Chapter 81: A Conversation with Fan Wuchang

"On this road, those who rise to power all climb up from blood and bones. Today they have front and back support; tomorrow they might lie dead in a street corner. Life… who can say what will happen in the next second?"

In the car, Fan Wuchang held a cigarette, muttering to himself, appearing as if he had seen through life's ups and downs, his expression revealing a hint of weariness and self-mockery.

Pangzi shook his head, his face showing reluctance, and Pangzi asked him: "Is it really necessary to be this harsh?"

Fan Wuchang gave a light smile, still holding a cigarette in his mouth, his eyes carrying an inexplicable emotion, his tone hinting at fatigue,

"The underworld—do you know what the underworld is? You think it's just like the movies say, casually bringing a few people to shout a couple of lines, swaggering down the street, and that's the underworld?"

The three of us froze there, not knowing how to answer, after all we are not underworld people, and even less likely to know what kind of life the underworld is.

"Let me tell you a story," Fan Wuchang said, gripping the steering wheel, his tone flat as he began to relate this story to us.

Long ago, on East Front Street in Aomen there was a rascal called Tu Dao; he was the hall master of a faction, and East Front was his territory.

Although Tu Dao was a hall master of a faction, he was not fierce; on the contrary, he had a kindness that did not match his name. In fights, he always ended peacefully—talk if possible, avoid fighting if possible.

Because East Front had little else—just many bars and mahjong parlors, easy for moving goods, scattering goods (drugs)—this favorable environment led another faction head involved with drugs, Du She, to conceive the idea of seizing East Front, and he sent his men to cause trouble all over East Front. At that time, East Front's territory, from big restaurants with parking to small bars and eateries, was all under Tu Dao's men.

Du She's actions naturally aroused Tu Dao's dissatisfaction; later the two began negotiations, and when talks failed, each brought his men to fight in the streets of East Front. In the end, Tu Dao gained the upper hand, not only repelling the other faction but also capturing its hall master, Du She, alive.

Yet, victorious Tu Dao at this moment committed a fatal error. Acting on his belief in harmony being supreme, he prepared a generous gift and sent Du She back.

Such conduct would be considered the manner of a benevolent king in ancient times. But in modern times, especially for the underworld, this approach is undoubtedly suicidal. Letting go of a treacherous, deceitful enemy means you must be ready—when you are off guard, that poisonous snake will viciously bite you.

On a night dark with wind and high clouds, Tu Dao drank himself into a stupor at the bar, then returned home to find a large group of strangers inexplicably gathered in his house,

The leader was precisely the Du She that Tu Dao had released. After that battle, Du She bore a grudge; unable to openly defeat Tu Dao, he took advantage of Tu Dao's absence, secretly kidnapped Tu Dao's wife, and waited for Tu Dao's return to send both husband and wife to the Western Heaven.

That night, Tu Dao's young son hid under the bed, personally witnessing his father and mother being killed. He saw his father roar at Du She: "Du She, do you still observe brotherhood? Calamity should not reach wife and children." Then a dagger pierced his heart.

That night, he shed tears, desperately covering his mouth to keep from crying, vowing to avenge his father and absolutely not let these people discover him.

Before Du She's people left, they set a fire in the house. He wanted to run to his father's corpse and call "Dad." But as his hand touched his father's face, the roaring flames burned his arm.

To survive, an eight-year-old boy opened the window and climbed down from the second-floor window along the pipe; his hands and legs were already covered in wounds from the climb.

With nowhere else to turn, the boy sought refuge with his father's top lieutenant, whom his father had always told him to call "Uncle." Although a lieutenant, his father had treated him as a brother.

But what the boy did not expect was that the lieutenant followed his father only for his father's power. Now that the boss was killed, the lieutenant had already switched allegiance, siding with the killer of his father, Du She, and helped Du She reclaim East Front's remaining forces. In return, Du She allowed him to control one-third of East Front's territory.

That night, Tu Dao's son encountered the pursuit of his father's sworn brothers, being hacked with twenty-three knives, each cut to the bone, yet the boy did not give up; he kept biting his tongue to draw blood, stimulating his dazed mind, fleeing all the way until he finally plunged into a cesspool…

The boy, mired in the pile of feces, recalled his father's teaching: in all things value harmony, yield three parts to others, and they will respect you seven parts.

But now? The naked reality overturned the boy's previous understanding; in the face of harsh reality, his father's teaching seemed ridiculous, ignorant.

