Chapter 104: Beset by Hidden Dangers

He Chang'an’s expression was sour, yet he pinched his nose and made a full tour of the small Bluestone Town anyway. He visited the mountain goods shop, the blacksmith, the apothecary, and both inns. He even took a moment to rest in the shade of a large locust tree at the east end of town, peering curiously into a deep well nearby.

The Grand Master of Longhu Mountain followed silently behind him, acting like a frivolous young lady with nothing better to do. He cast glances left and right, posturing and preening, and occasionally brushing his shoulder against He Chang'an’s. Every time, He Chang'an would dodge without a trace and cast a glare back, the message clear: "Fellow Daoist, please have some self-respect!"

Whenever this happened, it would elicit a silver-bell-like giggle from Zhang Xiaoyan, causing him to tremble like a blooming branch in the wind—a sight that made He Chang'an wish he could poke his own eyes out.

...

"This Bluestone Town was quite prosperous for a few hundred years in its early days; it’s a pity it has fallen into decline now." Sitting in a tavern, drinking and listening to Zhang Xiaoyan speak was actually quite pleasant. The only problem was that whenever he heard those warbling, chattering tones, like an oriole, He Chang'an couldn't help but steal a glance at Zhang Xiaoyan’s subtle, barely-there Adam's apple.

It was, to say the least, a mood killer.

According to Zhang, "Bluestone Town" was merely the name given by the common folk, derived from a mountain a dozen miles away. The mountain, named "Bluestone," wasn't particularly tall, but it had once been famous.

"According to some ancient records, the so-called bluestone was what cultivators call spirit stone ore," Zhang Xiaoyan said with a beaming smile. "Well? Do you want to go dig up a few large chunks? That stuff is worth far more than gold or jewels." His eyes flickered, full of instigation and temptation.

He Chang'an turned his face away, picked up a bowl of wine, and drained it in one gulp, unwilling to engage. Ancient books had recorded it: after all these years, if it hadn't already been hollowed out by all manner of immortals, then expecting to find spirit ore now was just a pipe dream.

Zhang Xiaoyan chuckled and continued, "Suit yourself if you won't go. Regardless, I intend to dig up a few pieces; don't go getting envious when I do."

"Then go ahead and dig," He Chang'an replied expressionlessly. Spirit ore and the like felt too distant; he couldn't bring himself to care. His only concern right now was the large table full of meat and dishes that the two of them would never be able to finish.

"What, worried you can't finish this spread?" The Grand Master of Longhu Mountain seemed to see right through him, eyeing him with a smirk. "Don't worry, I guarantee not a scrap will be left." He picked up his chopsticks and casually nibbled on some seasonal greens, never once glancing at the meat.

He Chang'an was not a picky eater; he ate anything that wasn't too bizarre. Since spending time with A-Jiu, his biggest change was that he now ate very, very slowly, though he drank wine quickly, lifting the bowl and tossing it back in one go.

*'Back then on the mountain, when Mother was sick, I was too weak and could only hunt small beasts, so I was often hungry...'*

He Chang'an suddenly missed A-Jiu—that dark-skinned, delicate, little miser of an A-Jiu, who would kill for a few baskets of steamed buns.

He glanced sideways at Zhang Xiaoyan and saw him leisurely produce a set of tea utensils—clean, elegant, and made of simple materials, yet they felt remarkably comfortable.

"There is a well in Bluestone Town. The water is clear, cold, and sweet. In the past, it was a point of pride for scholars and high-ranking officials to use it for brewing tea," Zhang said, looking at the tea set for no apparent reason. "When we're done, will you keep me company to draw water from the well?"

His eyes were as innocent and pitiful as ever, making He Chang'an’s heart skip a beat. He could only offer a bitter smile and say, "Fine. Once we draw the water, we shall depart."

Zhang Xiaoyan put away the tea set, raised a bowl of wine toward the tavern entrance, and giggled, "Guests have arrived; why not come up and share a bowl?"

He Chang'an did not turn his head, his breathing steady, as if nothing had changed. They had both known for a while: they were surrounded.

