Chapter 35: Who Among Men Has Reached Such Refinement

When caught in a brawl and unable to overpower your opponent, there are three ultimate moves to deploy.

The first is to draw a weapon—be it a brick from the ground or a bench by the roadside, anything within reach could become your secret weapon to turn the tide. The second is to make a run for it; flee as fast and as far as you can, and perhaps return for revenge after regrouping. The third is a last resort, for when you can neither win the fight nor escape—this was what Ye Chang was now employing.

He curled up, arms wrapped around his head and body, shielding his vital parts, and braced himself to take the beating. Though he might be pummeled, at least he would avoid serious injury.

Yet, after Ye Chang hunched into a ball, he realized that no blows were landing on him. Raising his head, he discovered that the gang of ruffians lay scattered on the ground, while their leader, Brother Xiao Wu—Xiao Bailang—was being hoisted into the air by a single hand gripping his throat!

Clang!

The dagger in Xiao Bailang’s hand clattered to the ground with a crisp ring.

Ye Chang stood up, somewhat dazed. “You… Monk, what on earth… what kind of trick are you pulling?”

He Shan Zhi grinned, his black eye still visible but his smile radiant. “Heh, Young Lord Ye, you dared to rush back to save me even when you’re no fighter. How could I stand by and watch you take a beating?”

“Monk, you…” Ye Chang now understood—Shan Zhi truly was as capable as he’d claimed, but for some reason, he had held back earlier, letting Ye Chang take a couple of hits.

Shan Zhi released Xiao Bailang, who was nearly suffocated, letting him fall gasping to the ground, then pressed his palms together. “Amitabha. My master says my hand is too heavy, so unless it’s a life-and-death struggle, I must not strike first.”

“What a load of nonsense!” Ye Chang couldn’t help but curse. “Your master must be… a real fool!”

“I quite agree, but since I can’t beat him, I have to listen.” Shan Zhi seemed to accept this fate.

Xiao Bailang, coughing violently, managed to climb to his feet. He knew the monk was formidable and dared not approach again, but his eyes flicked toward the fallen dagger.

“Brother Xiao Wu…” Ye Chang recalled how the ruffians addressed him, and stepped forward. “Do you wish to continue this fight, or shall we leave it here?”

“Good monk, good fists,” Xiao Bailang sneered. “From Jian’nan to Chang’an, I, Xiao Wu, have never suffered such a defeat. You and I have a blood feud now. Listen, boy—unless you have the guts to kill me right here in the street, I’ll come for you again!”

“Monk, do you dare kill him in broad daylight?” Ye Chang turned to Shan Zhi.

“I do not dare, Amitabha.”

“Nor do I,” Ye Chang said honestly. “But Xiao Wu, since you fought your way from Jian’nan to Chang’an, you must be a hardened man. That only makes us more hesitant to let you go.”

“So what?”

“Can’t kill you, can’t let you go—then we’ll have to find another way. You’re a street hero, your word is your bond, isn’t it?”

“Of course!”

“The men on the ground—they’re your sworn brothers, aren’t they?”

“That goes without saying!”

“In Chang’an, your reputation is your foundation, right?”

A string of “isn’t that so?” questions, and Xiao Bailang, stubborn as he was, had answered each one. When he heard this last, he realized something was off, and fell silent.

“Now, tell me—if we stripped you all bare, tied you up together, spread the rumor that you’re all lovers, playing some obscene game, and paraded you to the Western Market with drums and gongs… would you still be able to show your face in Chang’an?”

“You… you wouldn’t dare!” Xiao Bailang recoiled, terror-stricken. If anyone did that, he wouldn’t just be unable to stay in Chang’an—anywhere he was recognized, he’d be finished!

“Why wouldn’t I dare?” Ye Chang smiled, his eyes narrowing in a warmth that, to Xiao Bailang, was chilling. “I can’t let you go, nor kill you, and I don’t want you pestering me. The best way is to make sure you never have the means to trouble me again. If I let you go now, you’d rally your friends from the streets, but after I’ve humiliated you like this, how many would still stand with you?”

“Killing a man is one thing, but this… there’s no need to go so far!” Xiao Bailang roared. “If you really do this, it’s war between us!”

