Chapter 85: Who in the World Does Not Know Your Name? Refining the Spirit, Transcending the Mundane, Transforming the Soul

In front of the Qin Minister's Residence, a hush as gentle as a spring breeze drifted through the long streets, inside and out.

Everything had happened far too suddenly. None could have imagined that Qin Qianqiu, upon appearing, would be so frightened by Anle's righteous sword aura that he lost his nerve, severed his own mental cultivation, and collapsed to the ground.

Even the powerful cultivators and retainers within the Qin household had no time to react, largely because Qin Qianqiu wore the Vajra Bell—a third-rank Buddhist protective relic from the Rotten Axe Monastery. Even Luo Qingchen, who had ascended beyond the Fifth Realm, could not break through its defense with all her might. Anle, with merely a dual-third realm cultivation, was not expected to breach the Vajra Bell.

Yet Qin Qianqiu suffered calamity nonetheless. Anle's sword aura ignored the Vajra Bell, blazing like the sun, scorching Qin Qianqiu's spirit, cutting away the resentment and malice festering within him.

His mind was wounded at once; his spiritual cultivation plummeted.

Within the Qin residence, a surge of powerful spiritual force burst forth in wrath, but it was swiftly suppressed. To display such power before the three learned Masters of the Academy was mere child's play before giants.

“This is the righteous sword aura,” said the Third Master, Wang Banshan, coolly. “It was not Young Master An who struck first, but rather Young Lord Qin, who harbored ill intent and sought to use dark and vile means against him. Thus, the sword aura sensed and struck him down.”

With these words, he excused Anle’s actions.

Anle, before the eyes of all, had drawn upon the righteous energy of the Literary Monument. Now, the Academy regarded him as a true treasure, wishing even to have him join their ranks. Naturally, they would speak in his defense.

Earlier, the Minister had accused Anle of cheating; Qin Qianqiu had wantonly spread such rumors throughout the city, hoping to sully Anle’s name, tarnish his spirit, and destroy him through the weight of public slander. All this stemmed from the envy of those scholars on the Academy’s Literary List. The Masters could not allow Anle to suffer further injustice.

The spiritual power rising from the Qin residence was immediately pressed back. The Master’s spirit was like a mountain, leaving the hidden power within the residence unable to rise.

The Chief Master, Zhu Huoxi, was not a passive bystander; he, too, released his spiritual might—vast as an abyss—causing all spiritual currents within the Qin household to stagnate and withdraw.

As for the Second Master, his expression was complicated. He was, after all, close to the Minister, and could do no more than watch in silence. Yet the combined force of the Chief and Third Masters was more than enough.

The onlookers gazed at the pale and devastated Young Lord Qin, slumped before his own gates, their faces full of mockery and disdain.

Clearly, the rumors slandering Anle had originated entirely from this so-called Young Lord of the Qin residence; he had fanned the flames and spread the lies.

Such ignoble conduct, such venomous scheming—no wonder the blinding sword aura of righteousness had cut down his spirit.

After the last humiliation—when Luo Qingchen had pressed him into the Vajra Bell and pummeled him like a cowering turtle—he now earned yet another tale for the city’s amusement: he had been frightened out of his wits by a single strike from Anle before his own gates, his dark thoughts severed, his cultivation shattered, returned from transcendence to the base level.

He had hoped to use rumors to undermine Anle’s spirit and hinder his path, only to bring disaster upon himself, his own mind now fallen—a pitiful case of losing both the chicken and the rice, utterly laughable.

The gentry of Lin’an would soon have a new story to share over tea and wine.

Unlike Wang Qinhé’s legitimate challenge of Anle, resulting in his defeat by thunder, Qin Qianqiu was felled by a single stroke of sword aura—a disparity so vast it laid bare the true difference between genius and the ordinary.

On the silent street, Anle did not spare even a glance for the wretched Qin Qianqiu.

What is righteousness?

The sages once said: “This qi is vast and unyielding; if nurtured with uprightness and without harm, it will fill all between heaven and earth.”

Righteousness is a force of light and openness, cultivated with integrity. Those who hold it have a mighty spirit, like the sun at its zenith; under its radiance, darkness and demons can find no refuge.

