Dao Qi Wu Zang Guan Guan: I became a Daoist Master in the 1990s

Chapter 88 Xinglong Consignment Shop

"Qin Weimin! You old madman! You wail and howl every day! You shout every day!"

Do you really want to drive everyone in the building crazy before you feel at ease?!
Believe it or not, I'll report you to the neighborhood committee for disturbing the peace!

He was so angry that the veins on his neck bulged.

Inside the house, a woman wearing an apron hurried out, grabbed the man's arm, and whispered, "Hey, Lao Li! Stop yelling! Stop yelling!"
Why bother arguing with a lunatic like him? Calm down!

"A madman? Does being a madman mean he can act with impunity and howl whenever he wants?"
"Does my father still need to go to work? Do the kids in the building still need to go to school?"

Li Magan was still furious, his chest heaving violently.

His wife sighed, her face filled with helplessness and a hint of pity: "You know perfectly well that Old Man Qin was a real veteran who fought on the battlefield and killed the enemy back then, a true hero!"
I was lucky to escape with my life.

He probably got brain damage from the shells back then, which is why he's acting crazy now that he's old.

His unfilial son has been absent for years, barely showing up once, barely surviving on that meager allowance... Oh well, let's just pretend we didn't hear that."

Li Magan's anger was somewhat suppressed by his wife's words "old hero," but he was still indignant.

"An old hero? He may be an old hero, but can he live like this every day?"
You've never smelled anything from the top floor, the smell... it's practically the same as a public toilet!

The old hero couldn't even control his bladder and bowels anymore. The community workers only came once a month. The family across the street, Teacher Wang's house, finally couldn't stand it anymore and moved away! What kind of situation is this?!

His wife tugged at him: "Keep your voice down! They have no choice... Sigh, put yourself in their shoes."

Aside from his morning fits of madness, he's usually...quite quiet.

She herself didn't seem very confident when she said that.

"Hmph!" Li Magan snorted heavily, temporarily calmed down, but still muttered, "It's only because he fought in battles and shed blood... otherwise, hmph! I would have already..."

He glared angrily at the rooftop before his wife pulled him back inside.

The complaints from those peeking out of other windows gradually subsided, leaving only the patter of rain and the continuous, chilling roar from the rooftop.

At this moment, the source of all this noise is that small, dilapidated balcony on the top floor.

Qin Weimin, a figure as thin as a rake, yet standing ramrod straight.

He was wearing an old military uniform that was washed to a pale white, covered with suspicious stains and holes; the collar insignia were long gone, but the buttons were fastened meticulously.

His gray, messy hair was soaked by the rain and clung tightly to his deeply furrowed forehead.

Rainwater streamed down his gaunt face, mingling with murky tears from the corners of his eyes and foaming at the corners of his mouth.

His cloudy eyes stared intently at the empty space in front of him, as if it were a battlefield filled with smoke and blood, burning with a crazy and scorching light.

He waved his withered, branch-like arms with great force, as if commanding a vast army:
"Third squad! Third squad, follow up! Suppress the left flank with fire! Commander! The enemy has counterattacked!"

Requesting artillery support! Coordinates...coordinates..."

He suddenly froze, a hint of confusion flashing in his eyes, which was then replaced by a deeper madness. "Damn it! Let's fight with bayonets! Let's fight them! Killing one is enough, killing two is a bonus!"
"Commander! Don't worry about me! Let's go!"

He stumbled forward abruptly, as if about to pounce on a non-existent enemy, but then abruptly stopped, letting out a beast-like howl.

The corner of the balcony was piled high with unidentifiable trash.
Rotten vegetable leaves, moldy leftovers, empty wine bottles, and crushed cigarette boxes.

In the corner, an enamel spittoon had already overflowed, the yellowish-brown filth mixed with rainwater flowing out and emitting a nauseating stench.

The walls were splattered with unidentified stains, and the window frames were rotten and peeling. This was no longer a home, but a prison forgotten in a corner of the world, exuding an aura of death and madness.

The pedestrians downstairs were drawn to the continuous roars and bizarre sight, stopping to stare and point, their faces a mixture of curiosity, disgust, and a barely perceptible fear.

After roaring for an unknown amount of time, Qin Weimin's wildly waving arms gradually fell limply to his sides, his chest heaving violently like a broken bellows.

Those eyes, burning with a mad flame, dimmed little by little, as if all the fuel had been exhausted, leaving only emptiness and bewilderment.

His hunched back, which had been straightened so ramrod straight, resembled that of a lost child. He staggered back a step, leaning against the cold, slippery wall, and slowly slid down into the mess of filth. Dirty rainwater soaked through his trousers. His hands, covered in age spots and dirt, groped unconsciously on the ground, grabbing half a cold, muddy bun that had been sitting there for who knows how long, stuffing it into his mouth, and mechanically chewing it.

His cloudy eyes stared unfocused at the gray rain curtain, his lips mumbling incoherently and intermittently—no longer impassioned commands, but rather dreamlike whispers, filled with childlike confusion and endless sorrow:

"Report...Reporting, Commander, the Third Platoon...everyone is here!"

"Little Li... give your water bottle to the commander, the commander is thirsty!"

"Don't be afraid...don't be afraid...after this battle, we'll go home and get...get married!"

"Mom, Mom...I want to go home!"

The hoarse voice grew softer and softer until only the silent pulsation of the lips remained, fading into the endless, chilly rain of the mountain town in late autumn.

Only those empty eyes stubbornly gaze into the distance, towards the smoke and fire of war that have long since vanished in the river of time, towards the homeland that can never be returned to and the comrades-in-arms who are forever left in a foreign land.

Rainwater streamed down his withered face, washing away the scars etched by war and the grime accumulated over the years, but it could not wash away the madness and loneliness that ran deep in his bones.

The rain was drizzling, and the sky was overcast and cold.

In the damp morning of the mountain town, the stone-paved road glistened with water.

"Wow--"

The heavy iron roller shutter door of Xinglong Pawnshop was suddenly pulled up, making a screeching sound.

A middle-aged man with a grimy turban and a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips had just leaned out and taken a deep drag when the pungent smoke choked him at the throat by the figure standing in the doorway.

Early in the morning, in the dim light of dawn, stood a young man standing straight.

His hair was neither short nor long, sticking wetly to his forehead and temples. He wore an indigo Taoist robe, which had been starched until it was somewhat faded, and looked so old that it seemed as if he had walked straight out of the backstage of some opera troupe.

Water droplets dripped down the hem of his robe, spreading a small patch of dark color at his feet.

What was most striking were his eyes, which shone with an astonishing brightness in the misty rain and the dim light emanating from the shop.

It wasn't a fierce light, nor a thieving light; it was a kind of profound tranquility, a clarity that seemed to penetrate the flesh and see into the bones.

Those eyes, set in that young but expressionless face, somehow managed to give that strange outfit an air of extraordinary presence.

"Oh my god!" The shopkeeper jumped in fright, and the half-smoked cigarette fell to the wet ground with a "thud" and went out with a hiss.

"What...what are you doing? Standing at the door early in the morning pretending to be Zhong Kui, demanding your life?"

He patted his chest, still shaken.

Qi Yun smiled slightly, his voice steady, "It's good that the shopkeeper is open. I have some things I'd like to exchange for some cash. I wonder if your shop accepts them?"

"Silver?" The shopkeeper looked him up and down suspiciously. "What silver? A silver bracelet? A silver ingot? Or a silver dollar?"

Qi Yun did not answer, but took out a piece of silver weighing about one tael from his pocket and handed it over.

In the dim light, the silver had a matte luster like that of old tinware.

The shopkeeper took it; it felt heavy and cold to the touch.

He examined it from all angles; the edges were badly worn, clearly indicating it was an old object, not a newly cast one.

My heart started pounding: What a son of a bitch, dressed like this to sell scraps of silver?
Is it something that just crawled out of a grave?

But then I thought, what kind of tomb raider dresses so conspicuously in public, as if afraid of attracting the police? My heart was half relieved again.

"Come in, come in, it's chilly outside."

The boss stepped aside, his tone softening somewhat.

(End of this chapter)