After the story ended, Fan Wuchang exhaled a puff of smoke, paused a moment, then stared ahead, his eyes deep as he said: "This is the underworld. On this road, you either are ruthless toward others, or others are ruthless toward you. Kindness and goodness are worth nothing on this path; what can be agreed upon is either only profit, or your ruthlessness. When you rise to power, you seem all‑mighty, with followers front and back. Secretly, who knows how many wish you dead. When you fall low, even those who daily call you brother may step hard on you."

Fan Wuchang's words were plain, yet within that plainness lay an unarguable, cruel fact. The life and nature of the underworld—they are merely pitiful souls walking this road. You may say they are unforgivably evil, and that's true; you may say they are pitiable, and that's also true. After all, everything they do is solely for survival.

After hearing the story, Pangzi and Yuan Qiu involuntarily sighed, sighing for that pitiful child. Pangzi could not help but press Fan Wuchang: "Then this child…"

Before the word "child" could even leave his mouth, I stopped him with a glance, because in the mahjong parlor I had once casually glimpsed Fan Wuchang's arm—besides knife wounds, there were also scars from burns I had inflicted. In the story, who is Tu Dao's son? It's about to be revealed.

I admit, at this moment my attitude toward Fan Wuchang is mixed: though I feel aversion, I also feel sympathy, perhaps sympathy outweighs aversion by a bit.

However, this does not prove he is blameless. At least while he was injured, he also harmed countless people. Many people often are like this—because of a momentary grievance, because of past hurt, they become extremistically resentful of the world.

But harm is not an excuse for you to harm others, nor is it a license for you to do as you please.

Then I suddenly recalled a saying: "Once you enter the underworld, it's as deep as the sea; from then on there is no turning back."

Perhaps some have, they just haven't found it.

……………………

The car crept forward, Fan Wuchang fell silent, and I kept wondering why his blade could harm a spiritual body.

I made a request, wanting to see his blade.

"You want to see my wife… sure, let you have a look," Fan Wuchang readily agreed.

With a swish, a flash of cold light passed, and the military ridge blade appeared in Fan Wuchang's hand.

It is a slightly curved weapon, its blade edges emitting wave‑like ridges; even from afar I could feel the cold radiating from its edge.

This blade gave me a familiar feeling; its yin chill was like when I used a command flag to draw talismans and direct troops, except that besides the chill it also gave me a heart‑pounding sensation—a flash of bright cold sliced across my eyes, and the blade, as Fan Wuchang lightly stroked it, rang out a clear, resonant tone… This feeling was like a child seeing his father, so joyful he could hardly contain himself.

I instinctively reached out, wanting to touch this military ridge.

Fan Wuchang had no intention to stop me; he merely smiled faintly, lightly gripping the hilt, letting my hand slowly approach the edge.

With a ding… this time I truly heard the sound from the blade. Yet this sound made my heart jolt; for some reason I felt the sensation coming from the blade was protest, a refusal to let me touch it. So when my hand contacted it, it protested, causing my hand pain, and I instinctively jerked it back.

This is actually a killer…

I was greatly startled, finally discerning the nature of this military ridge. It is indeed a killer, and moreover a killer on the verge of developing spiritual intelligence. A series of sensations told me that the blade is stained with the blood of countless souls, and its baleful aura directly affects my mind.

As everyone knows, among those whom ghosts and spirits dare not invade are Confucian scholars filled with righteousness, soldiers blessed by imperial aura, cultivating Daoists, and butchers brimming with killing energy—these people ghosts and spirits do not necessarily dare to approach.

And weapons also come in several kinds, for example the pig‑killing knife…

Such an incident also occurred during the Qing dynasty, and it mentions the pig‑killing knife.

It is said that during the Jiajing reign of the Qing dynasty, in a northern mountain village there stood an evil locust tree; whenever the first and fifteenth days arrived, the tree emitted wailing sounds like an infant's cry, and whenever the tree wailed, before long people would see a child dead beneath it.

The local villagers thought the tree ominous, an ill‑omened thing; after discussion they decided to fell it.

But when the villagers took their knives and chopped at the tree, something strange happened.

Every person wielding a knife, without exception, vomited white foam and collapsed. Their blades only shaved off some bark, inflicting no real harm on the tree.

Later, a butcher who had just finished at the market and did not believe in superstition took the pig‑killing knife at his waist, spat twice, and charged forward, striking hard at the tree.

At the time people thought he had gone mad, judging that he would surely be punished by the spirit‑infested locust tree just like the others.

But nothing of the sort occurred; the butcher emerged unscathed, and indeed he managed to wound the locust tree.

Under the butcher's relentless chopping, something even more extraordinary happened.

The parts of the locust tree that were cut flowed down bright red blood like a stream, the blood as vivid as human blood.

At that moment the long‑absent wailing sounded again, pitiful like an infant's cry, tinged with a seeping gloom, and evoking compassion.

