Nightfall

Translator: TransN Editor: TransN

Ning Que did not know that he had missed another huge opportunity, and, of course, he did not know some Divine Talisman Master saw his grass script on a piece of account book ripped by him in the brothel, which produced two famous calligraphy notes, Wooden Rubblings of Yan and Chicken Soup Calligraphy. Today, he still was an unknown young boss in Lin 47th Street, and an ordinary but diligent student in Academy.

He woke from a drunken sleep the next morning and drank the bowl of chicken soup which perhaps was warmed up again and again, frowning. Then, he stopped Sangsang who was preparing to wash the pot and bowl. He looked at her black face and said seriously, “Last night, I drank too much because I was so happy. I didn’t have time to tell you because I passed out.”

Sangsang looked up, raised her thin eyebrows, opened her bright eyes, and asked with curiosity, “Young Master, what makes you so happy? I’ve never seen you drink that much.”

“I think I’ve discovered a method to understand those books in the old library of Academy.”

Ning Que extended a finger and shook it before her nose on and on, smiling and then said, “Although it’s just a glimmer of hope, it’s hope after all. I think if possible, I must seize the chance.”

The so-called hope was a casual denial of despair. Because denial was casual, it would not last for a long time. As a person who was played by destiny, Ning Que knew this better than anyone. Alas, hope tended to become disappointment, then despair. The more hope you had, the deeper regret and pity you had as well.

Whether the cultivator in the mountain of the Yan territory, or the examiner from Military Ministry, or the mild old man Lyu Qingchen in the journey, or the selection round for the course of magic skills during the academy entrance exam, he experienced the hope that had been ruthlessly stamped out over and over again. Therefore, he became calmer and calmer and even numb. As for entering the magic cultivation world, he never gave up hope in his heart, although he seemed to not care too much for outward appearances.

Because he knew if he wanted to survive in the world and live well, serve his revenge, and leave his name in history on this black and fertile land called the Tang, he must enter that world. Once he gave up all hope, his end was not disappointment, but despair.

To seize the faint hope, Ning Que adjusted his mental state into the most generous and positive one. He would leave Chang’an by carriage early in the morning and ride the carriage back to Lin 47th Street late at night. In the morning, he always felt sleepy when he learned six courses. After the third bell rang, would he jump from his seat with high spirit, rush out of the study room and into the canteen, chew and swallow two meals slowly, take a walk surrounding the lake, then climb up the library over and over and read books without a stop.

He sat near the west window and read calligraphy while enjoying the sunshine. He disassembled every character on the book into strokes with Eight Strokes Calligraphy of Yong, and then he learned the trend and meaning of those strokes carefully, and forgot their meaning deliberately.

The female professor still wrote the Hairpin-style Small Regular Script quietly near the east window. Her bun was undone, the splendor of Spring reflected on her smooth bob that was just over ears, which made her look gentle and silent. She did not give any directions no matter how sincere Ning Que was.

Some afternoon several days later, he read half of the Primary Exploration on Ocean of Qi and Mountain of Snow. The characters were disassembled into thousands of strokes, and then reorganized into thousands of character Yongs with different shape and meaning, which cost almost all his energy.

Ning Que rubbed his fatigued eyes, and then silently turned his head to look at the thickening green leaves out of the window. He knew it was no meaning if he forced himself to read. Even if he consumed all of his energy, he just could understand more meaning from Talisman Master who transcribed books, which provided no help for him to enter into the Initial State.

To his disappointment, the notes, left by the mysterious instructor, on the paper in the middle of thin book never showed again, not even some words. It seemed like he just disappeared.

The chirping of cicada that annoyed students in Academy for a thousand years rang again in this afternoon without any warning. Ning Que quietly listened to the chirping of cicadas out of the window for a long time, and then he turned around suddenly, closed the thin book on his knees, and began to meditate with eyes closed.

The characters on the book were disassembled into strokes with Eight Strokes Calligraphy of Yong. Then he forced himself to forget the meaning of the character. Therefore, even if the number of characters was large, he could manage to stay in the corner of his mental world quietly. However, once he began to meditate on these strokes, the complex strokes would become dangerous.

On the first day, when he watched the character and forgot the meaning, he felt that his Psyche Power had nowhere to go. He knew if he forced himself to meditate, it would be very dangerous. Therefore, he did not try it again these days. But he could not accept the fact that the hope he had barely just seen was slipping away. As such, he must try it again at the moment.

