Chapter Two: The Crossing

In the end, Chen Yu still took the official road, veering into the forest near Yaozi Mountain. He relied on paths he’d heard about from local farmers and hunters, taking a roundabout route to avoid provoking the now-famous Yellow-Armored Army.

Within half a day, he left behind Shiya and arrived at the neighboring county of Quwu.

Seventeen or eighteen miles north of Quwu lay the surging, fast-flowing Bai Jin River.

Though bandits had been avoided along the way, he still encountered some injustices. Those he could resolve easily, he lent a hand; for the more troublesome ones, he memorized the details and reported them to the county office.

Striding forward in long, brisk steps, he was surrounded by an undulating landscape of mountains, the scenery so captivating it was hard not to linger. Along the way, he gazed curiously at his surroundings, all while practicing his lightness skill, attempting to combine his footwork with the Spirit-Forging Body Technique. Perhaps, when he reached the stage of internal cultivation, his legs and bones would advance even further.

Of course, the likelihood was slim.

But with nothing urgent to occupy him, and since he could at least improve his mastery of lightness, Chen Yu gave it his full attention.

Thunderous roaring—

It was getting late, dusk settling in, when he finally reached the banks of the Bai Jin River.

There were already people gathered there—about twenty or so, by rough count. The crowd all had their eyes fixed on the opposite shore.

A closer look revealed many shouldering burdens, carrying hefty bags; a few even had book baskets on their backs and square scholar’s caps on their heads.

They must be itinerant students.

Earlier in the year, when the Taoyang rebels caused upheaval, the emperor, in his wrath, cut off the exam routes in several southwestern provinces. But word had recently spread that some at court had petitioned for reconsideration. Emperor Liang, somewhat moved, let his anger subside, and now that General Song had quelled the Taoyang rebels, it seemed the ban might soon be lifted.

At this news, scholars across the southwest extolled the officials for their virtue and discernment—some nearly ready to offer incense and worship them as sages in their own time.

“Those gentlemen were right—the number of traveling scholars has indeed picked up lately.”

The imperial exams were no small matter. As for scholarly travels... Chen Yu kept silent. That was a complicated subject; many claimed to be on scholarly journeys, but in truth, it was often just a cover for old ambitions. Best not to dwell on it.

At that moment, he was holding two oiled paper bags.

The rich aroma wafted out, drawing sideward glances from the other waiting travelers. The scholars, in particular, stared fixedly at the bags, their eyes practically glowing green with envy.

He realized at once—these were likely young men of little means; otherwise, they wouldn’t be traveling with nothing but a book basket.

The world was far from peaceful; they risked their lives for connections and renown.

In Great Liang, there were the imperial exams, the recommendation of the worthy, and the nomination of the upright.

Most scholars pursued the latter two paths.

He paid these people no mind, moving off to a spot a bit further away, where the golden river waves crashed against the rocky cliffs, their roar echoing deep into the soul.

Quwu County itself was unremarkable, its scenery mediocre at best; only this stretch of river could truly catch the eye.

The rapids and shoals were awe-inspiring, striking fear into the heart.

But, truth be told, what impressed him most about this place was its steamed buns, and the scallion pancakes were nothing short of legendary. That shop, boasting over twenty years of experience, really lived up to its claims.

He cradled them in his arms now—purchases from earlier that he’d saved for lunch. After all, too much dried rations left the mouth parched and the palate weary. Though the pancakes and meat buns had similar drawbacks, at least they tasted good.

It wasn’t too much of a hardship.

He took a bite, unceremoniously licking the crumbs and oil from his fingers, his tongue darting over his lips, smacking them contentedly.

As the others watched his eating with growing hunger—some even clutching their own dry rations in silent despair—a swift boat suddenly appeared, slicing across the river!

Thick ropes trailed from the vessel, and as it drew near, it became clear that the ferryman’s waist was also bound with a rope as thick as two fingers.

“Hey! If you’re crossing, hurry up!” the man called out. With the river’s roar, his voice was not loud, but those waiting on the shore had been listening for it.

“A flying boat ferryman?” someone called back.

“That’s right,” the man replied.

At his words, many on the shore sighed in relief, Chen Yu among them, his expression calm as though he’d expected this.

Not everyone was so reassured; some asked each other, seeking clarity on the so-called “flying boat ferryman.”

After some discussion, their origins became clear, and more hearts settled.

The flying boat ferrymen were a group of fishermen who ferried people across the Bai Jin River. The name dated back decades in this region.

The reason the locals relaxed upon hearing it was simple—pirates still prowled the Bai Jin’s banks.

There were mountain bandits and highway robbers, and with the times in turmoil, many had turned to piracy on the waters, seizing strongholds and preying on passing travelers and boats.

At best, one lost their belongings and escaped with their life; at worst, they ended up dead at the bottom of the river.

Locals had resisted, reporting to the authorities and organizing militias, especially under the leadership of wealthy landowners and merchants. But these efforts yielded little; even the waterway guilds they formed ended up colluding with the pirates.

Now, only a few independent boat clans remained, the flying boat ferrymen among them.

“They’re not pirates—they’re flying boat ferrymen,” someone whispered.

As the boatman steered his craft to the shore, he shouted, “Don’t dawdle! The waters at Twin-Tiger Gorge run swift—if you’re coming, get on board now!”

With a clatter, the boat’s bow nudged the rocks. The boatman wedged a stick, wrapped and painted in bright colors, between the stones to anchor the craft.

The onlookers nodded to themselves—this was indeed the sign of the flying boat ferrymen. No longer hesitant, they boarded.

The boat was small, able to hold only three or four plus the boatman, but more ferrymen were arriving.

Chen Yu gazed out to see seven or eight swift boats racing through the rapids.

He’d heard about the flying boat ferrymen on his journey. This stretch of the Bai Jin River was tumultuous; to find gentler waters, one had to go nearly twenty miles downstream, where the docks were controlled by boat guilds—possibly in league with the pirates. Many merchants had suffered there recently.

Without further thought, he joined the others boarding the boat.

Soon, three passengers filled the craft. The boatman, gripping a hooked pole, deftly dislodged the anchor and pulled the rope in at his feet.

“We’re off!” he called.

The flying boats had neither bow nor stern; the boatman strode to the opposite end, braced his pole in the shallows, and gave a mighty shove. The river’s current buffeted the boat, making it sway.

Unhurried, the boatman didn’t even look back. He simply called out, “Hold tight to the wooden stakes.”

Chen Yu quickly secured his belongings and grabbed the nearest stake.

There were four stakes, set in rough pairs.

The other two passengers, seeing this, wasted no time in gripping the wood with both hands.

Thud!

The boat lurched. Chen Yu was steady, his toes gripping the planks like iron nails. The other two fared worse, swaying dangerously, nearly tossed overboard.

That was only the beginning. In the next moment, the pounding of water was relentless; the boat trembled wildly, as though it might fling them skyward, bobbing like duckweed on the waves.

Chen Yu glanced at the boatman. Though he swayed, his stance was steady. There were no marks of martial training, but it was clear he was seasoned.

“A rare experience,” Chen Yu mused.

Just then, the boat’s shaking intensified.

Meanwhile, the boatman tilted his head back and began to sing.

The waves were so loud that the words were indistinct; only fragments like “Lord of the Azure Waters,” “Dragon Palace,” and “Bai Jin River Dragon King” could be made out. Listening closely, Chen Yu realized these were prayers for safety, chants woven from the local folklore.