Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Beastly Teacher (Part One)

I asked Fang Panguo about the demolition of the suburban flats, inquiring where the people had gone. Wang Yong told me they had all moved to a new migrant workers' settlement, which was in another part of the city's outskirts. I had Fang Panguo describe the location, thanked him, and then left the office, boarded a bus, and headed straight for the southern suburbs.

The southern outskirts were much like the place Uncle Mao once lived—dilapidated houses, home to a few dozen families of migrant workers. The suburbs were surrounded by lush trees and threaded with small rivers; living in this tranquil countryside was certainly better than the noisy city, for there were few cars and none of the usual chaos.

Among these families, I quickly found Uncle Mao and Wang Sheng. Wang Sheng was with Uncle Mao, learning the ways of Daoist magic. A paper talisman suddenly ignited in his hand without a flame—quite an impressive display!

I walked in slowly, having spent a few dozen yuan on a small gift. Before I even stepped inside, Uncle Mao spotted me. With a beaming smile, he urged Wang Sheng to come out and accept my gift, while he himself sat at the table, sipping tea, twirling his wispy mustache, and crossing his legs with an air of contentment.

Once inside, Wang Sheng went to pay his respects, while I sat opposite Uncle Mao, grinning sheepishly.

Wang Sheng was paying respects, but let there be no confusion—Wang Sheng was a man, and "paying respects" meant facing the Sage. This Sage was none other than the Daoist Patriarch, the Celestial Venerable.

Speaking of the Celestial Venerable, there is a story in their Daoist tradition. It is said that thousands of years ago, when the Demon Ancestor Jiang Chen had been in the world for only a hundred years, the Celestial Venerable was but a naïve youth. In those days, there were no Daoist arts or immortal techniques—only the most evil primitive curses, which used living people as sacrifices. Jiang Chen was a minor figure then, drawing little attention.

At that time, curses ran rampant, and royal power was absolute. When a member of the royal family died, hundreds or thousands of commoners would be buried with them, leaving the people in dire straits. Eventually, the Celestial Venerable descended into that age, receiving guidance from the sage-king Fuxi. Amidst wicked curses, the seeds of Daoist arts were sown, and over time, developed into what they are today, though now they are in decline. The inheritors of those primitive curses were declared extinct a millennium ago.

Daoism dwindled over the years, largely because, after the Cultural Revolution led by Chairman Mao, superstition and "monsters and demons" were denounced. In that decade of upheaval, ghosts became rare, and thus, so did Daoist priests.

Chaos in the world of the living spurred reform in the underworld too; many fierce ghosts and evil spirits were cast into the eighteen levels of hell for reformation, paving the way for a new, harmonious human society.

Uncle Mao sipped his tea opposite me, his small, round eyes sizing me up. "Xiaodong, what brings you to see your Uncle Mao today?" he asked, grinning mischievously, his eyebrows waggling in a roguish fashion.

I knew what kind of person Uncle Mao was. Though his appearance was comical, he was warm and approachable. If judged by looks alone, he seemed the sort who might pilfer a chicken, tease a dog, or spy on a girl relieving herself. But spend time with him, and you’d find him truly upright—a living example of the old saying, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

I sat there awkwardly, hands trembling, at a loss for words.

Wang Sheng, noticing, nudged me and said, "Dong, what’s up with you?"

I quickly replied, "It’s nothing—just excited to see you and Uncle Mao."

Uncle Mao, growing impatient, cut in, "If you’ve got something to say, spit it out! Don’t dawdle!"

I chuckled, "Uncle Mao, it’s nothing major. It’s just that A-Shuang has been acting a little strange lately. I wanted to see if you and Wang Sheng could help me look into it."

Wang Sheng asked why I couldn’t do it myself, so I recounted what had happened between us. Wang Sheng simply nodded and looked to Uncle Mao.

It seemed he was waiting for Uncle Mao’s decision. Uncle Mao nodded, "Alright, this is serious. Old Ma isn't around these days, and I’m worried about Xiao Shuang too. We’d better go see her as soon as possible." With that, he and Wang Sheng tidied up and headed to Old Ma’s house.

Uncle Mao and Old Ma were closer than brothers. With him going, things would surely be handled smoothly.

I closed Uncle Mao’s door and caught a bus back to the college. I’d heard a renowned professor was giving a lecture tonight, and I definitely wanted to attend.

Upon returning to the college, I greeted my dorm mates, grabbed a notebook, and headed to the lecture hall.

Our archaeology college isn’t exactly prestigious; the sign at the gate, faded by years of sun and rain, looked as though a stiff breeze might blow it down. Opportunities to hear a famous archaeology professor were so rare that even in two generations of students, not everyone would get the chance.

Fortunately, our cohort was lucky; this was the fourth time in decades a noted scholar had lectured here. The turnout was overwhelming. The small lecture hall, meant to seat three hundred, was packed beyond capacity—no doubt students from other departments had squeezed in as well. All I could see were heads—one, two… four hundred and seventy-two in all.

Good heavens! Including myself, there were four hundred and seventy-two people crammed into the room. Every seat was taken, and even the aisles were crowded. While I was squeezed into the aisle, people actually said, "Hey, kid, I’m saving this spot for someone—find another place!"

Unbelievable. All I wanted was to study, and the lecture wasn’t even until the evening, yet the place was already packed by afternoon. With no other choice, I ended up standing next to a timid boy with large eyes at the front. He quietly said, "Bro, I’m saving this spot for my younger brother. Could you move elsewhere?"

Faced with such a crowd, I was speechless. But I managed to squeeze out a reply through gritted teeth, "Will it kill you if I just stand here for a bit?" The scholarly boy fell silent.

Scanning the room, I spotted A-Shuang and a few girls seated at the very front, quietly reading. No wonder she was an academic star. Still, I had earned some notoriety myself as a junior, once dubbed the "Charming Scholar" by my roommate Ji Wuli—a title I’d carried from the first to the second semester, and no one had yet taken it from me.

Elsewhere, the high-profile rich boys and beautiful girls sat surrounded by empty space, as if to emphasize their elite status to the professor.

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