Chapter 103: The True Legacy of the Ancestors

The image of the beast flashed vividly before Song Mu’s eyes, striking his mind like a bolt of thunder. That tailless creature—wasn’t it the very same stone cliff demon they had encountered earlier in Qiantian Town?

“Brother Song!” Kong Zong hurried forward as the creature began to retreat, quickly checking on Song Mu’s condition. Seeing that Song Mu was unharmed, he finally exhaled in relief.

At that moment, Song Mu’s face revealed a trace of astonishment as he turned to Kong Zong and asked quietly, “Brother Kong, did you see what that creature looked like?”

Kong Zong, clutching his scrolls with a solemn gaze, nodded toward Song Mu. “The same demon that appeared in Qiantian Town?”

A few other scholars emerged as well, recalling the earlier incident. Their faces showed surprise and disbelief. “Could that demon have escaped here and is still causing havoc?” “It had its tail severed by the master last time—how does it still dare to be so fierce and arrogant?”

Hearing this, Song Mu shook his head thoughtfully, realization dawning upon him as he looked at the gathered men. “Perhaps it sensed the master’s presence, which pushed it to act so recklessly.”

He scanned the surroundings once more, his mind settling on a conclusion. This weasel demon must be the very one that had escaped from the master’s grasp in Qiantian Town. How it arrived here and began to wreak havoc was a mystery, but its ferocity had only increased.

Today, when the master had released several waves of literary power, the familiar aura immediately put the demon on alert. As the saying goes, enemies meet with burning eyes—the demon’s bold provocation now made perfect sense.

But the creature was cunning; knowing it could not defeat Master Xun, it had cunningly deceived him, using a strategy to lure the master away and shifting its attention to Song Mu and the other scholars.

Its prolonged probing outside was likely due to concern over the scholars’ martial abilities. After several tests, the weasel demon realized the true threats were Song Mu and Kong Zong and grew bolder.

Yet it had not anticipated that Song Mu harbored a streak of noble righteousness within him—a semi-saintly aura of literary virtue. This aura was a lethal bane to demons, and this sudden disadvantage forced the demon to retreat back into the darkness, though it likely had no intention of giving up, instead lying in wait for an opportunity.

Having pieced this together, Song Mu felt a surge of confidence. Perhaps Master Xun would return shortly. But until then, a fierce battle lay ahead.

How many more times Song Mu could summon that radiant righteousness was uncertain. And if the demon sensed something amiss and fled prematurely, then once they left, this small village would stand no chance in even a single fight.

The group retreated into the ancestral hall, where several scholars began composing poetry. Though hastily done, under Song Mu and Kong Zong’s guidance, their verses took shape with some semblance of form.

Fortunately, Shiyang County had recently produced a large number of new scholars; otherwise, sustaining the protection of the inscription stone and composing verses might have stretched their resources thin.

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A brief calm seemed to settle both inside and outside the ancestral hall. Even the usual cries of birds and dogs were absent, leaving only the crackling of the bonfire.

The weasel demon, intimidated by the protective power of the inscription stone and Song Mu’s strange aura, remained motionless.

Inside, none dared sleep, their eyes scanning the surroundings continuously.

After some hurried efforts, Song Mu and his companions produced another dozen sheets of paper, all battle poems, which they handed to Kong Zong and Song Mu.

“Where exactly did the master get taken by that creature?” Kong Zong frowned, staring outside the hall.

Song Mu extended his mental senses once more but could find no trace of the demon. It seemed, after Song Mu’s unexpected strike, the creature had retreated into the depths of darkness.

Before Song Mu could relax, the demon’s attack arrived silently—an unbearable stench-filled yellow mist drifting toward the hall, still clearly visible in the torchlight.

“Everyone, be careful!” Song Mu warned immediately. The crowd instinctively moved deeper inside, but the hall was small, and with hundreds of people packed in, it grew uncomfortably crowded.

Song Mu and Kong Zong stood at the entrance, throwing out several sheets of inscribed paper. Rays of light pierced the yellow mist, and some scholars, learning from them, also joined in. The mist was pushed back somewhat, but the foul odor persisted.

Meanwhile, a sinister chittering echoed again, sounding like taunts in Song Mu’s ears, grating and sharp.

But Song Mu and the others ceased their efforts; their supplies of paper were nearly depleted, and their own energy was heavily drained.

Their faces bore bitter smiles, uncertain and helpless.

Then the weasel demon launched another assault.

A black shadow burst forth from the yellow mist, hurtling straight toward Song Mu and the others.

“Watch out!” Kong Zong shouted.

Song Mu was quicker, casting a sheet of inscribed paper. The words instantly formed a phantom shield before him, absorbing the strike, but it dissipated immediately afterward.

The demon now seemed to have unleashed its true strength.

Several scholars joined the fray, launching brilliant attacks, but it was clearly insufficient.

“No more paper! Keep writing!” Kong Zong urged.

Song Mu used the last sheet, handing two more to Kong Zong, then swiftly turned and drew the demon-sealing brush from his bosom.

This time, Song Mu prepared to inscribe his own two poems.

But just as he lifted the brush, he felt a tug at his sleeve.

Turning, Song Mu saw a little girl with her hair tied in a topknot, staring at him boldly. When she noticed his gaze, she extended a small hand.

In her palm lay a piece of yellowed silk cloth.

Song Mu looked closely as the girl said softly, “Big brother, this is the paper our great-grandfather gave you.”

Surprised, Song Mu took it and unfolded it. On the silk was a battle poem.

“Layers of peaks veil crimson and green,
Clouds shroud the white radiance unseen.
The bridge over streams swells with jade waves,
Trees near homes shed golden sprays.
No drunken cup clouds my sight,
Only sudden chills in the night.
A clear breeze arrives one day,
Supporting trees as golden birds play.”

The slender silk was aged but finely made, the poem perfectly preserved. Each character was bold and vigorous, the strokes sharp as blades.

Song Mu glanced over and murmured, “‘Cloud and Sun.’”

He raised his eyes toward the inscription stone at the center of the hall. Old Master Fan, his face weathered, looked at Song Mu knowingly and spoke.

“This poem was something I came across in my youth, an original work by the author himself. Now, it shall be your turn to wield its power.”

Song Mu’s heart stirred deeply upon seeing the signature beneath—the name “Song Kedi.”

Song Kedi. The name stirred a profound familiarity in Song Mu’s mind, now finally placing it.

He was the last successful imperial scholar of the Song family.

A century ago, Song Kedi passed the imperial examinations and served as an official in Fujian, where he was ultimately laid to rest.

This ancestor represented the final shining moment of the Song family’s literary legacy in Shiyang.

Even now, Song Mu carried a copy of Song Kedi’s “Travel Notes on Fujian” in his pack.

He had never imagined that today, in this small fishing village, he would encounter the authentic poetry of his ancestor.

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