Chapter Sixty-Seven: The Teahouse

The black-armored guards of Lord Zhu were all slaughtered, their bodies strewn haphazardly along the roadside, leaving him alone. The Thirteen Cold-blooded Eagles pressed in slowly.

"Damn it!" Lord Zhu clutched his chest, his face pale.

Suddenly, a sinister wind swept through, and black mist began to rise. Everyone shivered involuntarily; the air seemed to drop by a dozen degrees, and frost formed on their weapons.

Within the mist, vague figures emerged.

"Ghosts..."

The members of the Thirteen Cold-blooded Eagles couldn't help but cry out, but in the next instant, it was as if lightning struck them silent.

The scene was eerily quiet, even the sound of swallowing seemed loud.

Black Hawk and Lord Zhu stared ahead, and what they saw would be etched in their memories forever.

Amidst the spectral clouds and ghostly fog, twelve figures appeared, their faces as white as paper, their cheeks flushed red. Their indigo robes were fresh and stiff, resembling burial garments worn by the dead. Their expressions were frozen, lips curved in a mockery of a smile, neither truly laughing nor frowning.

They carried twelve snow-white sedan chairs, hopping step by step, their movements steady and silent. As they passed, a flurry of white paper swept into the air, littering the path behind them.

Their direction brought them straight toward the two groups.

Such a scene in the dead of night was enough to shatter anyone’s courage. Even these seasoned killers of the martial world were paralyzed with terror, cold sweat pouring down their bodies.

Even as the procession approached, their limbs remained rigid, unable to move.

Bang!

Ten yards away, the sedan chairs dropped to the ground.

The sound made everyone’s heart leap.

A pale, slender hand emerged, slowly lifting the curtain.

The crowd held their breath, a wave of intense danger swelling in their chests.

Was this the King of Ghosts from the Underworld come to inspect the living?

The curtain rose, revealing a priest in black robes. His face was as pale as death, his eyes dark as midnight stars.

"Sorry, you’re blocking my way," the black-robed priest said, his voice clear.

In an instant, the group parted, making way for him.

"Forgive us, please proceed," they said.

The curtain fell, the paper men lifted the sedan chair.

"Immortal! I offer you my family’s secret Hundred-Step Sword Technique, save me, Immortal!" Lord Zhu cried out, falling to his knees with a thud.

Black Hawk was instantly on high alert, despair filling his heart. If this being—human or ghost—chose to intervene, he would be powerless to resist.

A faint, almost imperceptible chuckle came from within the sedan chair at Lord Zhu’s words.

The black mist dispersed; the sedan chair was gone.

Everyone felt as if they had awoken from a dream.

Inside the sedan chair, Lu Qian sat with eyes closed in contemplation, utterly indifferent to the affairs of the martial world. He harbored no intention of upholding justice or helping the weak. To interfere blindly, without knowing right from wrong, could just as easily do harm as good.

He had no interest in the so-called martial arts secret of the Hundred-Step Flying Sword. Perhaps after so long among immortals, with only cultivators for company, he had lost a proper sense of worldly power. Even a novice in the Tongyou Temple would be deemed a peerless master in the martial world.

Hundred-Step Flying Sword?

He could spit further than a hundred steps without effort.

...

"Haha, the Immortal has eyes like torches—he would never be swayed by the likes of you!" Black Hawk, after witnessing such an event, dared not utter a word of disrespect.

His men surged forward.

Lord Zhu was swiftly torn apart.

Black Hawk held Lord Zhu’s severed head, staring dazedly at the sky. The man’s scarred face was streaked with bloody tears.

"Father! Mother! Sister! I’ve avenged you!"

Having killed Lord Zhu and obtained the secret of the Hundred-Step Flying Sword, Black Hawk would surely carve a place for himself in the martial world. Yet his heart now felt hollow.

After witnessing that eerie scene, Black Hawk realized that even ruling the martial world was nothing special. The greatest of the Five Peerless Masters would be mere larger ants before that man.

Suddenly, he spun around, staring toward the direction Lu Qian had gone, and began running after him with all his might.

It mattered not whether the figure ahead was immortal or ghost—he would become his disciple and learn supernatural arts.

No matter the cost!

He chased for an unknown length of time, his body torn and bleeding from branches, unable even to catch a glimpse of Lu Qian’s shadow.

Black Hawk collapsed in defeat, sitting silently with his head bowed.

...

Tongquan City.

Built along the river, the city was already bustling with life before dawn. Buildings stood in lively clusters, ancient willows grew in scattered groves. Elegant arched bridges, like soaring rainbows, connected the banks.

Crowds thronged the streets, carts and carriages flowed in endless streams. Under the bridges, boatmen shouted their calls, drawing spectators to pause and watch.

On the streets, people of all walks—scholars, farmers, merchants, artisans, young and old, men and women, riders, sedan chair passengers, porters—filled the scene.

In a riverside teahouse, stools and chairs were arranged, and the sleepy waiter leaned lazily against a pillar, dozing.

"Waiter, are there any seats?"

The waiter blinked and looked up; somehow a young man in black stood before him.

About twenty years old, a black-sheathed iron sword at his waist, coarse shoes, black robes, slender build, pale face with silkworm brows—a wild, wandering swordsman.

"There are, please come in, sir."

The waiter eagerly lifted the curtain.

As he entered the teahouse, a wave of steam greeted him. The air buzzed with chatter—idle gossip, arguments, snoring and more.

This swordsman was Lu Qian.

Newly arrived, he wished not to draw too much attention.

This time, he wouldn’t reveal his identity as a member of Tongyou Temple but would pose as a wandering cultivator.

Having just arrived, he naturally wanted to gather information.

Thinking this, Lu Qian took out a piece of gold.

The waiter’s eyes gleamed. He wiped the seat repeatedly, making it shine.

Lu Qian smiled faintly, tossing the gold to the waiter.

"What signature dishes do you have?"

The waiter’s smile grew even more eager. "We have eight specialties, sir: stewed soft-shell turtle, pan-fried carp, smoked chicken, fried ribs, stewed chicken gizzards and tripe... steamed crab roe, and more."

"Bring me one of each, and fetch a roast duck from across the street. The rest is yours."

"Yes, thank you, sir!"

The waiter, beaming, swiftly brought a cup of hot tea, called out sharply to the kitchen, and even ran back to hurry the cooks.

Soon, eight steaming dishes were served, and the roast duck was brought in.

Lu Qian picked up his chopsticks and began eating the fish.

Though cultivators should remain pure and abstain from indulgence, one must satisfy earthly cravings when among mortals.

At the temple, meals were taken only once every ten days, and most sustenance came from hunger-suppressing pills, tasteless and bland.

The waiter, attentive to his generous guest, poured tea and water frequently.

Customers so lavish were rare, and he made sure to serve him well.

"By the way, waiter—are there any temples or immortals in Tongquan City?" Lu Qian asked, setting his chopsticks down.

"Sir, you’ve come to the right person. There’s nowhere in Tongquan City that I, Little Zhang, don’t know."

The waiter poured more tea and said, "There are many temples here—White Cloud Temple, Qingyang Temple... seven or eight with thriving incense, but let me tell you a secret..."

"They’re all fakes, just scams."

He lowered his voice. "The real master is Daoist Xuanxiao. He doesn’t run a temple or sell incense. I’ve seen him catch ghosts myself—that’s real skill."