Chapter 51 – Unable to Bear Abandoning It

No benefit whatsoever.

How could there be no benefit? The greatest benefit was the time it saved her from unnecessary waste.

Some people felled trees, others laid foundations; spending twenty taels to hire a carpenter to oversee the construction of a house didn’t take much time at all.

The benefit was this: while others were crammed into tents, surrounded by all manner of chaotic noise, she could study what she wanted to study and think what she needed to think in a quiet and safe place.

And when a heavy rain fell, she wouldn’t have to cry out that the tent had torn or was leaking.

The downpour clattered loudly against the eaves. The Coachman lit an oil lamp in the darkening room. “Your Highness, do you remember that Daoist from a few days ago? I thought he was so impressive, yet he still couldn’t afford a spirit pearl to stay at an inn. He’s probably getting soaked in this rain right now.”

“Strength and wealth have no necessary causal relationship,” Zhan Changfeng turned a page of her book and smiled, which was rare for her. “Though these cultivators do have considerably more personality than ordinary people.”

Whether it was the Bureau of Patrol’s pursuit squad encountered at the post station, Daoist Shanshi, the unnamed Prenatal realm female cultivator, the cultivators running stalls in Xiaohan Town, or the shopkeepers running their stores — what they did was in essence equivalent to constables, passersby, peddlers, and shopowners in the mortal world, yet they were not quite the same.

Their “qi” was different.

Each person had their own distinct qualities that were hard to generalize. It made them seem to have more soul.

The Coachman thought of the people thrown into chaos by the rain, then thought of what his own master had set out to seek on this journey. “Should we let them come in to take shelter from the rain?”

“No need. Those who want shelter will come on their own; those who don’t will think you’re being a busybody,” Zhan Changfeng said. “Anyone with even a basic knowledge of weather would have known a heavy rain was coming. Whether to take shelter or not is their own choice.”

“But some people might not have known?”

“I have no desire to concern myself with other people’s sickness, death, rain-soaking, or sun-burning.”

Still the same old Highness. The Coachman felt inexplicably reassured. He thought about the cold and ruthless Heir Apparent who could handle military and political struggles atop the high halls as easily as pinching clay — and then imagined that person one day suddenly wanting to cultivate the Dao, turning around with a serene, radiant expression to say, “This Poor Monk shall divine a hexagram for you.” Ugh, it made his skin crawl.

Fortunately, it was only his imagination. The Coachman rubbed his arms and cheerfully went off to deal with the game hunted from the mountain. “Your Highness, today we have mountain chicken stewed with mushrooms and wild boar meat!”

“…” She had no idea why her Coachman always enjoyed bringing dead animals — or plants and vegetables — before her and earnestly telling her what they were called.

Was it to commemorate their departed blue skies and white clouds?

One had to admit that the Coachman had successfully killed her appetite.

Meanwhile, the Coachman was cheerfully cleaning the pork in the kitchen when he happened to glance out the window and saw the young Yang fellow frantically trying to hold up a canopy that was on the verge of collapsing.

Many ordinary people had come to help with the work, and when they were done, Zhan Changfeng had honored her agreement and let them copy a detailed guide to cultivation knowledge to take back with them.

But some were never satisfied with that. They lingered around the wooden house, trying to get closer and gain more. In the end, however, they were all deterred by Zhan Changfeng’s unapproachable demeanor and left one by one. Yet Yang Ci’an never moved from his spot — he had even built a small lean-to outside the wooden house to use as his dwelling.

At least he knew propriety and didn’t come over to disturb anyone.

The Coachman planted his cleaver in the chopping block and called out to Yang Ci’an: “Hey, boy, get over here!”

Yang Ci’an was struggling to hold up a crossbeam that was about to fall. Half the canopy had already collapsed, and the wind and rain blocked his sight and hearing; he only vaguely made out someone calling him.

He looked up and saw a fierce-looking man staring at him from behind the window. It struck him like a bolt of lightning, and he carefully pointed at himself.

“You, get over here!” the Coachman shouted again.

This time he heard clearly. “Oh, coming!”

Yang Ci’an abandoned his little lean-to and jogged through the rain to the kitchen’s back door. He carefully wrung the water out of his clothes before knocking.

“Come in.”

