that strange tone, his voice hoarse.

That was how he had spoken in his youth.

"Not nearly enough." He took two steps forward. He moved very slowly, but not to deliberately create pressure or play a cat-and-mouse game. It was because the tyrannical power of the Seven Kills Blade was about to drain away all his vitality.

"Eldest Son just left. You two are going to accompany him." At last, he stepped onto the stairs and saw the terrified faces of the three people clearly.

Qiao Jiaming blinked his drunken, bleary eyes for quite a while before realizing that the old man holding the saber stood only three steps away from him. He shuddered in fright, shoved Qiao Liushi away as if shocked by lightning, and tried to flee in a blind panic.

"You think you can leave?!" the old man shouted lowly, swinging his saber down. The blade tore through the air, and the iron rings on its back rattled in a clamor.

The blade first slashed down the white gauze curtain between them, then swept across Qiao Liushi's arm, ripping open a long gash. Then... its momentum suddenly slowed. Like a swimming dragon abruptly stripped of its divine power, it bent heavily downward and chopped into the stone table.

The sound of shattering cups, plates, and bowls mixed with the terrified scrambling of the three people. Qiao Liushi screamed loudly, and Qiao Jiaming screamed even louder. But after they had howled for a while, the three suddenly realized... the old man had gone silent.

Then they heard the heavy saber hit the ground with a clang.

Qiao Jiaming was stunned for quite a while before pushing aside Qiao Liushi, who was crying and shouting that she was going to die, and prodding Meng E with the tip of his foot. Only after seeing that he did not respond and was not pretending did he walk over, bend down, and check whether he was breathing.

Qiao Jiaming stood stunned for a long while before pushing away Qiao Liushi, who was weeping and crying that she was about to die. He nudged Meng E with the tip of his shoe. Seeing no response, and that the old man did not seem to be feigning it, he walked over, bent down, and checked his breathing.

Then he jerked back his hand and gritted his teeth. "This old killer! He's not even dead yet! He's gone completely mad! Murder!"

As he spoke, emboldened by drink, he reached for the saber on the ground. But wine and women had hollowed out his body, he had drunk too much, and the saber was heavy. When he tried to lift it, he could not.

Qiao Wangshi leaned against a redwood pillar of the pavilion and said in a trembling voice, "Forget it, forget it. Spare his life for now. Tie him up and send him to the prefectural magistrate. Eldest Son is dead... Meng E is perfect. A household servant colluded with bandits from outside. Besides, I heard he was a thief and bandit in his youth. Prefect Li... wasn't he looking for an excuse? Well, here it is."

"A servant colluding with outside bandits? Huh?" Qiao Jiaming's eyes widened. "Who would believe that?"

"It is precisely because it is hard to believe that people will think it is true. Fool." Qiao Wangshi's face darkened as she looked at Qiao Jiaming, then at the sobbing Qiao Liushi. "Besides, who was this old bastard close to in ordinary times? Have you forgotten?"

"Huh?" Qiao Jiaming blinked.

"Ah." Qiao Wangshi sighed. "That Liu Laodao. Didn't those two often drink together? Don't you want the Dragon King Temple on Backstreet? Didn't Prefect Li say the other day that he lacked an excuse to make a move? Now we have one!"

Only then did Qiao Jiaming slap his palm, completely forgetting his fright from moments ago. Under the effects of alcohol, he became smug again. After gloating for a while, he gritted his teeth and said, "Good, good, good. I was just thinking about that. Hmph, I hadn't intended to make things difficult for that old man. But that boy—hm? What was that boy called again?"

"Who cares what he's called? I haven't even laid one finger on Sister Jiaxin, but he—huh? He even hit me that day? Just looking at that oily-faced, powdered pretty-boy, you can tell he's no good. Liu Laodao's disciple? Heh, I know all about those filthy affairs! What Daoist boy? Boy? Aren't they just there to be played with? Those people who claim to cultivate immortality, hmph, which one of them doesn't keep a few tender-skinned little rabbits? What was it called again? It was... hm... back, back..."

Qiao Wangshi frowned slightly, seeming not to enjoy hearing him speak of such things. "When you stand before the court later, you must not mention that. Watch your mouth. This time, Prefect Li only set his sights on the Dragon King Temple because he was short on silver. Under ordinary circumstances, what would a prefectural magistrate with only a few thousand taels of silver in annual income care about a single residence enough to stir up such a stink?"

"What you should say is not anything about boys, but that everyone in the Qiao Escort Agency was dead, while an old Daoist escorting the cargo and a young man emerged entirely unscathed. Then, after they returned, the household servant friendly with that old Daoist killed the household head first, and then tried to kill the mistress. Once Prefect Li interrogates them thoroughly, he will learn that Liu Laodao and Meng E were tempted by wealth and colluded with outside bandits. Remember every word. Don't go blank when they question you!"