“I’m not here in Chang’an for long—I’m just here on business, and I’ll be gone soon. Where will you have your war with me?” Ye Chang chuckled. “Besides, with the monk here, your dozen or so lackeys couldn’t even get close to us.”

Xiao Bailang glanced at Shan Zhi, his mind churning with schemes. If it were just the monk, they had their dirty tricks, but with Ye Chang as well…

No doubt, this young man before him was even more unscrupulous than he was!

“Of course, we don’t want to be stalked either… I saw how upset you were when your fighting cock was killed. I’m willing to suggest a new way—if you do it well, it’ll earn you far more than cockfighting.”

“I know plenty of ways to make money—no need for your advice!”

“Not just profitable, but entertaining as well. What do you say?”

Ye Chang dared provoke Xiao Bailang because he was confident. The man might be fierce and domineering, but he’d shown restraint in the old Ning family’s shop earlier, not just a brainless thug.

Xiao Bailang glared at Ye Chang, torn between temptation and threat. The choice was obvious. He’d just accepted Xi Daxun’s mediation to resolve the feud with the foreigners who’d killed his cock. So now, he could accept Ye Chang’s offer too. But having just been threatened, to agree right now would be a blow to his pride. He simply glared at Ye Chang, saying nothing.

Silence meant temptation. Ye Chang clasped his hands and smiled, “I was in the wrong today. They say a fight forges friendship—I’d like to be your friend, if you’d grant me that honor, Brother Xiao Wu.”

“Speak,” Xiao Bailang replied grudgingly.

The monk chimed in with a cheerful, “Well said! Better to make friends than enemies.”

Ye Chang ignored him, addressing Xiao Bailang again. “I’ll be staying in Baoning Ward for a few more days. If you’re interested, come find me at the Ma family inn tomorrow morning.”

With that, Ye Chang and the monk strode away.

As they disappeared, Xiao Bailang’s men finally dared approach. “Boss, are we really letting this go?”

Xiao Bailang said nothing. Only when Ye Chang was out of earshot did he snarl, “Let it go? That brat thinks he can make me submit with a few words… But that monk’s too tough. A wise man avoids a loss. Sanlang, you and Tongqian take turns shadowing them. If they leave Baoning Ward, report to me at once.”

“Shouldn’t we gather more men? No matter how strong the monk is, he’s still just one man,” a thug suggested.

“Letting more people know we were humiliated?” Xiao Bailang dismissed the idea. “A gentleman waits ten years for revenge—we’re in no rush. He said he’s here on business; we’ll find out what it is and ruin it for him!”

Had Ye Chang known what Xiao Bailang was plotting, he’d surely have regretted letting him off so easily. But he had no choice: with no power or influence, and facing the might of the Tang Empire, delay was his only strategy.

After realizing that wandering the streets brought trouble, Ye Chang returned to the inn. By now, night had fallen. Baoning Ward, just one of Chang’an’s 108 neighborhoods and not a bustling one, was silent outside. Listening to the occasional sound of the night watchman’s drum, Ye Chang found sleep elusive—not because he was picky about beds, but because the night in this great Tang city was simply too dull.

If only he were here longer, he’d seek out Chang’an’s famed nightlife.

The next morning, he and Shan Zhi set out together. As soon as they stepped outside, they spotted two groups lurking in the corner—one made up of foreigners, the other of local thugs. Both groups had been loitering idly, but as soon as Ye Chang and the monk appeared, they stood up. Only then did each realize the other was also staking out Ye Chang.

Ye Chang pretended not to notice, though he was puzzled as to why the foreigners were so persistent.

After asking for directions, the two left the ward and returned to Zhuque Avenue. Before long, a carriage came by. They boarded, and after a short ride reached Guangfu Ward. There, they changed to another carriage heading east, passed two more wards, and finally arrived at Xuanping Ward.

“Look, up ahead—that’s the man!” the monk exclaimed as soon as they got out.

Indeed, up ahead was a bare-chested man with something slung over his back—none other than the man surnamed Jiao they’d seen before.

“Truly everywhere… What’s he doing here too?” Ye Chang was surprised.

After all, Chang’an was a metropolis of a million souls; such a chance encounter was remarkable.

