Chapter 427: Life Is Not a Story in a Book
(A bit late, a 9000-word chapter, not counted as the update for the 4th.)
Hawks circled in the sky, crows cawed on withered branches.
The originally flat and wide official road was now shattered and broken, a convoy of carts jolting and bumping along.
As the largest vassal state of the Zhuying Dynasty, the Shihao Nation lay to the northwest of the dynasty. Renowned in the central part of Vase Bottle Continent for its vast fertile lands and abundant produce, it had always been the great granary of the Zhuying Dynasty. Also a vassal state, Shihao Nation made a completely different choice from the Great Sui vassal Huangting Nation. From the emperor and high court officials to most of the border generals, they chose to clash head-on with a force of Great Li iron cavalry.
The flames of war spread across the entire Shihao Nation. Since the beginning of spring this year, the fighting north of the capital had been exceptionally brutal. Now the capital of Shihao Nation was deeply besieged.
Not only the people of Shihao, but even the nearby small vassal states with far weaker military strength were in a panic. Of course, there were also so-called clever people who had long since submitted and defected to the Great Li Song family, watching from the safety of the shore, waiting to see the joke. They hoped that the invincible Great Li iron cavalry would simply massacre the city, slaughtering all those loyal to the Zhuying Dynasty in Shihao Nation, a bunch of loyal martyrs. Perhaps then the Great Li would think well of them, and with their help, would take over tall cities with armories and treasuries untouched, without bloodshed.
The bumpy journey made many of the cart drivers in this convoy complain bitterly. Even many of the sturdy men, carrying longbows and wearing long knives at their waists, felt their bones nearly shaken apart. They were all listless, forcing themselves to stay alert, scanning the surroundings for bandits. These seventy or eighty young, tough men, skilled with bow and horse, almost all carried the smell of blood on them. It was evident that this southward journey through a time of chaos and war had not been easy.
Truly, they were earning silver with their lives hanging by a thread. To put it not exaggeratedly, in the time it took to take a piss, they might accidentally drop their heads on the ground.
The most dangerous ambush during the journey was not from refugees who had turned to banditry, but from a troop of three hundred Shihao Nation soldiers disguised as horse bandits. They saw this merchant convoy as a fat piece of meat. In that battle, the convoy guards, who had long since signed life-and-death contracts, suffered nearly half casualties. If not for the fact that among the employers was a hidden mountain immortal who didn't reveal his skills, both people and goods would have been completely annihilated by those soldiers.
The convoy needed to cross the heartland of Shihao Nation, reach the southern border, and go to Shujian Lake, which secular dynasties regarded as a den of dragons and tigers. The convoy had taken a large sum of silver, but they only dared to stop at the border pass. Otherwise, no matter how much silver, they wouldn't want to take a single step further south. Fortunately, the dozen or so foreign merchants agreed to let the convoy guards turn back at the border's Thousand Bird Pass. After that, whether these merchants lived or died, whether they reaped huge profits at Shujian Lake or died on the road, letting bandits have a good year, the convoy was no longer responsible.
This entire journey was a living hell, a slaughterhouse.
Corpses strewn for a thousand li was no longer just a fleeting phrase on a page for scholars.
Along the roadside, the convoy often encountered thatched huts filled with wailing cries. Adults were selling "two-legged sheep." At first, some couldn't bear to send their own children to the chopping block and hand them over to the butchers, so they devised a compromise: parents would first exchange their thin, sallow children among themselves, then sell them to the shop.
Many starving refugees, like walking corpses and wandering ghosts, roamed the land of Shihao Nation in large groups. Whenever they found a place that might have food, they swarmed in. Beacon towers, post stations, and fortified manors built by local powerful families across Shihao were all stained with blood and uncollected corpses. The convoy once passed a large fort protected by five hundred tribesmen. They bought a small amount of food at a heavy price. A bold, lean boy, envious of a convoy guard's powerful bow, tried to get close. He pointed to a row of dried skulls on the wooden palisade outside the fort, used as a warning. Squatting on the ground, he said to a guard with a grin, "Summer is the worst—attracts flies and mosquitoes, easy to cause plague. But when winter comes and snow falls, you can save a lot of trouble." After speaking, he picked up a stone, threw it at the palisade, and accurately hit a skull. Clapping his hands, he glanced at the guard who showed admiration, looking quite proud.
