As the morning mist dissipated, Ye Fan was walking through the blue stone alleys of Qinglan City, accompanied by a family servant. The Jiuxiao Huanpei at his waist pressed against his lower abdomen, warm to the touch—a sign that his Inner World had expanded. The spiritual ginseng left by Zhang Sanfeng three days ago was tucked inside his robe; the damp soil on its tendrils had long been dried by his body heat, yet it still carried a faint, bitter medicinal fragrance that pierced his chest like a fine needle, reminding him of the difference between this lifetime and the last.
"Young master, breakfast is prepared in the Songyue Pavilion." The servant's voice interrupted his thoughts. Ye Fan raised his eyes, and the archway of the West Market was already close at hand. At what should have been the busiest hour of the morning market, a muffled thud suddenly echoed through the alley as a vegetable basket was knocked over, followed by a child's shrill, tearful scream: "Help!"
His footsteps paused. The "West Market ambush" that Su Wan'er had mentioned yesterday suddenly exploded in his ears. When he was betrayed by his allies in his past life, it was amidst this very sort of marketplace clamor that blades lay hidden—that poisoned sword still left a pale white scar on his chest.
"Go to Songyue Pavilion," Ye Fan said half to the servant, then corrected himself: "You go on ahead, I'm going to buy some tea to wake my mind." The servant acknowledged the order and withdrew. As Ye Fan turned around, a short blade from his sleeve had already slipped into his palm.
Turning the corner, he saw three men in green robes holding Ghost Head Saber blocking the narrow alley. The youth at the very front was only eleven or twelve years old, as thin as a bamboo stalk, his back pressed against the mottled brick wall. The left leg of his trousers had been slashed open by a blade, and dark red beads of blood were trickling down his ankle, splashing little red dots onto the Blue Stone Slab.
"Little brat's ears are certainly sharp, is Young Master Zhao's business something you can listen in on?" The man in the middle spat out a mouthful of phlegm, the blade prying open the youth's lapel. "I'll cut out your tongue and see how you wag it anymore!" The youth was trembling all over, yet he clenched his teeth and refused to beg for mercy. His eyes were abnormally bright, like stars trampled into the mud.
Ye Fan's knuckles tightened around the short blade. In his past life, he had also seen such a look in someone's eyes—it was the little beggar he had saved in the death row, who later became his sharpest covert agent, only to shield him from a fatal arrow on the eve of his fall.
"The three of you." He stepped forward, the soles of his boots crushing half a fallen green garlic. "Committing violence in broad daylight on the street, aren't you afraid of the Qinglan City patrol guards?" The three men turned their heads, the gleam of blades flashing in the depths of their eyes. The scar-faced man at the lead glanced at Ye Fan's green robe and sneered, "Where did this punk come from? Even the patrol guards have to walk around the people Young Master Zhao wants!" He waved his saber, pointing at Ye Fan. "Get lost, don't soil my blade."
Ye Fan did not move. He gazed at the bronze Tiger Tally dangling from the scar-faced man's waist—that was the mark of the private soldiers of the Zhao Family in Qinglan City. The "rogue cultivators of the outer city" that Su Wan'er spoke of were, after all, Zhao Batian's covert agents. "What if I don't get lost?" His voice was very soft, yet the clear spring within his Inner World began to surge. When he was ambushed in his past life, he had stood at the alley entrance just like this, waiting for the other party to make the first move. This time, he would be the one holding the blade.
The scar-faced man's pupils shrank abruptly. He suddenly felt as though the youth before him was a mountain; clearly unmoving, yet pressing down so heavily that it was hard to breathe. "Get him!" he roared, lifting his saber to slash down. The other two lunged forward with him. Ye Fan sidestepped to avoid the first strike, his short blade slicing open the wrist of the man on the left, blood splashing onto his face with the smell of rust. The saber of the man on the right thrust upward from below; he spun to dodge it and slammed his elbow fiercely into the other's ribs—this was a fatal move from the Ye Family Body Tempering technique, specially designed to break the defense of the Skin Membrane Realm.
"Thud!" That man grunted and slammed into the wall, his saber clattering to the ground. The scar-faced man's blade was already at his face; Ye Fan used his short blade to parry it with a backhand, seizing the opponent's wrist in the same motion. A torn page of cultivation technique inside his Inner World suddenly flared to life, and three hundred and sixty-five bone-dismantling methods he had seen in his past life flashed before his eyes. "Crack!" A crisp snap came from the scar-faced man's wrist bone. Pain broke him out in a cold sweat, and the Ghost Head Saber dropped to the ground with a loud clatter.
"Speak." Ye Fan stepped on the back of his hand, pressing the short blade against his throat. "Who sent you?" "Young... Young Master Zhao!" The scar-faced man convulsed with pain. "Young Master Zhao said this little brat overheard his secret discussion with Master Wang, and told us to silence him!"
