Chapter 28: Honing the Blade

(This chapter was especially taxing to write, so it's late, but it still counts for the second—no skipping updates... Well, as always, the new book needs your love!)

The Demon-Banishing Brush was the very source of Chen Jianchen’s confidence in facing the wolf demon, his trump card hidden at the bottom of the chest. That was why, at first, he hadn’t rushed to use it, preferring instead to wait for the right moment.

When Yingning appeared, drawing the wolf demon into casting its sorcery, Chen Jianchen immediately sensed that the moment had come and revealed the Demon-Banishing Brush without hesitation.

A swordsman has his sword, a bladesman his blade, and a scholar his brush—each carries its own symbolic weight and unique meaning.

Once, someone asked: “Of all things in the world, which is the sharpest?”

The answer was neither the sword’s tip nor the blade’s edge, but the brush’s point.

A brush may reveal the soul, and it may strike at the heart as well.

Beneath its tip, all the world’s wonders can be captured, a legacy of virtue may be left for the ages, black and white may be painted as one sees fit...

Now, Chen Jianchen raised his brush and touched its tip to the black miasma spat forth by the wolf demon.

The black vapor seemed almost tangible, swirling without dispersing, condensed to the thickness of a finger, yet it was not straight but twisted, coiling like a rope or a sinister little snake.

Its head, menacing, lunged toward Yingning, jaws wide to strike—when Chen Jianchen dashed forward, the tip of his Demon-Banishing Brush dripping with thick ink, glimmering darkly.

He wasn’t certain if the brush itself possessed the righteous force to kill evil, so to be safe, he had dipped it in ink.

Sss!

A strange sizzle filled the air—the seemingly sentient black vapor touched the brush’s tip as if snow meeting boiling water, disintegrating with a hiss, scattered in an instant and whisked away on the wind until nothing remained.

A howl rang out!

With the black vapor dissipated and its sorcery broken, the wolf demon behind let out a wail, its eyes flashing with a deeply human disbelief. It felt as though its soul had been struck by a heavy hammer, and black blood began to trickle from its nostrils.

In that instant, the once-arrogant wolf demon was wounded.

Sss, sss, sss!

A peculiar sound continued, emanating from the brush’s tip. With each pulse, faint sparks flashed among the hairs of the brush, like lightning dancing across the sky, crisscrossed and entangled, bursting forth with dazzling brilliance.

Could this be the true edge of the Demon-Banishing Brush?

The brush’s point had awakened.

Chen Jianchen was both astonished and overjoyed. He wasted not a moment, rushing forward several steps, raising his brush to strike at the wolf demon.

—He didn’t pound, nor did he stab or jab.

He wrote.

His movements flowed as smoothly as water, no different from his usual practice at the desk; if anything, his focus was sharper, his spirit more invested. He intended, simply, to write characters upon the wolf demon’s body.

The wolf demon, caught between rage and fear, raised its claws for a savage blow, but as it approached, the light at the tip of the brush flared wildly.

Sss! Sss! Sss!

White smoke curled from the wolf’s claws as if seared by fire, the stench of burning fur rising in the air. In panic, the demon recoiled, drawing back its paw.

Pain seared through it, and realizing the danger, it tried to turn and flee.

But it was too late. Chen Jianchen’s brush had already descended, its tip touching the demon’s chest, and in a single stroke he wrote a character:

“Righteous.”

The character was not large—about the size of a palm. Ink and black fur mingled, their colors indistinguishable. To an outsider, it was impossible to tell whether anything had been written there at all.

But Chen Jianchen knew—he had written a single word, “Righteous,” upon the wolf demon’s chest.

The demon, poised to escape, suddenly stiffened as if frozen by a spell, limbs locking in place, unable to move a muscle. Only its eyes retained a sliver of motion, casting a complicated glance at Chen Jianchen.

The next moment, it collapsed.

On the ground, its limbs could move again, and it struggled desperately to rise. Yet its efforts were in vain: something impossibly heavy seemed to pin its chest, making escape impossible. Even when it tried to howl, its throat was blocked, as if stuffed with cotton—no sound escaped.

To an observer, nothing seemed to hold the demon down—just emptiness, save perhaps the indistinct “Righteous” character on its chest.

It was a ludicrous sight, like a turtle turned on its back, flailing helplessly, unable to right itself.

But Chen Jianchen had no time to dwell on that. After he had written the character, he felt the brush tip tremble and shudder, and the sparks among the brush hairs gathered together, coalescing into a tiny sphere of light, no larger than a soybean.

The orb moved, it flew, and in a flash it detached from the brush tip and shot straight into the center of Chen Jianchen’s brow.

Boom!

It was as though the clouds parted to reveal the bright moon, or the wind and waves calmed to show the vast sea. A stirring, unfamiliar voice rang out in Chen Jianchen’s mind:

“The highest virtue is moral strength, next is meritorious deeds, and then, words that endure the ages—though time may pass, these are immortal…”

“…Immortality—where is it found? Ask the heavens and earth, and they have no answer; ask the people, and they speak. Confucius said: I nurture my noble spirit, vast and unyielding, stretching across heaven and earth, yet contained within this mortal frame. When this spirit is resolved, it brings will and strength, and is called the courage of the benevolent…”

At first, the voice recited, then it read, and finally it chanted, growing louder and louder, echoing like a great bell, resounding through the morning and evening.

“…Boundless merit is sought in emptiness, the cycle of cause and effect is bestowed by heaven; my righteous spirit stands unshaken, unchanged by circumstance, understanding through study, discerning right with the brush. The petty must be dismissed; the treacherous, cut down…”

Chen Jianchen stood motionless, but within his mind, great waves surged, forming a world of their own.

Boom!

When the recitation ended, the voice faded away, and his mind’s vision changed, becoming clear. He seemed to see a figure—an upright man in scholar’s robes, wearing the cap of a classicist, hands clasped behind his back, standing before him, yet also impossibly far away, always just out of reach; no matter how Chen Jianchen called or chased, the figure did not move, eternal and unmoved.

“Who are you?”

His cry echoed through the void, but there was no reply.

“Where is the demon wolf?”

A raucous shout from outside pulled Chen Jianchen’s soul back into his body, his mind snapping clear. The hunting party led by Old Zhang and the other hunters had returned—they had heard that the black wolf dared invade the village, and their anger was mixed with excitement.

“What’s happened here?”

When they burst into the Chen family’s courtyard, they found an inexplicable scene—a giant black wolf lay on the ground, flailing like an overturned turtle, unable to rise, while the promising young scholar, Master Chen, stood dazed beside it, holding a brush, ink still fresh on its tip.

Could it be that Master Chen subdued the demon wolf with a single brush?

They stared at each other in disbelief. Only Old Zhang, the most senior among them, slapped his thigh as enlightenment dawned. “Master Chen must be the Star of Literature descended to earth! Even demon wolves are afraid of him!”

Could that be?

Just as Chen Jianchen’s senses returned to him, he found himself bewildered all over again…