At that time, a young woman in green clothes with a ponytail caught the boy's fancy. The reason he talked and acted this way with the guard was simply to show off in front of that beautiful older sister.
Unfortunately, that green-clad sister never looked at him, which made the boy very disappointed and frustrated. If only such a beauty, like a fairy from temple murals, had appeared among the refugee groups coming here to die! Then she would surely survive, and he was the eldest grandson of the clan chief. Even if he wasn't the first in line, he would eventually get his turn. But the boy also knew there were no such fresh-faced women among the refugees. Occasionally there were some women, mostly dark and skinny, skin and bones like starving ghosts, with rough skin—too ugly.
Beside that green-clad sister stood a slightly older woman with a sword on her back, but her appearance was far inferior, especially her figure—heaven and earth apart. If the latter appeared alone, the boy would also be interested, but when they stood together, the boy's eyes no longer saw her.
The convoy continued south.
Often, refugees would block the road with sharpened sticks. The smarter ones, or those not yet truly desperate, would demand that the convoy give them some food, and they would let them pass.
The convoy naturally ignored them and just moved forward. Generally, as soon as they drew their knives and took down their bows, the refugees would scatter in fear like birds and beasts.
Some refugees, with red eyes, charged forward, intending to loot. The convoy guards were originally from the martial world, not from Shihao. Traveling south, they had become numb. With so many brothers and friends dead in the team, deep down they almost wanted someone to charge so they could vent their hatred. So the tough horsemen spread out like a fishing net, raising and lowering their blades, or competing in archery skills. The best shot was hitting the eye socket, second best piercing the neck, third best piercing the heart. If one could only hit the belly or legs, that would invite mockery and ridicule.
The merchants who hired these guards and carts were not many—around ten people.
Besides the rarely seen young woman in green with a ponytail and a sword-carrying woman beside her missing her right thumb, there was also a taciturn young man in black robes. These three seemed to be together. Usually, when the convoy stopped to rest or camped in the wild, they stuck together.
The main manager of this group of merchants who valued money over life was an old man in a blue long gown, said to be surnamed Song. The guards liked to call him Master Song. Master Song had two attendants: one with a black staff slanted on his back, and one carrying no weapon—clearly genuine martial world people. They were about the same age as Master Song. Additionally, there were three people—a man and woman with a grandfather-grandson pair—who, even when smiling, gave a cold-eyed feeling. The woman was mediocre in appearance.
The guards felt that among these merchants, except for Master Song, the rest had big airs and didn't like to talk.
That night, they stopped at an abandoned, broken-down post station where officials had already fled. Everything had been looted.
The young woman in green with a ponytail crouched on a half-collapsed mud wall outside the station.
The sword-carrying woman, inseparable from her, stood below the wall and said softly, "Senior Sister, in about half a month's journey, we can cross the pass and enter the Shujian Lake territory."
The green-clad woman was distracted and just hummed in acknowledgment.
Master Song slowly walked out of the station and lightly kicked a boy who was squatting on the threshold. Then he came alone near the wall. The sword-carrying woman immediately saluted in the Great Li official language, saying respectfully, "Greetings, Song Langzhong."
The old man smiled and nodded, "Miss Xu is still so polite—too formal."
This langzhong was not a medical practitioner.
This elegantly dressed old man in blue was the chief langzhong of the Sacrificial Ceremonies Department in the Ministry of Rites of Great Li.
