Chapter 29: The Last Flicker

Bandits smashing a compound isn’t unusual.

“Smashing a compound” is underworld slang for attacking the mansions of the wealthy.

The Great Xuan Dynasty has barely passed its first hundred years, yet land consolidation has grown increasingly severe, and with the power of clans, wealthy gentry households now abound like cattle.

They fear neither peasants nor imperial law, for every newly appointed official must first win their favor.

Li Huairen of Li Family Fortress is relatively decent—he at least follows the rules.

Li Yan had heard of some rural gentry so tyrannical they trampled on the people, treating human lives as worthless; they could simply accuse someone of violating clan rules and kill them at will.

Local officials dared not speak out.

These landlords and gentry feared only bandits.

Thus, they built high walls and large courtyards, hired guards, and regularly donated to local Divine Fist Societies to court martial arts factions and secure their own protection.

But generally, bandits rarely slaughtered entire villages.

It wasn’t out of kindness, but because they didn’t want to kill the goose that laid the golden eggs.

The common folk are like grass; the gentry are like sheep.

Where there is grass, there will surely be sheep.

They strike once, and live well for a while.

In some places, bandits and gentry even collude, using the pretense of suppressing bandits to raid every so often.

But this time was different.

Eunuchs from the capital, disguised and anonymous; bandits from Qilu; village massacres…

No matter how you looked at it, this wasn’t just about wealth.

Thinking of this, Li Yan frowned and asked again: “Since you encountered bandits, why didn’t you report it to the authorities in Xianyang? How did you end up in this state?”

“Sigh… don’t mention it…”

Sha Lifei’s face was grim. “My Daoist and I returned to Xianyang under cover of night, ready to report it—only to find someone had beaten us to it.”

“Who?”

“It was the red-clad concubine of Lu the Squire, along with the head guard Zhao Cheng, dressed in mourning, wailing and weeping, claiming she was pregnant with Lu’s child, begging the magistrate to intervene…”

“Cunning bastards—clearly insiders colluding with outsiders.”

“I tried to expose them, but the Daoist pulled me away and we fled.”

“We dared not take the main roads—we crossed mountains and ridges all the way to Li Family Fortress.”

It was clear Sha Lifei still felt resentment and confusion.

Li Yan sneered: “The Daoist did right. If you’d shown your face, you wouldn’t have walked out of Xianyang alive.”

Sha Lifei froze. “Why?”

Wang Daoxuan had just finished eating. He belched, shook his head, and sighed: “I didn’t dare say more on the road—Lu the Squire is a eunuch!”

“A eunuch?!”

Sha Lifei was utterly stunned, then broke into a cold sweat.

He was slick and cunning—he couldn’t miss the oddity.

The village massacre was to silence witnesses. Bandits wouldn’t fear exposure—it would make them famous. The only possible reason was to prevent the truth from leaking, and the only thing tied to a eunuch was the imperial clan…

The insider was left alive—meaning this wasn’t over…

“This… what do we do now?”

Thinking of it, Sha Lifei felt his head spin.

Li Yan shook his head: “Hard to handle. Multiple bandit gangs acting together, plus outsiders from other provinces—this involves many players. Likely, even officials are involved. Get tangled in this, and you’re dead.”

“Hide for now. Wait until the heat dies down.”

“The village is too crowded. Hide in the hills. I’ll bring you food. When things calm, I’ll go out and gather news.”

“Fine. There’s no other choice.”

Sha Lifei and Wang Daoxuan exchanged glances, both helpless.

“By the way, Daoist—I need one more favor…”

…………

Back in the village, it was rooster-crowing time.

Li Yan slipped quietly back into his room, then pretended to just wake up—feeding chickens, drawing water, lighting the fire, cooking porridge, and stepping into the courtyard to practice boxing.

First the Ten Disciplines, then striking techniques and swordplay.

As if nothing from last night had happened.

But he knew everything had changed.

Successfully cultivating the spirit meant he had entered the Xuan Gate. And there was still the matter of uncovering his father’s death and the shadow behind his family’s persecution—plenty to do.

But he couldn’t leave yet—his grandfather’s condition was worsening.

After the curse on the plaque was broken, his spirit had briefly improved, but it didn’t last. These past days, he’d grown lethargic, often dozing off, sitting blankly outside the door.

He’d sit all day, sometimes forgetting his own name.

Luckily, Wang Daoxuan had arrived last night. The Daoist had decent medical skill—at least better than village quacks. Li Yan asked him to pose as a wandering physician and come examine him today.

“Healing with herbs, saving lives…”

Just after breakfast, a voice called from the village entrance—it was Wang Daoxuan.

He still wore his tattered Daoist robe, but now carried a small cloth banner in his left hand and shook a string of bells in his right, instantly drawing the attention of village children, who gathered around in excitement.

In this isolated village, a stranger was a major event.

And his attire had meaning.

The banner was freshly written, made from a torn shirt of Sha Lifei’s.

The bell string, called a “tiger’s support,” was said to have originated when the Medicine King encountered a tiger begging for help—its mouth pierced by a bone splinter. Fearing the tiger might attack, the Medicine King placed the tiger’s support in its jaws. After healing, the tiger became his mount.

Among the “Skin Sect,” traveling healers were slangily called “pushers of the pack.”

The tiger’s support was their trademark.

As the saying goes: “Gold changes skin in a morning.”