Thus, to Anle, Qin Qianqiu, who had been stripped of his spirit by the righteous sword aura, was beneath his contempt. Only a heart full of scheming and malice would attract such a strike.

What matter if he was the Minister’s son? Nobility does not guarantee uprightness or a clear conscience.

Carrying an empty wine flask, sword at his waist, the aura of righteousness faded from Anle like a gentle breeze, billowing his white robe.

He laughed softly, his voice echoing down the long street like a spring wind:

“Those who abandon me—the days of yesterday cannot be held.
Those who disturb my heart—today is full of troubles.
If life does not go as one wishes, let us loose our hair and sail away at dawn.”

His sleeves fluttered, a romantic wanderer, a free-spirited poet. Step by step, he walked from the silent street back onto the bustling avenue.

The bystanders instinctively stepped aside, making way until his figure vanished into the crowd.

All knew that after today, Anle would be famous far and wide—not only for his ink bamboo paintings, but with a reputation as resounding as the verse he had just recited:

“Who in all the world does not know you?”

A hearty laugh rang out from the throng. The Elder of the Imperial Ancestral Temple watched Anle’s graceful departure—a gesture that openly declared his innocence to the world, and was as good as a stinging slap to the Minister’s face, declaring him blind to talent.

Zhao Huangting’s heart was thoroughly delighted. Such a temperament—unwilling to endure slander or bow to compromise—was just to his liking.

He also understood that the righteous sword aura lent Anle a unique support. Righteousness, pure and unwavering, had merged with the Qingshan sword aura, forging a force both noble and unbending. This fusion made Anle unwilling to yield or rest content, inspiring him to drink, recite poetry by the thousands, and prove his own pride and integrity.

Had Anle chosen to endure slander and humiliation, his spirit would have been shamed, his righteousness diminished, and his sun would have set, its brilliance fading. In the worst case, it would have led to the collapse of his sword aura, the loss of Qingshan.

Zhao Huangting did not leave. He stood there, laughing freely, waiting to see the Qin household’s response. Though the Masters of the Academy had suppressed the powerful cultivators within, it was the Minister’s attitude that mattered most.

Zhao Huangting lingered, intending to tidy up any loose ends for Anle.

If the Minister dared hold Anle responsible for stripping Qin Qianqiu of his spiritual cultivation, Zhao Huangting would teach Qin Lishi a sharp lesson.

Yet after much waiting, the Minister made no move, swallowing his loss in silence. Perhaps he did not wish to fall out with the Academy, or perhaps he simply could not bring himself to act.

Qin Qianqiu’s disgrace was his own doing, already a laughingstock; if the Minister pressed further, it would only invite more ridicule.

Besides, with both the Academy and Lin Manor now backing Anle, any move to arrest him would no longer be about cheating, but personal vendetta—a matter Lin Manor would never tolerate.

So the Minister gave up and bore the loss in silence.

Seeing this, all the other factions took their leave. Zhao Huangting departed in laughter; Lady Hua, radiant and at ease, ordered her carriage away.

Cao Fu, Assistant Minister of the Court of Judicial Review, gazed after Anle’s departing figure with utter astonishment. He had not expected the youth to break the deadlock in such a manner, and to succeed so completely.

An accusation of cheating from the Minister was a thunderbolt for any candidate, almost certain to land one in the Court’s dungeons, subjected to forced confessions and all manner of torments.

Cao Fu knew this well, and understood how difficult it would be to escape such a fate. Yet Anle, standing before the Minister’s gates, had asked only for table, chair, brush, and ink, and resolved the situation with ease.

“Though my bones may shatter, I fear not, so long as my innocence remains in this world. What a fine scholar, An!”

Cao Fu laughed, greatly interested in Anle. Unlike those jealous scholars within the Academy, Anle, brimming with righteous energy and unyielding integrity, unwilling to bow or compromise, was a breath of fresh air.

If ever they had the chance, he vowed to share a drink with the youth.

He then turned to gather the scattered poetry manuscripts with the three disheartened scholars—they were, after all, written with his own supplies.

Picking up a page, Cao Fu pondered at the quality of the verse—were these truly copied works? But in truth, it did not matter. The poetry was merely the means by which Anle shattered his shackles. Even if they were copied, to have summoned the righteous energy from the Literary Monument was already extraordinary.