In vassal states like Huangting and Shihao, this position was considered a relatively large sesame-level official. In the Ministry of Rites alone, there were vice ministers above, and a minister above that. Any day, an assistant official of equal rank, a yuanwailang, might take his place. But in Great Li, this was an extremely critical position—one of the three most powerful langzhongs in the dynasty. The rank was not high, fifth-grade lower, but the authority was extremely heavy. Besides the nominal duties of a Sacrificial Ceremonies langzhong, he also oversaw the evaluation and recommendation of mountain and river orthodox gods in the country.
The Chongdan River in Great Li had never had an established river god or temple, but suddenly a river spirit named Li Jin, formerly a bookstore owner in Red Candle Town, leaped to become a river god. It was said he used this langzhong's connections to jump over the dragon gate and ascend to the high position of god, receiving all kinds of incense offerings.
And the two women were none other than Ruan Xiu and Xu Xiaoqiao, who had left Dragon Spring Sword Sect to travel.
As for why they had traveled so far from Great Li, even Xu Xiaoqiao and Dong Gu found it surprising. But their senior sister, Ruan Xiu, didn't care at all.
Seeing that Master Song seemed to have something to discuss, Xu Xiaoqiao voluntarily left.
Master Song walked to the wall, sat cross-legged, and smiled, "I want to thank Miss Ruan for your magnanimity."
Ruan Xiu put away a handkerchief into her sleeve, shook her head, and said vaguely, "No need."
Master Song smiled and asked, "May I ask bluntly—is Miss Ruan indifferent, or is she tolerating?"
Ruan Xiu asked, "Is there a difference?"
The old man nodded seriously, "If the former, then I won't go to the trouble. After all, I too had youthful years of infatuation. I know that a brat like Li Muxi's size can hardly help having thoughts. If the latter, I can give a few pointers to Li Muxi or his grandfather. Miss Ruan doesn't need to worry about it being an imposition. This southward trip is official court business. Proper rules must still be followed. It's not at all that Miss Ruan is asking too much."
Ruan Xiu said, "It doesn't matter. If he wants to look, let him look. His eyeballs aren't my responsibility."
Master Song laughed silently.
Among the entourage, the two old martial world men with him: one was a pure martial artist temporarily seconded from the Great Li army, at the Golden Body realm. It was said that when the big spy from Green Wave Pavilion went to the commander's tent to request him, the battle-hardened general smashed his cup and cursed in front of him. But of course, the man still had to be handed over.
The other was the sect leader of a major Great Li martial sect, also at the seventh realm.
Additionally, there was a team of newly assembled Sticky Pole Scouts. Among the grandfather-grandson pair, the boy named Li Muxi was a prodigy in talisman and formation arts. For three generations—his grandfather, father, and himself—they were Sticky Pole Scouts for the Great Li court. His father had died in a recent incident. So for the grandfather and grandson, this distant southern journey was both official business and a matter of personal grievance.
This trip south to Shujian Lake had two purposes. One was obvious and not insignificant. He, as the Sacrificial Ceremonies langzhong, was the decision-maker. The three from Dragon Spring Sword Sect were under his command.
This autumn, after many years without casualties, the Great Li Sticky Pole Scouts suddenly lost two members. A hidden foreign Golden Core cultivator secretly took away a disciple. This boy was special—not only an innate Sword Embryo, but also carrying martial destiny, attracting the attention of several Martial Saints from the local province.
Great Li was determined to get him. Even the National Master had heard the news and attached great importance to it.
It was like an eye for an eye. Ironically, this boy was first found and selected by the Sticky Pole Scouts. Three of them took turns staying with him, nurturing him carefully for four years. Then that well-hidden Golden Core cultivator appeared from nowhere, killed two of them, and abducted the boy, fleeing south. Along the way, he evaded two pursuits and encirclements, very cunning and high in combat power. During the escape, the boy showed astonishing temperament and talent, helping the Golden Core cultivator twice in major ways.
Finally, Green Wave Pavilion intelligence showed that the Golden Core cultivator and the boy had escaped into Shujian Lake. After that, like a clay ox entering the sea, no news.
