Chapter Fourteen: The Divide Between Cultivators and the Mortal World

How magnificent is the tiger, bold and mighty, its ferocity unmatched by any common beast!

The young man’s aura shifted in an instant—from a gentle scholar, he transformed into a dazzling, fierce tiger. Even the falling spring rain seemed to freeze and shatter in the wake of his presence.

The burly man with the red scarf covering his mouth felt a sudden suffocation tighten in his chest. It was as if he heard a tiger's roar—king of the beasts atop the forest, brow furrowed in disdain, its thunderous roar making the man’s head spin.

The youth moved with the swiftness of a tiger’s pounce, slapping aside the man’s incoming fist, then crashing his palm into the man’s chest. The brute's pupils contracted in shock as his chest caved under the blow. The sound of splintering ribs echoed like a string of firecrackers. His entire body was hurled backward at a speed greater than his charge, slamming into the ground, his back scraping against the wet stone and scattering the pooled rainwater.

With a single move, the ferocious thug was crushed, left sprawled and helpless!

In the alley, the remaining two ruffians lost their sneering smiles.

“A cultivator?!”

Their lips trembled, voices rising in disbelief and anger, exploding through the curtain of rain.

“That old fox Liu Qingyan tricked us! Didn’t he say it was just some ordinary young painter? How did he turn out to be a cultivator?!”

“He sent common thugs like us to kill a cultivator—he’s sending us to our deaths!”

Fear and despair gripped their hearts. The red-scarved ruffian’s wails echoed through the street. That tiger-style move of An Le's had unleashed a force more than five times greater than that of a normal man—nearly enough to shatter the man's heart with a single strike!

This is why cultivators are held in such high regard. Once one steps onto the path of cultivation, it is a transformation of essence. The body, reflexes, and strength are elevated far beyond ordinary men. A body-tempering martial artist, having opened his vital energies, could easily overpower any stout common thug.

These gang enforcers were not cultivators themselves. If they were, they would never stoop to such work—leaving aside the government subsidies for cultivators, their very earning power would make such menial labor beneath them.

An Le stood beneath his oil-paper umbrella as the spring rain grew heavier, pattering like pearls and jade upon the canopy. He frowned slightly, gazing at the thugs who were suddenly so panicked.

“In broad daylight, you dare to break the hands of a scholar?”

His heart flickered with surprise, anger, and a chill of disappointment. For the first time, he felt how much filth lurked beneath the polished surface of Lin’an Prefecture.

He knew he had wronged no one. Since arriving in Lin’an, he’d done nothing but visit West Lake to watch the sword-dancing courtesan Immortal, floating above the dust, and otherwise lived by the rules, abiding by the law.

So why had this violence come for him? Who had paid these men to break his hands?

To destroy his hands was to destroy his future—he would lose any hope in the imperial exams, lose the ability to paint, and see his life plunged into darkness.

Who could it be?

Questions surged over him like a tide.

Suppressing his doubts, An Le pondered a moment, then stepped forward with his umbrella, advancing on the two remaining thugs in the alley.

There was no way out for them now. Learning that An Le was not only a cultivator but a scholar recognized by the court, they even felt a murderous urge toward Liu Qingyan. Could they hope to deal with such a man?

Even if, by sheer luck, they broke An Le’s hands, how could they possibly survive the wrath of the authorities afterward?

But these knife-edge gangsters no longer wished to fight; An Le was a cultivator, and their chances of victory—even fighting to the death—were vanishingly slim. Better to run for it.

The two ruffians bolted in different directions, each for his own fate.

But An Le had no intention of letting either escape. He quickened his stride, surging forward in the Tiger Step of the Five Beasts Body Technique. Closing in on one of the men, he snapped his umbrella shut, its motion swift as a sword thrust—his mind focused on the Sword Waterfall he’d once painted. The paper umbrella became a blade.

He drove the umbrella tip into the thug’s chest, force channeling through it. The man’s eyes bulged, blood spraying from his lips, his back arching as a shockwave burst outward and sent him flying, crashing into the muddy ground.

Shaking off the rain, steam rose from An Le's body as his vital energy burned, drying his soaked clothes in a haze of white mist.