Qiao Jiaming impatiently waved his hand. "Heh, women always overthink things. Liu Laodao and that kid are both ordinary commoners. If the prefectural magistrate wants to investigate a case, all he needs is an excuse to seize them and give them fifty intimidation rods. Even a man forged from iron would confess—why ramble on so much..."

All of this happened in the residence just one street away, yet Li Yunxin did not learn of it until seven days later.

When Liu Laodao awoke the next day, he said groggily that he had seen a ghost the night before, but feared he had merely been drunk and seen things wrongly. Li Yunxin simply told him that was indeed the case—he had gone outside and only seen Liu Laodao spin in place a few times before passing out.

That was better than explaining even more to him.

Then came the painful process of trying to break through his restriction every day. There were slightly more worshippers on the second day, but their numbers gradually diminished on the third. It was ultimately an inconspicuous little temple. Nearby villagers learned of it and came, but news would not spread quickly. It would probably take some time before word that "the Dragon King Temple in the city had displayed true divine power" gradually reached more ears.

After all, this was not the information-explosion era of his former life. Even within Weicheng, it would not have been strange for people in one part of the city to learn of something only a year later.

But this was also a good thing for Li Yunxin. The temple's incense offerings were gradually flourishing, and they could flow in a thin but steady stream. This allowed him to adjust and grow accustomed to them slowly, without making himself feel as though he might explode.

He learned to use the tiny bit of spiritual power he could already mobilize to wrap the Incense and Fire Prayer Power and draw it into his "Snow Mountain." He used that prayer power to bore hole after hole into the Snow Mountain, and felt the spiritual energy available to him increasing day by day.

After three days, he could already walk around with a normal expression while enduring the pain. Only his steps were slower and his face paler. Some worshippers occasionally saw Li Yunxin and, while wondering when the old Daoist had acquired such a young disciple, were also startled by his handsome appearance. Some women privately remarked that Liu Laodao had neither sons nor daughters, and this little Daoist master would likely inherit his mantle in the future. He was decent-looking, had property, and the temple had income—he was a fine match.

It was only that the little Daoist master looked unwell. They wondered whether he might have a frail body plagued by illness and misfortune in the future.

Li Yunxin looked somewhat older than his actual age. Thus, two days later, matchmakers really did come calling—he naturally rejected them with amused laughter.

This was because he had been appearing in public often lately.

In the past, he had stayed in a mountain village and seen only villagers. Now that he had come to Weicheng—the "magic capital" of this world—he naturally wanted to see how people here lived and what customs they followed. In his previous life, he had been something of a psychologist. He had always enjoyed observing people, and he was the same now.

Thus, in the daytime, he played the role of Liu Laodao's disciple, sweeping the courtyard and tending the incense candles. He exchanged a word or two and a nod with several familiar faces. Then he moved a stool to a corner of the front courtyard and sat there watching the passing worshippers in a daze—others thought he was daydreaming, but he was actually striking at his restriction, while also considering...

How to deal with Ninth Young Master, Bai Yunxin, and potential dangers. At times like this, looking at more people always gave him some good ideas.

People truly were fascinating creatures.

He simply had not expected that, before those great crises arrived, another troublesome matter would come knocking.

The Qiao Household's affair.

The seventh morning after he saw Qiao Jiaxin's faceless ghost.

There were not as many people as there had been the previous days. Around every morning, Miss Yin, who sold tofu along the street, would come burn incense and make a wish. "Miss Yin" was Li Yunxin's way of addressing her—the girl would glance at him from the corner of her eye, smiling shyly, and say, "Oh, just call me Yin Xueruo."

To be fair, Miss Yin really was quite nice. Perhaps because her name contained the character for snow, she was exceptionally fair. Faint blue veins could be seen beneath her neck, and the shadows cast by her thick eyelashes across her snowy cheeks in the sunlight looked like a pair of butterfly wings. She had a slender, petite figure. Li Yunxin could not see her legs through her cloth skirt, but judging from her bearing alone, in his era she would probably have been the sort of little beauty people chased after, spoiled, and cradled in their palms.

Fair, beautiful, and on this street, well-off too.

One stick of incense cost a tenth of a tael of silver. Converted into the renminbi of his era, that was two hundred yuan. He thought it over—a girl tossing out two hundred yuan every morning, six thousand yuan a month, without even blinking... what level of wealthy beauty did that make her?

Yet a girl like that, in novels and tales, would only be a "Tofu Beauty"—the most inconspicuous sort of ordinary character in a story. Whenever he considered this, he found it increasingly interesting. Looking at things through his own eyes and through other people's eyes truly made all the difference in the world.

That morning, after Miss Yin had burned incense as usual and swayed her way over to Li Yunxin to say, "Morning, little Daoist," Liu Laodao came in through the front gate with a deep frown.

The moment he looked up and saw Li Yunxin, his face fell. Then, like a child asking for candy while fearing an adult would refuse, he walked to Li Yunxin and said, "Brother Xin, something's happened..."