For this kind of pursuit, not only Great Li but all mountain forces in Vase Bottle Continent would not be foolish to underestimate. Experienced sects with any foundation would strive to strike with the force of a lion hunting a rabbit—use full power at once—rather than like a mediocre general feeding troops into battle piecemeal, sending batches to die for nothing, allowing the enemy to grow stronger through battle, eventually raising a tiger.
The opponent was an old Golden Core skilled in fighting, and had the advantage of terrain. So Master Song's group was not simply two Golden Core combat powers; together, they roughly equaled the strength of a powerful Nascent Soul.
On this point, Dong Gu and Xu Xiaoqiao had made detailed calculations privately. Their conclusion was reassuring.
Otherwise, if their senior sister had the slightest mishap, Dong Gu and Xu Xiaoqiao, as founding disciples of Dragon Spring Sword Sect, would have no place on Shenxiu Mountain, both by reason and sentiment.
As for the other matter, which only Master Song knew the inside story of, it was much bigger.
It involved the ownership of the entire Shujian Lake.
Even he had to obey orders.
Even a certain island master who had secretly taken root in Shujian Lake for eighty years was but a pawn.
One small thing on this southward journey amused Master Song.
The boy Li Muxi couldn't understand what he saw and heard during the journey, especially the travel through Shihao Nation by carriage. Deep down, he even resented the culprit—the Great Li dynasty he belonged to. Perhaps in the boy's view, if the Great Li iron cavalry hadn't come south, or if the prolonged wars weren't so bloody and cruel, so many ordinary people wouldn't have lost their homes, and in the calamity of war, countless men and women who were originally honest and law-abiding wouldn't have become inhuman.
As for Li Muxi's grandfather, a ninety-year-old "young" cultivator, he remained unmoved, but didn't explain anything to his grandson.
Ruan Xiu asked, "I heard there's a child from Mud Vase Alley at Shujian Lake?"
Master Song nodded, "Surname Gu. He's a child with great fortune. He was taken as a closed-door disciple by Liu Zhimao, the River-Cutting True Lord, the most powerful figure in Shujian Lake. Gu Can himself brought a 'big mud eel' to Shujian Lake—a flood dragon attendant equivalent to a Nascent Soul in combat power—and started making waves. Young as he is, he's quite famous. Even the Zhuying Dynasty has heard of this master-servant pair at Shujian Lake. Once, chatting with Mr. Xu, he joked that this little Gu Can was a born wild cultivator of mountains and marshes."
Ruan Xiu raised her wrist, glanced at the small fire dragon sleeping like a bright red bracelet, then lowered her arm, deep in thought.
A middle-aged man arrived at the edge of Shujian Lake, in a bustling city called Chishui City.
He had hired a carriage on the way. The driver was a talkative old man who had traveled far and wide. The man was generous and liked listening to interesting stories and news. He didn't like sitting in the carriage—almost the entire journey he sat beside the old driver. He bought the old man plenty of wine, making him happy, and heard many hearsay tales about extraordinary people and events in Shujian Lake. The driver said it wasn't as scary as outsiders claimed. There were fights and killings, but mostly they didn't involve common folk. However, Shujian Lake was a huge money pit, that was true. Once, he and a friend carried a group of rich young masters from Zhuying Dynasty. They boasted loudly, told them to wait in Chishui City, and said they'd return in a month. But they came back from the lake on a boat in less than three days, completely broke. Eight or nine young men, six hundred thousand taels of silver—gone in three days. But from their talk, they seemed unsatisfied, saying they'd save up some silver in half a year and come back to Shujian Lake for fun.
The man walked along the crowded main street of Chishui City, very inconspicuous.
At the city gate, a team of Qi Practitioners was on guard, but they didn't require any travel documents—just pay money to enter.
Chishui City was built on the western shore of the lake.
Shujian Lake was vast, with over a thousand islands scattered like stars. The most important thing was abundant spiritual energy. To establish a sect there, occupying large islands and waters, was very difficult. But for one or two Golden Celestial Immortals to occupy a larger island as a residence for cultivation was most suitable—quiet, like a small cave heaven. Especially for Qi Practitioners whose cultivation methods were "close to water," certain islands in Shujian Lake were must-have territories.