The tavern curtain was swept aside, and eight tough men walked in, dressed in dark, tight-fitting clothes. They were emotionless, all of them eighth-rank martial artists. Immediately following them, accompanied by a fit of coughing, a hunched, gaunt old man strolled in. He stood less than five feet tall, with a sword hanging from his left hip—a scabbard of black fish scales, less than three feet long, lacking the red and yellow tassels common among martial artists of the pugilistic world.

As soon as the old man entered, he looked up at He Chang'an and Zhang Xiaoyan sitting by the window, squeezed a face full of walnut-like wrinkles into a smile, walked over, bowed in apology, and sat down to drink and eat. He didn't say a single word.

He Chang'an looked relaxed on the surface, but he felt as if a giant boulder were pressing down on his heart. His breathing became unsteady, and the "Little Black Rod" in his Dantian's spirit sea began to stir.

A peak sixth-rank martial artist, only a single step away from entering the fifth rank. In the Tang Empire, such a person was already considered a second-rate expert. For one to appear in such an obscure town, it was clear they had come prepared.

Zhang Xiaoyan, however, looked entirely relaxed and at ease, leaning lazily in his chair, chin in hand, smiling at the gaunt old man. The old man ate slowly, drank slowly, methodical and unhurried. In short, he did everything at a snail's pace. But to He Chang'an, this slowness was stability.

A dry, powerful, and steady left hand would make his sword faster, steadier, and more forceful. Likewise, his dry, powerful, and steady right hand held the wine bowl, tilting it toward his mouth with such precision that not a drop spilled—a man who controlled his internal energy so perfectly that not a shred leaked out. Such a hand, whether wielding a sword or drawing a blade, was a lethal threat. Of course, it could just as easily be a fist...

...

With the thunderous arrival of a troop of iron cavalry and a few distant whistles, the once-bustling Bluestone Town fell instantly silent. The men were dark-skinned, mounted on black horses, and looked exceptionally fierce. Every shop closed its doors and windows. The bluestone street, once filled with people, now held only a few abandoned chicken cages, fish baskets, and a young girl squatting under the eaves of a house, staring at a steamed bun.

A bamboo sword was tied diagonally to her waist, looking for all the world like a child's toy. In front of the bun shop across the street, a basket of steamed buns remained, round and large, still steaming hot. The girl was dark and delicate, her eyes bright and clear. Her blue cloth clothes were covered in grass clippings, and her boots were badly damaged and caked with yellow mud, suggesting she had been walking through the wilderness for a long time.

The troop of cavalry surged into town like a storm, coming to an abrupt halt in front of the tavern. Dozens of horses stood perfectly still, not a single one neighing—they possessed more discipline than border warhorses.

Once the troop was stationed, only the leader dismounted and walked slowly into the tavern. The others remained in their saddles, motionless, not even sparing a glance at the girl squatting nearby.

"Haha, Master Mo, you set up a banquet here in Bluestone Town without even letting me know. Look, the wine and food have gone cold; what a waste," the leader of the cavalry, a tall man with a thick beard, laughed heartily as he entered. He summoned the terrified, pale-faced innkeeper and told him to heat up the food. Then, he sat down with a heavy thud, right opposite He Chang'an.

The bearded man glanced at He Chang'an and grinned. "Is this the kid who stirred up Master Mo?"

His tone was full of disdain, yet he revealed a sliver of information that made He Chang'an’s heart tighten: *These people are here specifically for me.*

The gaunt old man smiled thinly. "And didn't you come too? Does the mighty Black Flag Mountain have its eyes on that item as well?"

The bearded man laughed, turned to stare at Zhang Xiaoyan, and clicked his tongue in wonder. "They said the younger generation of Longhu Mountain produced a waste who prefers women's clothing to men's. Truly a peerless beauty."

Zhang Xiaoyan remained lazy and indifferent, ignoring the martial artist as he took out a small ivory comb to brush a lock of his dark hair.

"Master Mo, the item goes to you, the person goes to me. How about that?" The bearded man scanned Zhang Xiaoyan from top to bottom, not even turning his head to ask the gaunt old man.

"That's fine, but I can only give you one," the gaunt old man replied with a smile. "Which one do you want?"

"I want both." The bearded man waved a hand, completely unconcerned. "I'll throw in ten pairs of boys and girls as an extra."

The gaunt old man, known as Master Mo, nodded slightly and smiled. "Deal."