The kitchen fire was burning, steam rising in the air. Having been out in the cold rain for so long, he was suddenly hit by a wave of heat — the sharp contrast between cold and hot made him shudder violently and tremble all over.

“S-senior, what are your instructions?”

The Coachman looked him over. “Do you know how to tend a fire?”

Yang Ci’an was startled, then immediately nodded his head vigorously.

“Then go watch that stove. If you ruin it, I’m holding you responsible!”

“Thank you, Senior, thank you, Senior.” A warm current flowed through Yang Ci’an’s heart, but being tongue-tied, he could only keep expressing his thanks.

The Coachman waved him off. This young fellow reminded him of his own younger days — hadn’t he also pestered and pleaded, walked through fire and climbed blades just to learn some martial arts?

But the Coachman had only given him a chance to warm up; nothing more was possible. It wasn’t his place to have any say in what the Highness decided.

At this moment, Yang Ci’an carefully drew a bundle from inside his clothes. It was wrapped layer after layer in cloth and oilpaper. The Coachman watched him peel it open carefully, revealing what was inside: his hand-copied detailed guide to cultivation knowledge.

“Boy, do you understand what it says in there?”

Yang Ci’an shook his head, yet showed no regret. “Just being able to glimpse a corner of the world of cultivation makes me very happy already.”

The Coachman was surprised. “Why do you want to cultivate the Dao?”

In his view, cultivating the Dao had no real appeal whatsoever.

For immortality? But living a hundred years, eating and drinking heartily, taking up a blade to fight for one’s country, then putting it down to reunite with one’s wife and children — wasn’t that enough?

Yang Ci’an hesitated for a moment, and surprisingly did not give the speech about “attaining the Great Dao and righting all the injustices of the world.” Instead, he let out a bitter smile. “To be honest, I’m just a desperate man with no home and no family, just trying to stay alive and escape this chaotic world. I heard there was a gathering place of immortals in the northwest, so I came.”

“I’ve lived here for two years. What I wanted, in truth, was just to go inside and have a look. They said only those who cultivate can enter, so I wanted to cultivate.”

Yang Ci’an stroked the book in his hands. “I never knew what cultivation was until now, when I’ve finally gained a vague understanding of it. It seems like something one can’t bear to give up.”

Indeed, it was something one couldn’t bear to give up — just as mortals had never abandoned their yearning for the sky.

The wooden house was so small, separated only by a single wall on either side. Even without using her divine sense, Zhan Changfeng could hear the conversation in the kitchen.

Yet for a mortal to wish to ascend to the heavens was, more often than not, nothing but a fool’s dream — and for the smaller portion who tried, they ended up broken and ground into mud.

Cultivation was not something you could simply achieve by wishing for it. Aptitude, opportunity, luck — too many uncontrollable factors were involved.

The more one engaged with cultivation, the more one felt one’s own insignificance. But that was also where its appeal lay.

In terms of realm, Zhan Changfeng was still at Postnatal realm perfection, dimly on the verge of breaking through to the Prenatal realm, but in terms of actual cultivation, if her Pure Yin Bones were set aside, she was nothing more than an ordinary martial artist.

She wanted to travel to Cangyun Ravine to find a way to repair her physical body, but Cangyun Ravine was a place where everyone cultivated and dangers were everywhere. Even if she took the more stable path through its academy, she might forever remain a minor disciple unable to cultivate, unable to get close to rare heavenly materials and earthly treasures.

To make a name for herself, the Pure Yin Bones could not remain hidden — and she would still face the problem of her physical body collapsing first. Furthermore, the cultivation methods of Cangyun Ravine seemed to be nothing remarkable, yet she carried the Dragon Scale Divine Scripture and the Nine Cycles Samsara Decree; that could easily be a case of carrying a jade and inviting trouble.

And on top of that, the Gongsun Clan was watching with covetous eyes.

The “Samsara” techniques could be performed through soul force, but right now she hadn’t even opened her Purple Mansion yet, and her soul force was truly too faint to be of any great use.

In the end it came back to the same question: what could she use to save her physical body?

A pile of vexing troubles.

Indeed, some mistakes simply could not be made, because once made, they had to be repaid a hundredfold, a thousandfold. Hmph — if she ever came face to face with that great ghost from the old manor again, she’d make sure it couldn’t escape.