The man with a sword on his back chose a lively tavern in the market. He ordered a pot of Chishui's most famous Crow Cry wine. After finishing the wine and listening to some animated chatter at nearby tables, he didn't learn much more. Only one thing was useful: soon, Shujian Lake would hold its once-century island master alliance, to elect a new "lake overlord" for a position vacant for three hundred years.
After eating and drinking, the man paid the waiter, left the tavern, and asked for directions to a street in Chishui City open to all—Ape Cry Street. It was filled with immortal shops, extending four li, with Qi Practitioners guarding both ends. Again, they didn't care about identity, only money—a style somewhat like Old Dragon City, known for its commerce unrivaled on the continent. They mocked the poor and hated the rich; whoever had money was the boss.
Look at the wine in the cup—each cup toasts the wealthy first.
If so, it seemed the whole world was much the same everywhere.
The middle-aged man wore a cinnabar-red gourd at his waist. The old driver had told him that in Shujian Lake, with its mixed population and constant traffic, being able to speak the continent's common language was fine. But on the road, he had still learned some Shujian Lake dialect from the old driver—not much, enough for asking directions and bargaining. The man wandered, looking and walking. He neither caused a sensation by buying sky-priced treasures nor merely looked without buying. He picked out a few clever but inexpensive magical tools, just like ordinary foreign Qi Practitioners—here to enjoy the bustle, not to be looked down on, nor to stand out.
Finally, the man stopped at a small shop selling antiques and oddments. The goods were good, but the prices weren't fair. The shopkeeper seemed a stubborn old man not born for business, so the shop was quiet. Many came and went, but few took out immortal coins. The man stood before a bronze ancient sword placed horizontally on a special sword rack, lingering long. The scabbard was placed at different heights. The blade was engraved with four seal-script characters: "Great Imitation Quhuang."
Seeing the long-robed, sword-carrying man bent over examining it, the old shopkeeper said impatiently, "What are you staring at? Can you afford it? Even a replica of the ancient Quhuang costs a lot of snowflake coins. Go, go, if you want to feast your eyes, go elsewhere."
The middle-aged man, perhaps not well-off and not bold, wasn't angry. Instead, he turned and asked with a smile, "Shopkeeper, is this Quhuang one of the eight horses pulling the carriage when Sage Li and the first dynasty monarch toured the world together?"
The old shopkeeper glanced at the sword on the man's back, his expression softening slightly, "So you're not completely blind. Yes, it's that Quhuang from the 'Eight Steeds Scattered' story. Later, a great swordsmith from the Central Continent spent his life forging eight famous swords, naming them after the eight steeds. That man had a strange temper—he made swords and was willing to sell them, but each sword only to a buyer from the corresponding continent. So he died without selling them all, and countless replicas followed. This sword dares to engrave 'Great Imitation' before Quhuang—it's an excellent replica, naturally very expensive. It's been in my shop for over two hundred years. Young man, you definitely can't afford it."
The man didn't bluff. He withdrew his gaze from the ancient sword and started looking at other curios. Finally, he stopped before a scroll painting of a lady hanging on the wall. The lady in the painting sat sideways, covering her face as if weeping. If one listened closely, there were indeed faint sobbing sounds coming from the painting.
The old shopkeeper gave a whistle of surprise, "Unexpectedly, I've met a connoisseur. The two items you've stared at longest are the best in my shop. Not bad, kid. You don't have much money, but you have good taste. What, were you rich and noble back home, then fell on hard times, so now you travel alone? Carrying a sword worth little and a shabby gourd, and you think you're a wanderer?"
The man still studied the wondrous painting. He had heard before that many calligraphy works from fallen dynasties could, by chance, breed grief and anger, and certain figures in paintings could become spiritual beings, weeping alone in the painting.
The man turned and smiled, "A wanderer doesn't care about money."