He whirled on the other fleeing thug and hurled his umbrella.

In an instant, the umbrella whistled through the air like a flying sword, empowered by the Daoist fruits of a swordsman. It struck the escaping thug, the tip piercing his flesh and felling him on the spot.

Three screams of agony rose and fell in the rain.

That day, An Le finally understood the gulf between a cultivator and ordinary men of the rivers and lakes: the distance between an eagle soaring the heavens and an ant crawling the earth.

Rain-soaked, An Le turned to face the three defeated men, and spoke again.

“Who sent you?”

…

On the upper floor of Drunken Dragon Pavilion.

Liu Qingyan sat petrified, his porcelain cup slipping from his grip and spilling the expensive Drunken Rosy Clouds wine across the table.

“A cultivator… An Le is a cultivator?!”

Liu Qingyan’s hair stood on end. Mister Luo’s intelligence was wrong!

How could such a crucial detail as An Le being a cultivator have been omitted? If he’d known, he would never have sent thugs after him—it would have been suicide!

Or perhaps… was this all part of Mister Luo’s scheme?

“It’s over. Mister Luo has ruined me!”

Despair consumed Liu Qingyan. He stared at the untouched feast before him, unable to eat or drink, seeing only a dead end.

He hastily paid dozens of taels for the meal and hurried downstairs, intent on fleeing Lin’an—though he hated to abandon the business he’d built over the years, his life was at stake.

Yet just as he exited Drunken Dragon Pavilion, a familiar, ornate carriage pulled up at the door.

The curtain lifted, revealing a man’s cold, aloof face at the window.

“Mister Luo, why did your report not mention that An Le is a cultivator?”

At the sight of Mister Luo, Liu Qingyan blurted out his grievance without thinking.

From the carriage, Mister Luo’s frosty features softened into a faint smile amid the rain.

“You’ve failed again.”

“Neither task was accomplished.”

His smile was as gentle as a spring day, yet Liu Qingyan felt as though he had plunged into icy water.

He immediately regretted his outburst—who was he to question Mister Luo?

“You ordered an attack on a titled scholar, and a cultivator at that. If the authorities come for you, you won’t escape. Go surrender yourself now. Perhaps you’ll receive leniency; after all, you were acting for Young Master Qin. He’ll see you protected.”

Mister Luo spoke coolly, then let the curtain fall.

Was his intelligence truly flawed?

In fact, it hadn’t been. He’d met An Le before and sensed that the youth had successfully refined his spirit and entered a meditative state. But at that time, An Le had not yet tempered his body. With only the power of a newly stilled mind, if the gangsters risked everything, An Le would still have had his hands broken.

But Mister Luo never imagined that in just one night, the boy would open his vital energies and cross into the first realm of body-tempering. Such an overnight breakthrough was rare indeed, and spoke of extraordinary talent.

He had erred, but it hardly mattered. In fact, Mister Luo found himself ever more intrigued by this young scholar.

Outside the carriage, Liu Qingyan’s face brightened—Young Master Qin would protect him? In Lin’an, that was more than enough! No matter his past crimes, if Qin wanted to shield him, it was as simple as a word.

“Thank you for your guidance, sir. I will turn myself in at once,” Liu Qingyan said, bowing deeply to the carriage.

The luxurious carriage gave no reply.

Liu Qingyan lifted his head, rain streaming through his beard. His lips worked silently, then he turned and began walking toward the magistrate’s office. After a few steps, he broke into a run, veering off course.

Young Master Qin will protect me?

Nonsense!

Did Mister Luo believe that himself?

Liu Qingyan did not. He had to flee—escape from Lin’an, vanish, and he might live.

Down the long street, the old painter ran wildly, feet splashing through puddles.

Suddenly—a muffled crack.

His body separated from his head. The severed head arced high, trailing blood that mingled with the spring rain—a splash of living ink upon the world.

The fine rain fell steadily.

Before Drunken Dragon Pavilion, the carriage stood silent, wind lifting the curtain to reveal a shadowy figure within, a blood-slicked little sword floating in his hand.

After a long while, the carriage wheels crushed the water in the joints of the blue bricks, rumbling as the vehicle rolled slowly down the empty street.