The cold wind howled bleakly, and frost penetrated to the bone. A layer of withered branches and fallen leaves had accumulated in the courtyard, but no one bothered to clean them up.

Chen Shigu wore a patched gray robe and stood beside a brazier reading a book.

He casually flipped through the pages—this was a collection of poems, rhapsodies, and policy essays by this year’s newly ranked imperial examination graduates. The Dragon and Tiger Rankings had just been announced, and busybodies in Chang’an had already compiled a collection, copying and circulating it. These twenty-odd men were the entire empire’s most outstanding talents, and their future lives would be dedicated to serving this nation in transition from prosperity to decline, working themselves to death with utmost devotion.

The Tang Dynasty’s most magnificent and glorious Qujiang Garden banquet would soon be held for these newly ranked graduates. They were probably lying awake all night with excitement over their transformation from carp to dragon, becoming disciples of the Son of Heaven. Even in their poetry, one could sense their vigor and hope.

Chen Shigu sneered coldly with schadenfreude, then suddenly clutched his chest and coughed violently, throwing the booklet into the brazier to burn.

Under the clear, cold moonlight, a thin, skeletal figure slowly emerged from the shadows.

There were no footsteps.

Even with his extraordinarily keen hearing that could detect the slightest sound, he heard not a whisper of movement.

A young man in blue robes stood quietly under the covered walkway, refusing to enter the room.

“I’m leaving,” he said.

He rarely called him master, and Chen Shigu rarely called him by name. The old man and the young boy addressed each other simply as “hey,” to the point that Chen Shigu, with mocking intent, had simply given him the surname ‘Wei’—a great clan name. When he’d bought this little devil for ten copper coins from starving refugees, he hadn’t bothered to ask what his parents’ surname was.

As for the concepts of heaven, earth, ruler, parent, and teacher, or gentleness, kindness, respect, frugality, and deference, Chen Shigu had always discarded them like worn-out shoes.

Chen Shigu sneered coldly: “Don’t want to study anymore?”

The young man said: “I’ve already learned what I could learn. What I want to learn, you refuse to teach.”

Chen Shigu replied indifferently: “It’s not that I refuse to teach—the things in books are poisonous. Learning them brings only endless pain and trouble, without bringing oneself any benefit.”

This reasoning failed to convince the young man, who stubbornly said: “But you take that poison every day.”

Chen Shigu pointed to his bed—a worn-out coffin—and said: “That’s why I’ve fallen to such a state.”

He had taught him martial arts and the skills of tomb raiding and feng shui divination, but absolutely forbade him from reading or learning to write. However, this little devil was rebellious and unruly, refusing to obey, and would run to the study to eavesdrop on lessons.

When Chen Shigu punished him, he would argue righteously: “I didn’t pay the instructor any tuition fees. I was eavesdropping from the roof, and since it was stealing, it doesn’t count as violating your orders.”

That had happened five years ago. Back then, he could still beat the little devil soundly. Three years later, he could only land two or three hits before the boy would escape.

“You can only steal.”

After taking on this disciple, Chen Shigu never gave him enough to eat or cotton clothes to wear, telling him to steal for himself. If he could steal successfully, he would have something to eat. If he couldn’t steal, he would go cold and hungry. As for being caught by the victims and beaten or cursed at, that simply meant his skills weren’t refined enough.

He truly treated his disciple poorly, so it was only natural that the young man wanted to leave.

Without any warning, Chen Shigu suddenly exploded into action, drawing his sword and thrusting forward like a gray dragon pouncing toward the doorway. Driven by his profound internal energy, the sword blade hummed and vibrated.

The blue-robed young man bent backward and lightly flicked himself away, floating gracefully back to the courtyard. Chen Shigu continued his pursuit with thrusting attacks, but the young man didn’t turn around, still retreating and dodging. His Mirage Tower Steps were mysteriously unpredictable, his form ghostlike and phantasmal. Chen Shigu’s sword techniques changed in countless variations, turning through over a thousand forms in mere moments. His sword tip remained constantly within an inch of the young man’s chest, yet could never pierce through.

A gray shadow and a blue shadow intertwined and spun in flight, sometimes close, sometimes distant, moving so fast that their techniques couldn’t be seen clearly. Sword energy scattered everywhere, causing all the fallen leaves in the courtyard to dance and swirl upward, forming a giant net that wrapped around these two figures moving at extreme speed.

The two fought for a long time. Although they couldn’t determine a victor in the short term, one was advancing while the other retreated—the difference in skill was very clear.

Suddenly, the young man leaped into the air, drifting up to the treetops light as a wisp of blue smoke, and stood motionless.

Chen Shigu stood in the courtyard holding his sword. This sword thrust had never pierced the young man’s chest—not because he wouldn’t, but because he couldn’t. He was old now, extremely weakened. Even using his full strength, he could no longer kill this little devil.

The fallen leaves that had been swirling and dancing in the sword energy fell to the ground one by one. The autumn wind blew, and the blue-robed young man stood on the treetop swaying with the wind as if he had no weight at all. Under the moonlight, his thin, pale, narrow face was hidden in shadow and couldn’t be seen clearly—only a pair of eyes black as lacquer gleamed brightly.

Was this little devil fourteen or fifteen years old now? Chen Shigu hadn’t asked back then, so he wasn’t sure. He remembered the boy being only as big as a kitten, but he would scratch and bite, full of wild nature. His raggedly clothed parents could only spare one copper coin to buy a candy stick to barely coax him into going with the buyer.

He was extremely stubborn and very proud, just as Chen Shigu himself had been in his youth. But the once unstoppably fierce young man now had a full head of white hair.

How long could this proud spirit be maintained in the dark and violent chaos of these times? With no attachments, there would be no fear. He was so fast now because nothing bound his free spirit. In the future, that might not be the case.

This little devil would crash into thorns and return bruised, despairing, and resentful. With exceptional talent and harboring grudges, only then would his martial arts truly reach perfection and the pinnacle of achievement.

Chen Shigu unconsciously looked toward the empty coffin in the room.

“You are buried beneath the spring, your bones dissolved to mud; I remain in the human world with snow-white hair.”

Time passed swiftly—that person had actually been dead for nearly forty years now. Chen Shigu realized he truly was old. When a person frequently recalls the past, it means he no longer has a future to anticipate. His lifelong unvented hatred, despair driven to madness, had ultimately become nothing more than a handful of yellow earth and scattered grave sites.

“Startlingly talented and absolutely gorgeous, extensively learned and broadly knowledgeable, skilled in both literary and martial arts, unparalleled in the world; yet what he sought and desired could never be fulfilled.” This was the prophetic verse his own master, the Barefoot Taoist, had left him. He came from darkness, glimpsed a moment of illusory light, but was destined to return to darkness once again.

With a clang, Chen Shigu threw his long sword to the ground, flicked his sleeves and departed, leaving behind one sentence:

“You have completed your apprenticeship.”

Volume Three: Rakshasa Transformation