The old man sneered, "Nonsense like that only rookies who haven't traveled the world for two or three years would say. You're not young; I reckon your wandering has been in vain. Or maybe you've only walked by a pond and called it the real world."
The man still wasn't angry. He pointed to the painting on the wall and asked, "How much for this lady painting?"
The old man waved his hand, "Young man, don't court embarrassment."
The man smiled, "If I can afford it, how about you throw in one or two cheap little trinkets?"
Bored from year after year minding the ancestral shop, the old man perked up. He pointed to a curio shelf near the door and raised an eyebrow, "Fine! See that? As long as you can afford the immortal coins, you can pick three items from that shelf. If I frown, I'll take your surname!"
The man nodded with a smile.
The old shopkeeper hesitated, then said, "This lady painting—I won't go into its origin. Anyway, you see its value. Three Small Heat coins—if you can produce them, take it. If not, get lost."
The man looked back at the painting on the wall, then at the old shopkeeper, asking if it was a fixed price. The old man smirked and nodded. The man turned back, glanced at the painting a few more times, then at the empty shop and the door. He walked to the counter, flipped his wrist, and slapped three immortal coins on the table. He covered them with his palm and pushed them toward the old shopkeeper. The old shopkeeper also glanced at the door. The moment the man lifted his hand, he quickly covered the coins with his own palm, drew them to his side, lifted his hand to confirm they were genuine Small Heat coins, then grabbed them and put them in his sleeve. He looked up and laughed, "I misjudged you this time, kid. Not bad. You've got some skill—you fooled even me, with my fiery golden eyes."
The man smiled helplessly, "Then I'll go pick three pleasing items from over there."
The old shopkeeper laughed heartily, came out from behind the counter, "Go on. In business, I still keep some integrity. I'll put this lady painting into a box for you. Don't worry—the brocade box alone is worth two Snowflake coins. It won't disgrace such a valuable painting."
The man scanned the curio shelf near the door. The old shopkeeper carefully took down the painting and, while putting it into a treasured brocade box, stole glances at the man.
Damn it, if he'd known this guy had such deep pockets and was so generous, why mention the bonus? And three items at once—now he was starting to hurt.
When the man picked two items, the old shopkeeper felt a bit relieved—the loss wasn't too great. But when the man finally selected an ink jade seal that hadn't been inscribed by any famous carver, the old shopkeeper's eyelids twitched. He hurriedly said, "Hey, kid, what's your surname?"
The man had been a bit hesitant, but the old shopkeeper's outburst made him decide. He took the seal and turned around, smiling, "Surname Chen."
The old shopkeeper looked pitiful, "Then I'll take your surname from now on. Put that seal back, okay?"
The man shook his head with a smile, "In business, you need some sincerity."
The old shopkeeper grumbled, "I think you should quit this damn wanderer act and become a businessman. In a few years, you'll be rolling in money."
But the old man had still made a good profit. In a good mood, he unexpectedly poured a cup of tea for the guest surnamed Chen.
The man didn't seem eager to leave immediately. One wanted to see if he could sell the Great Imitation Quhuang again, the other wanted to hear more in-depth stories about Shujian Lake from the old shopkeeper. So they chatted over tea.
The man learned many inside stories the old driver hadn't heard.
Shujian Lake was a paradise for wild cultivators of mountains and marshes. Smart people thrived, stupid ones suffered terribly. Here, cultivators weren't judged as good or bad, only by cultivation level and depth of scheming.
Commerce was flourishing, shops lined the streets, and everything imaginable could be found.
Those who had nowhere to go, or were in trouble, could often find shelter here. But to live comfortably, don't expect it. However, if you had a pig's head to offer and found the right temple, survival wasn't hard. How you fared afterward depended on ability. Attaching to a big mountain, paying money and labor as a hanger-on, was also a path. In Shujian Lake's history, there were ambitious men who endured humiliation for years and finally rose to become regional hegemons.
Outside the shop, time passed leisurely.
Inside, the old man was in high spirits.