The man named Jiao, burden on his back, went up and knocked at a door. Soon, an old servant opened it, greeting him with a smile. “Master Jiao, you’re not in luck—my master is at the tavern.”

“I set out at dawn, first to Steward Zhang’s house, where they said Yan Langjun had come here. I rushed over, only to find he’s gone to the tavern. Is it the West Market or the East?”

He stammered a bit as he spoke, taking a while to finish. The old servant laughed, “Not in either market today—he’s in our own ward, at Old Wu’s tavern by the Tan family shop.”

Without further pleasantries, the man named Jiao, quite familiar with Xuanping Ward, strode off to Wu’s tavern. The waiter inside, seeing him laden with goods, asked in surprise, “What’s your business, sir?”

“Looking for someone, looking for someone… He Yongxing, Bald He! Zhang Bogao, Zhang Dian!”

He shouted so loudly the whole place was startled. Before long, someone upstairs called out, “Is that Jiao Sui?”

“It’s me, Zhang Dian—I’ve brought you something good!” Jiao Sui called as he hurried up. The waiter, hearing the response from upstairs, let him pass.

Upstairs, he found two elderly men sitting with their backs to the north. Beside them sat a man of about thirty whom Jiao Sui didn’t know and ignored. He went straight to the elders and unloaded his burden. “I’ve brought you a treat!”

“Never mind that—first, bring the wine! Waiter, five dou of wine for this fellow!” one of the elders laughed.

Even in this heat, the man still wore a hat, his voice carrying the accent of Wu. The waiter responded crisply and hurried downstairs. Jiao Sui didn’t wait for more wine, but grabbed a bowl and gulped it down.

“Pay him no mind—once this fellow has wine, he can’t keep his mouth shut. Before he starts rambling, let’s admire the folding fan Tan Langjun sent,” the elder surnamed He said, smiling.

Jiao Sui watched as the man he didn’t know respectfully presented a small box. Elder He opened it, drew out a long bamboo slip, and unfolded it—it was a paper fan.

When the fan was spread open, it revealed a painting and an inscription. Jiao Sui saw that it depicted a cluster of willows, with four lines of verse beside them.

“How fitting—the moment it’s opened, it’s He the Guest’s ‘Ode to the Willow’!” Tan Langjun exclaimed in surprise.

Elder He smiled at him, clearly pleased by the flattery.

This was none other than He Zhizhang. Now in his eighties, his hair and beard were white, his scalp mostly bald, but his spirit remained vigorous. Beside him sat Zhang Xu, the calligraphy sage. The two were among the Four Talents of Wu, their friendship cemented by both kinship and shared artistry.

“Excellent, most original,” Zhang Xu said, admiring the fan.

“If only the inscription were by you, Bogao!” He Zhizhang waved the fan lightly, reminiscing about his dashing youth. The fan was fine indeed, though in his discerning eyes, the calligraphy and painting were merely adequate.

“Indeed, indeed. I invited you both here to avoid just such a regret,” Tan Langjun—whose full name was Tan Qinshou—said. Having gained his clan’s support, he’d worked for years in Chang’an, and by inviting these two famous patrons, he hoped their endorsement would bring renown to the folding fan.

“For this reason, I’ve prepared two fans—while the paintings are from masters, I left the inscriptions blank, hoping Lord Zhang would inscribe them himself.” Tan Qinshou smiled and presented two more fans, more exquisite than the last. The outer ribs of each were made of jade, which rang when tapped. Though not fine Hetian jade, they were nonetheless elegant gifts. The paintings were the work of renowned artists—one of willows, the other a mountain landscape. Clearly, Tan Qinshou had put thought into this: He Zhizhang was famed for his willow poems, especially his “Ode to the Willow,” while Zhang Xu, though best known for calligraphy, was also proud of his poem “A Guest Stays in the Mountains.”

“Tan Langjun, what ingenuity! Not only have you devised the folding fan, but you have the heart of a true connoisseur,” He Zhizhang praised, ever fond of encouraging younger talent.

“You flatter me, Lord He. The folding fan was not my own idea,” Tan Qinshou replied.

“Oh? Who could be so cultured and refined?” He Zhizhang and Zhang Xu asked in unison.