He closed his eyes and sat near the window with crossed legs. He seemed to be like a statue without moving a little bit. A little hot Spring breeze blew from the west window to his thin blue clothes, wrinkling it. The waves on the chest of his turquoise robe slowly rose, and then fell flat, over and over. It seemed to have come alive. It was a pity that the waves could not continue, so the life slipped away in defeat.

In a pond somewhere in Academy, wind skimmed water, and little waves pushed away several duckweeds in all direction. However, no matter where they went, they would come back after touching the wall.

In some mountain, a famous person walked through the dense forest and visited the famous temple. He knocked on the door, only to find out that the eminent monk had been traveling the world already. He only could leave with disappointment, shaking his head and looking back to the broken road in the forest.

In Ning Que’s current mental world, those complex strokes, those deconstructed character components without specific meaning, and those lines of characters suddenly became vivid as his meditated. Each stroke seemed to have a metal edge, becoming knives formation of barbarians from grassland. The tip of the writing seemed to be more humid, becoming cold rain outside Spring Breeze Pavilion. The rain began to fall, and each fall meant knives that cut numerous people. The rain was unending, bringing unending conflicts.

Suddenly, the cutting and rain stopped. He opened his eyes from meditation at once and felt a sharp pain in his chest. He could not help but cough, lowering his head. His hoarse cough suddenly broke the tranquility of the second floor in the old library. He lifted arm to cover his mouth right away, but he found some blood on his blue sleeve.

“Headmaster of Academy said that to force oneself to do things was boring. You aren’t fit to pursue cultivation. Although you have a stone-forged will, even if you find some interesting method, you… shouldn’t insist on doing things you can’t.

The female professor was in front of Ning Que without him noticing, speaking to him with gentle eyes.

Ning Que looked up, and then he just found the female professor was so tiny. He could not tell her real age because she had clear eyes and thin eyebrows. He knew it was she who had pulled him out of meditation when he reached a dangerous state. He could not help but laugh at himself. Then he stood up, wiped the blood off his lip, and gave a salute.

The female professor smiled, shaking her head to tell him there was no need to take this to heart. After nodding her head, she walked deep into the aisle between bookshelves with Hairpin-style Small Regular Script in her arm. Then, she left the old library without others noticing.

Ning Que had spent a lot of time in meditating unknowingly. It was already twilight outside the windows. He did not rush to leave when night was coming but stood in the west window quietly, listening to cicada’s interrupted chirping because of their lack of practice. Then he walked to the desk, grinded ink and put brush into ink to write down some words.

…

…

When the night grew late, the talisman inscription shone again in the deep of second floor in the old library, and then slid to both sides silently. Chen Pipi squeezed out with difficulty, puffing and blowing and his fat face trembling, which looked rather funny.

He had continued paying attention to the progress of the other party after he left the message that night. However, he did not hear from him after several days because Ning Que took sick leave. He was more curious than angry about what happened. Unfortunately, what annoyed him most these days was his Second Brother who let him fear was crazy. The brother suddenly asked classmates to learn Rituals of the Yin, so he had no time to visit the old library because of that.

Today, he finally had time. Chen Pipi rushed to the old library without bathing and relaxing, because he just wanted to see if Ning Que, the poor and hateful guy, had given him a reply.

Chen Pipi walked to the bookshelf and drew out the thin book, Primary Exploration on Ocean of Qi and Mountain of Snow. He lifted his thick eyebrows with a slight “eh.” After he saw it some time, he could not help but shake his head and acclaimed. “This guy really has some guts, he figuring out such a stupid method, and he could understand?”

What he saw was the earliest reply from Ning Que. Next, he saw today’s reply. His thick lip could not help but make a louder noise, and he frowned, saying annoyedly, “How can you pursue cultivation if you don’t even understand this? I don’t know you’re a genius or an idiot!”

After he was silent for a while, Chen Pipi sat beside the desk in the west window and he began to grind ink and gave him a reply. When he communicated with Ning Que for the second time, he, the genius from West-Hill wrote this. “Are you a kid? You don’t even know the basic reason? Now that you have one acupoint that can’t connect the world, you can’t resonate with the Breath of nature. There’s no other path you can take. If you want to know the specific reason, I could tell you a metaphor. Our body is like a musical instrument, like the vertical bamboo flute, and Psyche Power is the breath in the vertical bamboo flute. It doesn’t mean you can play good music just because sound was produced from vertical bamboo flute’s hole.”

“If there are no holes on your flute, then how can you blow? If the heaven and the earth can’t hear your music, then how can you interact with it? Most of the acupoints in your Snow Mountain and Ocean of Qi were blocked, so how else do you wish to torture yourself?”