There was once a Nascent Soul cultivator from a registered sect who joined hands with a Golden Core sword cultivator. They thought they could walk sideways through all of Vase Bottle Continent. They swaggered into Shujian Lake, set up a banquet on a large island, and widely issued invitations, summoning all Celestial Immortals and Dragon Gate realm cultivators in the lake. They declared they would end the chaotic, leaderless situation and become the lake overlord.
At the banquet, over thirty island masters present raised no objections. Some applauded and agreed enthusiastically; others flattered obsequiously, saying Shujian Lake had long needed a figure who could command respect, to bring order. A few remained silent. But after the banquet, some secretly stayed on the island to offer pledges of allegiance, suggesting strategies and detailing the foundations and strengths of various factions.
What happened next, even centuries later, still delighted all Shujian Lake cultivators, young and old.
That very night, over four hundred cultivators from different islands swarmed in, surrounding the island.
Using nearly nine hundred magical artifacts and over two hundred death warriors raised on their islands, they literally battered those two arrogant Nascent Soul and Golden Core cultivators to death.
The most determined to kill were precisely those "first to surrender, fence-sitting island masters."
The man listened intently, then casually asked about the River-Cutting True Lord, Liu Zhimao.
The old shopkeeper grew more excited.
He said that River-Cutting True Lord was now most formidable.
Two years earlier, a little demon had arrived, becoming the true lord's closed-door disciple. A classic case of the disciple surpassing the master. He controlled a fearsome flood dragon and, on his own territory, launched a massacre. He had the "big mud eel" slaughter the mansion of a senior retainer, along with dozens of open-robe maidens and over a hundred others. Most died horribly.
Later, for unknown reasons, he killed his fellow senior disciple in another bloody massacre. The flood dragon's ferocity was fully displayed. Many times, it bit not to kill, but purely for the pleasure of slaughter. Where it passed, limbs and remains littered the ground.
After that, master and disciple swept through, seizing many islands long held by other powers.
Those who submitted prospered; those who resisted perished. Many young, beautiful girls were reportedly taken by force by that little demon who hadn't even grown hair yet. Under the training of his second senior sister, they became new open-robe maidens.
Since then, Shujian Lake had no peaceful days. But it was still a fight among gods, and remote places like Chishui City were spared.
That little demon surnamed Gu had suffered several assassination attempts afterward, yet he survived, becoming more arrogant and domineering. His reputation for cruelty grew. A crowd of fence-sitting cultivators gathered around him, crowning him with the title "Lake Crown Prince." This spring, the little demon had visited Chishui City. His procession and pomp were no less than a secular dynasty's crown prince.
The old shopkeeper chatted enthusiastically. The man barely spoke, remaining silent.
In the twilight, the old man saw the man out of the shop, saying he was welcome to come again, even if he didn't buy anything.
The middle-aged man nodded. As he stood up, he had already put the three small items into his sleeve, tucked the brocade box under his arm, and left.
The old shopkeeper was somewhat puzzled. It seemed that when the man left, he was... listless? Strange. He was clearly a wealthy wanderer—why be like that?
The old man shrugged it off and strolled back into his shop.
This big sale—three years without business, but one sale fed for three! He'd like to see which of those neighboring old bastards would dare say he wasn't cut out for business.
As for whether that man would come back to buy the Great Imitation Quhuang, or why he had started forcing smiles and then fell silent, the old shopkeeper didn't care much.
What were the fights of gods in Shujian Lake, the little demon Gu, lives and deaths, grudges and debts? They were just other people's stories, heard and told—that was that.
And the customer, after leaving the shop, walked slowly.
Life is not a story in a book. Joys and sorrows, partings and reunions all lie between the pages. But how easy it is to turn a page, how difficult to mend a heart.
Who said that? Cui Dongshan? Lu Tai? Zhu Lian?
Can't remember.
After walking a few dozen steps, the middle-aged man stopped. On the steps between two shops, he sat down.
Like a dog by the roadside.