Gathering the manuscripts, a smile crept across his face. Some nobles, noticing the papers, tried to request a copy or two. But Cao Fu, with the authority of his rank and the sword at his waist, refused them all.

Until a man clad in black from the Imperial Mink Office arrived, at which point Cao Fu’s face fell. This official, a favorite at court, taking the poetry meant the Emperor himself was interested—these verses would not be his to keep.

So it was. The official collected the manuscripts, leaving Cao Fu only a single page. His heart ached, but he could only sigh.

Fortunately, several scholars with sharp memories had recorded much of the poetry; once compiled, the anthology of Anle would spread throughout Lin’an.

Anle left the silent street, his mind at peace, the righteous sword aura fading and gathering within him. He did not return to his small courtyard on Temple Street, but made his way to West Lake.

Clad in snowy white, with two swords at his waist, he strolled along the causeway. The spring wind was gentle, the sun warm upon him.

The beauty of West Lake soothed his soul. His once-turbulent spirit gradually calmed, and within his brow, in the palace of the mind, the sword furnace rang with a mighty resonance—a vast spiritual power was quietly brewing.

Today, before the Minister’s residence, having proven his innocence and recited hundreds of verses, each one seemed to connect him more closely with the righteous figure within the Literary Monument—perhaps a resonance of style and spirit.

The world is vast, and talent ever flows.

This outcome surprised Anle; he had intended only to vindicate himself with his own sword aura, not expecting the Literary Monument’s blessing. Perhaps his open and honest actions, his clear conscience, had strengthened his own righteousness, granting him greater mastery and a deeper connection to Qingshan. He felt closer than ever to the mountain within the mountain.

Once at its foot, perhaps one day he would truly set foot upon its heights.

Yet the gains did not stop there. His physical strength had changed little, and the Ink Pool’s rank remained, for now, unaltered, but his spirit had grown vastly, seemingly on the verge of a breakthrough. Such a leap would have been impossible before, but since his innate talent had evolved from legendary to eternal, there was a qualitative change, even without the benefit of years.

Thus, the transformation of his talent allowed his spirit to grow directly.

The scenery of West Lake refreshed his heart.

Suddenly, ripples spread across the water—a small boat approached, and upon it sat Lady Yunrou, veiled, her slender legs draped over a Jiao-wei zither. She smiled gently at Anle.

Her long, fair fingers plucked the strings, and the melody floated over the waves.

“Please, Young Master An.”

Anle clasped his hands in greeting, then, surrounded by sword aura, stepped lightly onto the lake, leaving only a few ripples before alighting on the boat.

They sat facing one another; the music played, the lake shimmered, as though the waters themselves played accompaniment.

Sitting upright in the boat, Anle closed his eyes, listening to the melody, his mind growing ever more tranquil. The sword furnace within his brow rang with power, the once-vague spirit now seeming to open its eyes and begin its transformation.

Lady Yunrou glanced at Anle, a flicker of surprise and admiration in her eyes. Though the Qingshan concealed his cultivation, she could sense the surge within his spirit—a sign of breakthrough.

Anle’s spirit was perhaps about to coalesce into a true soul.

She did not disturb him. Today’s events had already stirred Lin’an to a fever pitch. The tale of Anle, drinking and reciting three thousand verses before the Minister’s gate to prove his innocence, was on everyone’s lips.

She had intended to ask about it, but seeing him on the verge of breakthrough, she focused her attention on the music.

Her spirit wove into her song, and Lady Yunrou, too, felt the youth’s pride, righteousness, and uncompromising nature—a stark contrast to the people she met on her pleasure boat.

To witness the world’s myriad wonders—this was a unique experience.

The music rose and fell, as if journeying through the red dust of mortal life—free and unrestrained.

By the lake, willows swayed in the breeze.

Li You’an and Zhao Huangting stood beneath the willows, their expressions curious.

“I was worried about the boy’s mood,” Zhao Huangting said, unable to help but laugh as he watched Anle on the boat. “But here he is, listening to music on West Lake. My concern was wasted.”

“The Sixth Mountain Lord’s ‘Red Dust Melody’ soothes the mind and steadies the spirit—perfect for breaking through,” Li You’an replied. “The aura rising from him is righteous sword energy. Once, that righteousness was drunk by Qingshan, but now it’s fused with the sword’s own power. It’s a force that demands integrity, courage, pride, and moral righteousness. The slightest lapse, and it will wither.”