Only then did people realize this was a spirit‑cultivated locust tree; on every first and fifteenth it emerges to work its mischief, mercilessly taking a child's life.

Yet why do others who chop with a knife faint while the butcher remains unharmed? Because the butcher's knife has slaughtered countless livestock, their grudge infusing the pig‑killing knife with killing energy; even a spirit‑cultivated locust tree cannot withstand that killing energy on the blade.

If an infant in someone's home is troubled by ghosts and spirits due to bad fortune, having the pig‑slaughtering butcher bring his knife to the house, point it at the air and curse a couple of times can also frighten away the headless wild soul harassing the infant.

The pig‑killing knife on the butcher's body we call a slaughter implement, but the one in Fan Wuchang's hand is truly a killing weapon. The difference between a slaughter implement and a killing weapon is that the former may take the lives of beasts, whereas the latter takes only human lives.

The icy chill emanating from the blade, a cold that seeps into one's heart, constantly breeds fear; gazing at the edge feels like seeing the Grim Reaper.

At that moment I suddenly felt a hint of disgust toward Fan Wuchang, for he has taken too many lives; whether he kills good or bad people, he has already created countless karmic debts of slaughter.

Although I felt disgust, I still knew how to endure, but I forgot that Old Master Pangzi is very blunt and sincere. After analyzing the nature of this killing weapon, he immediately frowned and said to Fan Wuchang: "This is a killing weapon; the blade bears the resentment of countless wronged souls. Such a thing should not remain in the world—hand it over to me so I can perform a liberation rite…"

Having said that, he moved to snatch the knife from Fan Wuchang's hand.

I and Yuan Qiu were both startled, and we hard‑pulled Pangzi's outstretched hand back.

What a joke—this is a killing god who lives by the blade, 'blade with the person, blade gone, person gone'; trying to seize his knife is practically like the Star‑God of Longevity hanging himself just to complain his life is too long.

Fortunately, Fan Wuchang did not get angry; instead, he gave a slight, self‑mocking smile without curving his lips, and then put the knife away.

The car started up again; this time Fan Wuchang did not chat with us much, but held a cigarette in his mouth and drove the Audi with full concentration.

Through the front‑view rear‑mirror, one can see four small cars of different colors steadily tailing the Audi. When another vehicle approaches the Audi, one of those four cars pulls out, moves to the inner lane and steadily blocks the vehicle about to cross the line.

From this angle only two cars can be seen clinging closely behind, moving forward, and nothing else is apparent. Yet I and Yuan Qiu both know that this vehicle is protecting the Audi we are in, guarding against any other vehicle that might harbor ill intent toward us.

The car proceeded slowly, pulled up outside a high‑end residential compound, and then Fan Wuchang told the three of us to get out.

"Are we going to see Brother Zheng now?" Yuan Qiu asked Fan Wuchang doubtfully.

Fan Wuchang shook his head: "No, you must pass my test before I can take you to see Brother Zheng."

"A test again? What the hell," I thought at the time, "haven't we already finished the test? Why are we pulling this out again?"

Fan Wuchang shook his head and said: "You've only passed my test; you haven't yet passed Brother Zheng's."

Pangzi frowned, wondering, and asked: "What kind of test did Brother Zheng set for us?"

Fan Wuchang said: "Follow me and you'll find out." Having said that, he stepped forward and walked into the residential area.

The residences here generally have a Western look, with some buildings constructed in a Western classical style; such apartment blocks are not uncommon inland, but only the wealthy—either rich or noble—live there.

Sometimes, standing beneath these grand structures gives one the feeling of being as tiny as an ant. If I were to describe my present feeling, it would be like an ant looking up at a giant, or you could say I feel like a country bumpkin entering the city.

I, Pangzi, and Yuan Qiu were all curious about where Fan Wuchang said Chen Zheng's test actually was, what its relation to these buildings was, and halfway through he suddenly asked us: "Did you bring all the utensils you need for eating?"

This only heightened my curiosity: did he bring us here to catch ghosts, or to examine feng shui?

Ten minutes later, Fan Wuchang answered my question with his actions.

He led us to the far end of the compound, where a large vacant area was mostly planted with vegetation; only two three‑story buildings stood on the plot. Moreover, the two three‑story buildings faced each other, separated by just over fifty meters. Their size and number of floors were exactly the same.

Fan Wuchang's mouth curved again into two arcs, his right index finger pointed at the two buildings, he said nothing, but the gesture was full of meaning.

Gazing at those two buildings and Fan Wuchang's meaningful point, three words suddenly popped into my mind: "feng shui duel."