Chapter Eleven: The Bell

Facing Chen Jianchen’s hopeful gaze, Qingyun merely smiled faintly, bowed, and said, “Unfortunately, I have other important matters to attend to in the near future and will not be able to hunt the demon.”

Chen Jianchen was taken aback and grew anxious—not entirely for Wang Fu’s sake, as Wang Fu’s own lecherous tendencies had brought this calamity upon himself. Still, given the opportunity to save a life, Chen Jianchen would never stand idly by. Besides, the incident was suspicious, and Chen Jianchen had been present at the time; who could say that after harming Wang Fu, the demon wouldn’t turn its attention to him? It was always wise to take precautions beforehand, to allow for greater freedom of action.

“Master, you cannot simply stand by and let him die…”

Qingyun chuckled softly. “As a Daoist, I devote myself to the mountains and rivers, seeking only freedom and detachment, and should not involve myself in worldly affairs. However…” His tone shifted. “Since this matter concerns demonic mischief, and I happened to encounter it, I cannot ignore it…”

Hearing this, Chen Jianchen finally relaxed.

Qingyun continued, “Though it so happens I am preoccupied and cannot spare myself, you may take this bell and pass it on to your fellow friend. Let him keep it by his side for protection. The demon will not dare approach. Should it return, it will meet its end, for this bell will capture it.”

With that, he handed over the ancient bronze bell.

Chen Jianchen received it carefully, feeling its surprising weight. He examined it closely—the bell exuded an old, noble charm, its color deep yellow, its surface etched with many runes whose meanings eluded him, imbuing the object with an air of mystery. Gripping it and giving it a gentle shake, it produced a clear, melodious sound.

Could this be the legendary magical treasure?

“This is my own Daoist implement. It requires no incantations, and will act on its own, subduing evil spirits… Once my affairs are settled, I will return to reclaim it.”

So that’s how it is; he had thought the master was generously giving it away…

Chen Jianchen muttered to himself but felt he had achieved his goal. According to Qingyun, this bell was powerful enough to deal with the demon, and that was sufficient.

He cleared his throat, intending to ask about the Daoist arts, but Qingyun seemed to anticipate his thoughts, smiling: “Sir, you are a man of wealth and status. Our paths are different; there is no common ground between us. I take my leave.”

With a flourish, he produced a whisk from nowhere, gave it a gentle wave, and vanished from sight, appearing more than ten meters away in an instant. Then, with another transformation, he disappeared completely.

Chen Jianchen stared, dumbfounded—such Daoist arts were truly unfathomable and astonishing, inspiring envy. If possible, he would eagerly pursue such mastery and become a disciple. But for now, Qingyun clearly had no such intention, dismissing him with a simple phrase.

It seemed that even if the path to immortality existed in this world, it was not easily learned, and entry was elusive.

Holding the bell, Chen Jianchen stood lost in thought, suddenly realizing that although he now possessed the magical implement, persuading Wang Fu to accept it and keep it close would be quite a challenge.

If he explained the truth, Wang Fu, already mired in trouble, would never accept it. Therefore, another approach was needed…

Several ideas whirled through his mind, none certain, and as he saw the sky growing dark, fearing his mother would worry, he stopped thinking and hurried down the mountain toward home.

Upon reaching the village entrance, he saw Lady Mo and Abao coming out, evidently searching for him. Seeing Chen Jianchen return safely, their anxious expressions faded.

Lady Mo reproached him, “Liuxian, where have you been?”

Chen Jianchen replied evasively, “I happened upon a friend and chatted for a while…”

Abao, her eyes wide, found it strange that Chen Jianchen had befriended a Daoist priest, but she was clever and said nothing.

At Chen Jianchen’s repeated request, Abao agreed to stay for dinner at the Chen household.

After the meal, the girl eagerly began to clean up the table and wash the dishes.

When everything was tidied, Abao prepared to return to the Earth God Temple. Chen Jianchen said, “It’s quite dark—I’ll walk you back.”

Abao was about to decline, but swallowed the words.

Winter nights descended early. Though a few stars hung in the sky, they were dim and pale, so Chen Jianchen took an old lantern from home and carried it to light the way.

The village lay in darkness, deep and silent, only occasionally broken by a distant dog’s bark. Because lamp oil was expensive, villagers cherished every drop, usually extinguishing their lamps early after a brief reading, then going to sleep.

On the path, Chen Jianchen was absorbed in thought and remained silent; since he said nothing, Abao kept silent as well. Only their footsteps echoed along the village lanes, their rhythm as delicate as a melody.

Soon, they reached the Earth God Temple.

Chen Jianchen raised the lantern to light Abao’s way inside. Seeing the meager bedding within, the bare walls, he felt a pang of sorrow.

“Liuxian, you should head back.”

“Alright. Rest early.”

Chen Jianchen stepped out of the little temple, but had not gone far when a stumbling figure approached in the night. In the dim light, he could see the man was tall, hair disheveled, mumbling incoherently.

Chen Jianchen frowned, unable to react quickly enough before the man barreled straight toward the temple, reeking of alcohol.

“Stop! Who are you?” Chen Jianchen shouted.

The man’s tongue was thick from drink; who knew how much he’d had. He laughed, “Who are you, standing here? I’m here to see Abao…”

By the lantern’s glow, Chen Jianchen finally saw him clearly—a man in his thirties, face rough and fleshy, eyes glazed with drunkenness.

It was Rascal Asan.

Chen Jianchen recognized him—a layabout from the neighboring village, a scoundrel with a brutish strength who often acted as a bully.

“Liuxian, what’s happening?” Abao came out at the sound, and on seeing Asan, she was startled, quickly hiding behind Chen Jianchen.

As an orphan, and a beautiful girl at that, Abao had often been harassed by such idle ruffians despite her young age. She endured their crude words in silence, pretending she heard nothing. But tonight, perhaps drunk and reckless, Asan had dared to sneak to the temple. Had Chen Jianchen not happened to be present, the outcome would have been unthinkable.

Sober, Asan would never dare approach Chen Jianchen, but now, blinded by drink and lust, seeing Abao, he leered and reached out to touch her face.

“How dare you!”

Chen Jianchen’s eyes flashed, and he struck swiftly, slapping Asan across the face.

A sharp sound rang out. Caught off guard, Asan spun twice on the spot, blood and teeth flying, his cheek swelling high. The blow sobered him instantly. Seeing Chen Jianchen standing sternly before him, he was terrified: “M-Master Chen!”

“Get out!”

Asan scrambled away, clutching his head, not daring to look back.

Abao, behind them, stared in astonishment—was this really her refined, gentle Liuxian who seemed too frail to harm a fly?