Chapter Eleven: Farewell

The method of nourishing oneself through breath alone operated automatically, every moment of every day. No matter what Shen Chang’an was doing, the spiritual power within him grew with every passing second. With so much power accumulating, it would be wasteful not to use it. For Shen Chang’an, the only way to expend his spiritual power was by drawing talismans.

Traditionally, drawing talismans required special paper, the finest brushes, cinnabar, and other rare materials. But if one possessed spiritual power and cared little for success rates, these could be dispensed with. Shen Chang’an used only the brush given to him by the old Daoist, a stack of ordinary rice paper, and clear water. With these, he managed to create his talismans.

His success rate was abysmally low—perhaps two or three successes in every hundred attempts. Yet the key was that he could draw tens of thousands of talismans in a single day. Normally, drawing talismans consumed a great deal of spiritual power. For an average practitioner with as little power as Shen Chang’an appeared to possess, five or six talismans would exhaust him and force him into meditation for recovery.

But for Shen Chang’an, by the time he finished a single talisman, his power had already replenished itself. Even with such basic methods, he could indeed draw ten thousand talismans in a day. However low the success rate, it hardly mattered—after all, it was just paper. If he ran out, he would use leaves or bark, which sometimes worked even better.

By now, his skill had become quite practiced. For talismans he drew often, his success rate had risen to about fifty percent. Zhou Yu believed Shen Chang’an was squandering the talismans of Qingping Temple, but never imagined that Shen Chang’an possessed a virtually inexhaustible supply.

Dozens of talismans flew out in a dazzling display, and not even a ghost infant like Zhou Yu could withstand them. Shen Chang’an dispatched him with a single stroke. Of course, this was also because Zhou Yu’s sorcery was mediocre at best; for all his years of practice, he’d done nothing but hide in the shadows and siphon the vital energy of others. That such a fool called himself a genius would be enough to make the real cultivators laugh themselves to death.

After collecting a few items from the ritual altar, Shen Chang’an opened the door and glanced at Xu Qiao’er inside. She had fainted from fright. Shen Chang’an examined her with his spiritual power; finding nothing seriously wrong, he sent a stream of power to protect her, guarding against unforeseen accidents.

Then, Shen Chang’an shouldered the old Daoist and left the Qian family residence.

...

“Ah!” The old Daoist awoke with a start from his dream, rolling over abruptly. He found himself in a spacious room, sunlight filtering in through the window, illuminating the chamber. Judging by the scene, he was not in the underworld, but in an inn.

At that moment, Shen Chang’an pushed open the door. Seeing the old Daoist awake, he smiled. “Master, you’re finally awake.”

“I...” The old Daoist touched his neck, hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Where is Zhou Yu?”

Shen Chang’an smiled faintly. “Don’t worry, master. I’ve sent him on his way.”

The old Daoist fell silent, his expression complex—caught between pain and relief, neither emotion prevailing. After a long moment, he spoke at last. “So be it. It’s better this way.”

Shen Chang’an nodded, then produced several silver ingots from his person, placing them on the table. He spoke softly, “Master, keep these safe. The Qian family gave them to us. That old fellow was generous, so there’s no need for us to be frugal. There’s several dozen taels here—keep them all.”

The old Daoist did not take the silver. Instead, he looked at Shen Chang’an, his eyes brimming with tears, his lips trembling. He murmured, “Chang’an, are you leaving as well?”

Shen Chang’an started at the words, his throat tightening so that he was momentarily lost for words. Ever since he had approached the evil spirit, the power from the ancient beast-hide tome had grown ever stronger. Deep within, Shen Chang’an sensed that once he slew this yaksha demon, he would be able to leave this world and return to the living one.

Though it pained him, Shen Chang’an spoke softly, “Master, my time has come.”

The matter of the beast-hide tome was too arcane, and Shen Chang’an could not explain how he had crossed over. So he simply offered another explanation.

“That demon—you’re determined to confront it?” Over the past month, Shen Chang’an had mentioned the yaksha demon, so the old Daoist understood at once. Seeing Shen Chang’an’s resolve, he was enlightened.

Suppressing his reluctance, Shen Chang’an nodded. “I came here for the sole purpose of destroying that demon. Lately, it revealed its whereabouts. I can wait no longer—it must be slain.”

“Once the demon is destroyed, I doubt I’ll remain in this world. If I fail, I won’t see you again either. Whether I succeed or not, today is our last meeting.”

“You... you...” The old Daoist tried to speak but could not. His face stiffened, and he barked, “Get out! Just go!”

Shen Chang’an nodded, his heart heavy. The bonds forged over the past month with the old Daoist were real, as was the kindness he had received. To claim he felt no regret would be to deceive himself. Yet he could not stay in this world; he longed to return to the living world, where his father was still alive and many friends and loved ones awaited him—ties he could not simply abandon.

This world was, in the end, little more than an illusion. When he awakened, all these things would be strangers to him, no longer part of his life.

Two silent tears slid down Shen Chang’an’s face as he strode from the inn, heedless of the curious stares from passersby. He let the tears fall freely as he walked out of the city.

Today’s farewell—there would never be another meeting!