When Wang Daoxuan once roamed the Jianghu, unable to find work, he’d often disguised himself as a wandering doctor—he just happened to have this.

Li Yan, prepared, immediately stepped forward and invited Wang Daoxuan into his home. “I’m perfectly fine—eat, drink, no illness to see!”

The old man clearly resisted, reluctant and unwilling.

Li Yan quickly spoke soothing words, and Wang Daoxuan’s demeanor was so gentle it felt like spring breeze—the old man scowled but said nothing more.

After asking, observing, listening, and feeling the pulse, Wang Daoxuan smiled: “The elder’s health is decent—just old age. His spirit is weak. Boil sour jujube seed, poria, and licorice in water, drink a little daily.”

“I told you—I’m not sick! Nonsense, wasting money.”

Li Gui grumbled, but visibly relaxed.

After a few more words, he dozed off again, snoring softly.

But Li Yan had noticed something wrong. He stepped outside and pulled Wang Daoxuan aside, worried: “Daoist, what’s really going on?”

Wang Daoxuan’s face turned grave. He stroked his beard and shook his head: “The elder has no illness—his qi and blood have simply declined with age.”

“But just now, when I took his pulse, I secretly used my spiritual power—I found his soul faint, almost gone. That’s likely the real cause.”

“What happened?”

!.

Li Yan fell silent a moment, then recounted the curse in brief, puzzled: “The curse was broken—why is he still like this?”

After these days, he trusted Wang Daoxuan, so he told the truth.

“That explains it.”

Wang Daoxuan sighed: “Yingsheng spells can be vicious—some kill within days; others slowly destroy families.”

“The one who cast it clearly didn’t want attention.”

“This spell doesn’t just ruin fortune and thin the male line—it invites misfortune and evil spirits. The elder doesn’t consciously sense it, but his subconscious fights it constantly.”

“Perhaps you’ve lived safely this long because of his protection.”

“He’s just an ordinary man—like drawing a bowstring taut but not releasing the arrow. It drains spirit and qi. After the curse was broken, he may have felt brief relief—but his soul was already too damaged, and with his age, time is short…”

Li Yan had suspected this, but his heart still trembled: “Is there any cure?”

“Hard.”

Wang Daoxuan shook his head: “This isn’t illness—it’s the end approaching. Spend this time with him.”

“Remember—if he suddenly craves something cold, prepare for his passing.”

“Why?”

“Yang energy floats outward—this is the last flicker before death.”

…………

Just as Wang Daoxuan stepped out the door, villagers surrounded Li Yan.

Village folk had little access to medicine—minor ailments were treated with folk remedies; only when they couldn’t bear it did they go to town.

Now that a wandering physician had appeared, everyone wanted him to see them.

Li Yan was in low spirits and didn’t care.

Back in his room, he found his grandfather still asleep. After a moment of silence, he turned and went to the stable, took the horse Lu the Squire had given him, and found the driver Du Daya.

“Uncle Du, sell the horse for me—and do me a favor.”

“Young Master Li, tell me.”

“Hire a theater troupe. Have them perform in the village for several days.”

"Remember, find some other excuse..."

Two days later, a traveling opera troupe arrived in the village.

According to the troupe leader, he had once wandered the rivers and lakes in his youth, nearly starved to death, until someone in Li Family Fort gave him food and saved his life.

Now he had come to repay that kindness, performing for five consecutive days.

The villagers didn’t care who was behind the good deed—they just wanted to watch, for such entertainment was rare in their daily lives; even people from nearby villages traveled over ten miles to see the show.

Every night, Li Family Fort was lit up with candles, filled with the clamor of voices.

Not to mention, Grandfather Li Gui was overjoyed.

The old man had no other hobbies—he simply loved watching opera.

In past years, whenever he heard of an opera performance nearby, he would set out early, taking Li Yan along in a donkey cart to watch; but in recent years, his health had declined and his legs had grown weak, leaving him confined to his home.

Occasionally, he would mutter about how he wished to go to Chang’an to see an opera someday.

Li Yan couldn’t bring a famous actor from Chang’an, but a rough troupe from Lantian would do.

"The Investiture of the Gods," "Shooting Down the Nine Suns," "The Tale of Loyalty and Righteousness"...

For several days, the rugged Qin opera echoed throughout the village.

The old man thoroughly enjoyed himself, and even after the troupe left, he kept singing loudly at home:

"The general’s order shakes mountain and river,

Men don armor, horses are saddled,

Sons and warriors all shout in unison,

Charging forward to the battlefield..."

His pitch was off, yet the tone was bleak and majestic, as if recalling his youth’s days of swords and spears; after each song, he would stare blankly into the distance.

"Yanwa, I feel so hot—I want something cold to eat..."

Li Yan heard this and tears fell; he forced a smile through his sorrow: "Grandfather, wanting something cold is simple—just watch me get it for you."

Making ice from saltpeter was no rare trick—it was known in the rivers and lakes.

Li Yan gathered some and mixed in malt sugar.

The old man ate it happily, then looked at him with reluctance:

"Boy, after I’m gone, you’ll likely follow your father’s path—it’s fate, and I can’t stop you—but there are a few things you must remember."

"Grandfather, speak," Li Yan knelt on the ground, weeping uncontrollably.

The old man gazed into the distance and spoke in a hoarse voice:

"Boy, from now on, you’re alone—remember..."

"Better to be hated than pitied!"

"Better to be feared than bullied!"

(End of Chapter)