Ye Fan turned to look at the youth cowering at the base of the wall. The youth was staring at his blood-stained short blade; the fear in the depths of his eyes faded slightly, replaced by a scorching glimmer: "My name is Xiaohu, and I work odd jobs at the West Market storytelling stall. The night before last, I delivered tea to Young Master Zhao and Master Wang, and I heard them say... say that on the day of the clan competition, they are going to put poisoned short blades in the weapon racks of the martial arts arena, and when Young Master draws one, he will..."
"Shut up!" The scar-faced man panicked. "You motherf—" Ye Fan pressed his short blade down a fraction, and the scar-faced man instantly fell silent. He squatted down and tore a strip of fabric from Xiaohu's clothes to simply bandage his wound. "Does it hurt?" "It doesn't hurt." Xiaohu sniffled. "Much lighter than when people robbed me of my money last month."
Ye Fan smiled. He unfastened his outer robe and wrapped it around Xiaohu's trembling shoulders. "Come with me?" "Where to?" "The Ye Family." Ye Fan stood up and kicked the scar-faced man on the ground. "They want to kill you because what you know can cost them their lives. You help me, and I'll protect you." Xiaohu's fingers clenched tightly around his outer robe. This was the first time someone had spoken to him using the word "help," rather than "use" or "throw away." He gazed at Ye Fan's blood-stained cuff, suddenly remembering the heroes in the storytelling scripts who saved little beggars and ultimately became legendary figures renowned throughout the world. "I'll help!" He nodded heavily. "I know Young Master Zhao's covert outpost in the south of the city, I know Master Wang goes to the ruined temple on the outskirts to meet a man in a bamboo hat on the fifteenth of every month, and I also know..."
"Come back to the Ye Family with me first," Ye Fan interrupted him, bending down to pick up the Ghost Head Saber from the ground. "You're injured, I'll have someone treat you."
The scar-faced man suddenly struggled, shouting, "Do you dare touch Young Master Zhao's people? If City Lord Zhao finds out..." "City Lord Zhao?" Ye Fan turned around, the gleam of the blade flashing in his eyes. "What you should be worried about is how City Lord Zhao will deal with you lot for incompetence." He kicked the three paralyzed men on the ground. "Get lost, and tell Young Master Zhao the tea at the West Market stall is far too bitter."
The three men scrambled away in a panic. Xiaohu watched their retreating backs and suddenly tugged at Ye Fan's sleeve. "Young Master Ye, will they..." "No." Ye Fan patted the top of his head. "What Zhao Batian wants is my life, not the lives of three dogs."
On the way back to the Ye Family, Xiaohu followed him like a little tail. Passing a medical hall, Ye Fan had a maid take him to tend to his wounds, while he himself headed to the elders' council hall. Standing before the carved wooden doors, gazing at the two gilded characters for "Loyal Martial" on the lintel, he lightly rubbed the Jiuxiao Huanpei with the pad of his thumb—this was something he had traded his life for in his past life, and in this lifetime, it would be used to overturn every single scheme. In three days' time, the clan competition would take place, and he needed allies. Zhao Batian had allied with the Wang and Li families, but the merchant leagues and escort agencies of Qinglan City might not all be wholeheartedly devoted to him.
Ye Fan thought of the "ruined temple Master Wang visits on the fifteenth of every month" that Xiaohu had mentioned, a faint smile curving his lips—some secrets were meant to see the light of day.
At night, he practiced his saber techniques in the martial arts arena. The clear spring in his Inner World had risen by half a foot, and the spiritual ginseng given by Zhang Sanfeng had been brewed into a medicinal broth, which was currently nourishing his Jade Bone Realm flesh along his meridians. As the blade's light pierced the moonlight, he heard footsteps approaching from behind. "Young Master Ye." Xiaohu stood in the shadows, wrapped in his outer robe. His wounds had been treated, but a pale red blood was still seeping through. "I... I know something else."
Ye Fan sheathed his saber, the moonlight falling upon his face. "Speak." Xiaohu swallowed, his fingers unconsciously twisting the hem of the outer robe. "Young Master Zhao and Master Wang said, besides the poisoned short blades, there's also... also some kind of 'Lightning Summoning Talisman', to be used when you draw your weapon..." He suddenly stopped, as if frightened by his own words. "I, I might have remembered wrong..."
Ye Fan's pupils constricted slightly. He walked over to Xiaohu and squatted down to look him in the eye. "Xiaohu, you didn't remember wrong." He patted the youth's shoulder. "Go to sleep, tomorrow we're heading to the south of the city."
Xiaohu nodded and turned to walk toward the guest rooms. The moonlight stretched his shadow long and thin, like a slender yet resilient bamboo stalk. Ye Fan watched his retreating figure, and the torn cultivation technique pages within his Inner World suddenly emitted a clear chime—that was the "Thunder Burst Technique" he had failed to fully comprehend before his fall in his past life, and now, following the ripples of the clear spring, it was slowly piecing together a complete set of pathways.
The watch drum in the martial arts arena struck the third watch. