Chapter 5 The Grand Tang Demon Market

The entrance to the Demon Market lies on a street known only to demons. Ordinarily, it appears unremarkable, but as the market approaches opening time, it reveals itself—visible only to gods, demons, and spirits, not to humans.  

Above the main gate, an inscribed plaque reads “Flourishing Tang Demon Market.” Though an imitation, it still needed a grand-sounding name. Besides, the prefix “Flourishing Tang” alone was enough to attract many.  

Even though it was a Demon Market, entry wasn’t free—payment was required in the form of Demon Coins. These were carved from agate, each inscribed with the bearer’s identity within the market. They weren’t actual currency but were called so because they resembled tiny copper coins. More importantly, the gatekeepers would issue a certain number of Gold Buttons based on one’s identity—these were the true key to trade within the market.  

If you thought Gold Buttons were handed out freely, you’d be sorely mistaken. The Demon Coin representing your status had to be purchased upon your first visit, corresponding to the tier you desired. In other words, the number of Gold Buttons you received was tied to your Demon Coin, and upgrades were allowed—but never downgrades. Put bluntly, it was half a scam.  

So, the Demon Market wasn’t some charitable haven where ordinary demons could waltz in as they pleased. Running it required substantial funds, after all. As for its owners—well, Su Qing knew them. That was how she got off easy, securing the highest-tier Demon Coin for free, allowing her to “run wild” inside.  

The Demon Market had two owners: one provided the money, the other the labor.  

The financier was an Old Demon who kept to himself, only investing because the other owner had goaded him into it. The laborer? That would be the hotheaded brat Su Qing often mentioned—Song Yan, the youngest disciple of Mingyu Xianjun. Why was he called a hothead? The reasons were complicated, mostly thanks to a petty friend he’d made. More on that later.  

Mingyu Xianjun was an elder of the Celestial Realm, tasked with moral education among immortals. He carried himself with an air of arrogance, convinced that guiding others toward virtue was a noble calling.  

Unfortunately, Song Yan had absorbed none of that. Instead, he’d seized on the excuse of “purifying mortal morals” to descend to the mortal realm—and had yet to return. As for Mingyu Xianjun, he’d likely long forgotten he even had such a disciple.  

Su Qing knew all this because, when she first met Song Yan, he wouldn’t stop complaining about how miserable his past had been and how freeing it was to escape the old man’s control. So even without ever setting foot in the Celestial Realm, she’d learned Mingyu Xianjun’s Celestial Title.  

As for how Song Yan had tricked the Old Demon into funding the market, Su Qing figured it was simply because the latter had grown tired of his pestering.  

Song Yan was shrewd, worldly, and had an eye for beauty—his sole redeeming quality being that he wasn’t a complete libertine and had some self-control. It was for this reason that Su Qing had befriended him, occasionally putting him to work as an errand boy.  

During those days, Song Yan had repeatedly muttered one thing in the Old Demon’s “Marvelous Valley”: “If I sold this valley, I’d make a fortune!”  

In an era of booming commerce, even the demon world was stirring with ambition.

“Marvelous Valley” sounded like a wonderful place just from its name, so after hearing it for the thousand and first time, the Old Demon agreed. But on one condition—he wouldn’t lift a finger to help.  

Song Yan thought this suited him perfectly. He could secretly pocket a larger share of the profits, and the Old Demon would be none the wiser.  

Thus, the deal was struck. The collaboration between a ten-thousand-year-old demon and a Blockhead Immortal made the Demon Market shine brilliantly, known throughout the three realms.  

As for whether the Old Demon was aware of Song Yan’s scheme—he probably was. But he had no interest in worldly conflicts and wouldn’t say anything about it.  

Meanwhile, Su Qing and the others had already entered the inn, ordered some food, and were seated in the main hall, listening to a storyteller with a human face and a tiger’s body recounting amusing tales from the three realms.  

“Last time, we spoke of the demon-slaying in the Beaconfire Southern Wilderness—a ten-thousand-year dream, dying for one’s lord.  

It is said that the Bai Ze Clan suffered heavy losses in that calamity in the Southern Wilderness, leaving only a few remnants of their bloodline. The Heavenly Ruler, filled with guilt, made a vow never to harm the lives of the Bai Ze Clan again. But what use is a promise when those lost are already gone? The Bai Ze Clan today is but a shadow of its former self!”  

As soon as these words were spoken, someone in the audience immediately retorted, “Master, your words are misguided! The lord is the guide for his subjects, and it has always been the duty of subjects to share their lord’s burdens—even in the celestial realm. For the Bai Ze Clan to receive such protection is an honor!”  

“I disagree,” another countered. “The Bai Ze Clan is an Ancient God Clan. If not for the Heavenly Ruler’s plea, who could have moved them to act? Since they were called upon, they should have been properly safeguarded. To compensate for such heavy losses with a mere promise is far too perfunctory!”  

“Exactly! I’ve heard it was the Heavenly Ruler’s refusal to heed the Bai Ze Clan leader’s advice that led to the fatal misjudgment, costing so many lives. If true, the Heavenly Ruler is truly at fault—needlessly sacrificing so many!”  

“Are you certain of what you say? Such words must not be spoken carelessly—beware…” The speaker made a throat-slitting gesture.  

The other person immediately fell silent.  

The hall plunged into an eerie quiet, lasting a full quarter of an hour before the usual chatter resumed.  

Su Qing glanced at the storyteller on the dais, took a bite of pastry, and remarked coolly, “What do you think, Young Master?”  

Mu Qing Shi’s eyes held a faint amusement as his slender fingers tapped lightly on the edge of the table, his voice low.  

“Just hearsay—hardly credible.”  

Jiu Jiu, puzzled, interjected, “But taking lives is wrong!”  

Mu Qing Shi sighed. “It’s just a story.”  

Jiu Jiu pressed on, “Stories have rights and wrongs too! Otherwise, why are some stories good and others bad?”  

Su Qing smiled. Jiu Jiu’s words were childish, not to be weighed with an adult’s reasoning. Though simple, the truth in them was something most people overlooked.  

Mu Qing Shi understood this as well. Jiu Jiu was still young and needed space to think for herself. So he said, “It’s late. Go back and sleep.”  

Jiu Jiu, ever obedient to him, quickly grabbed a few pastries and dashed off to her room.  

Su Qing shook her head in amusement, then turned—only to find Mu Qing Shi gazing at her with a meaningful expression.  

Again. Su Qing felt a flicker of irritation.  

“Is there something on my face?”  

It was purely a remark reflecting her current mood, but to her surprise, Mu Qing Shi suddenly stood, leaned over her, and extended a slender finger.  

Then came the faintest brush of contact.  

“You had something at the corner of your lips.”  

With that, he showed his thumb—proof of innocence.

The slender, pale fingers were conspicuously dusted with a few specks of powder, obscuring their original hue.

Su Qing felt somewhat flustered and immediately averted her gaze from his striking eyes, lowering her lashes slowly as she said, “Thank you, young master!”

Mu Qing Shi didn’t take offense. He sat back down, propping his chin lazily with one hand while gazing at the tea in his cup. “Even your gratitude feels so distant,” he remarked with a hint of weariness.

The woman across from him froze. Was he implying her thanks lacked sincerity? But he had never cared about such things before. Why bring it up now?

A flicker passed through Su Qing’s eyes, and her voice turned unexpectedly cold. “My apologies.”

Mu Qing Shi chuckled softly at her words, tilting his head back to drain the teacup as though it were wine.

“The one who should apologize is Qing Shi,” he said, but the light in his eyes dimmed abruptly.

Su Qing felt a wave of exhaustion and rose slowly. “I’m rather tired today. You should rest early as well, young master.” With that, she headed upstairs.

Mu Qing Shi watched the retreating figure in the peach-colored gauze dress and sighed. “Truly, her heart has been wounded.”

Setting down his teacup, he too retired to his room.