“This is no easy path,” he said softly.

“But it is a path to greatness—perhaps even to the Tenth Realm,” Zhao Huangting replied, smiling with admiration at the youth on the lake.

“The road to the Tenth Realm is long—who can say if he’ll reach it?” Li You’an shook his head, not too certain or optimistic. “He’s faced too little hardship, knows too little of the world. There is so much injustice, so much that stifles the spirit. To wield a righteous sword, one must face endless injustice, and Lin’an itself is full of it, not to mention the wider world.”

“When faced with wave after wave of injustice, can he hold fast to his heart? That remains to be seen.”

“Too many have lost their edge after seeing too much unfairness—worn down, their fighting spirit dulled.”

He shook his head again. “Take the mighty Canglang River, which bars the Yuan and Mongol lands from our own. How many cultivators’ spirits have been stifled there? Since he wields righteousness, he will surely clash with it.”

“Can his sword cut through that river, cut through all injustice?”

Zhao Huangting laughed. “Let him face the river, let him cut through injustice—when that time comes, we’ll see. Before then, I’ll take him to the other side, to see the old heartland, to witness its mountains and rivers, so he knows how beautiful our land truly is.”

“I have little time left, but if I can help Qingshan find its next sword-bearer, my heart is glad. I am not his teacher—Hua Jie Bing has lit his path; I’ll merely clear away a bit of the fog, so his sword knows which way to point.”

With that, Zhao Huangting smiled and turned away, his white robe and brows rippling in the wind.

Li You’an was stunned, his expression complex.

“Come along, You’an, don’t just stand there. Let’s go for some old yellow wine at Yan Chun’s. Of all the drinks I’ve tried, it has the most flavor. As the boy says, it holds the taste of mortal life—a true pleasure.”

The elder’s words drifted through the swaying willows.

Li You’an smiled and followed.

Upon West Lake, the boat floated, music playing.

When the setting sun gilded the rippling water, Anle raised his hand and touched his brow. Within, the sword furnace rang, and the sword light blazed.

Lady Yunrou, playing her song, suddenly stopped, her hand pressing down on the zither. The music halted abruptly; her eyes were full of awe and wonder.

All at once, the lake erupted as though drenched by a torrential rain—each drop sharp with sword aura, descending like a waterfall of blades.

Anle opened his eyes and watched the myriad swordfalls, a smile tugging at his lips.

Within the sword furnace of his brow, upon the embryo of his spirit, the figure that once sat in shadow was now fully formed—no longer a phantom, but solid and real.

The countless falling waters behind him gathered and wove into a figure of water. It sat cross-legged upon West Lake, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, glittering like a radiant statue.

On this day, Anle’s spirit crossed from the mundane into the true soul.

…

“Brother Shen.”

“Mm?”

Shen Changqing walked the road, greeting acquaintances with a nod or a word.

Yet no one showed much expression, as if indifferent to everything.

He was used to it.

This was the Demon Suppression Department, an organization dedicated to maintaining stability in Great Qin—chiefly by slaying demons and monsters, with other tasks on the side.

Everyone here bore blood on their hands.

When one has seen too much life and death, all other matters become trivial.

At first, Shen Changqing had found this world difficult to adjust to, but in time, he grew accustomed.

The Department was vast.

Anyone who remained within was either a powerful master or one with the potential to become such.

Shen Changqing belonged to the latter.

The Department had two roles: Guardian and Demon Slayer. Everyone began as the lowest Demon Slayer, climbing step by step, with hopes of one day becoming a Guardian.

Shen Changqing’s predecessor had been a probationary Demon Slayer—the lowest of the low.

With his predecessor’s memories, he was intimately familiar with the Department’s workings.

Before long, he stopped before a certain pavilion.

Unlike the grim atmosphere elsewhere, this building stood out, a crane among chickens—a haven of calm within the blood-soaked Department.

Its doors stood open, people occasionally coming and going.

After only a moment's hesitation, Shen Changqing stepped inside.

The environment changed at once.

The smell of ink, tinged faintly with blood, filled the air. His brow furrowed instinctively, but he quickly relaxed.

For those of the Demon Suppression Department, the scent of blood was never truly washed away.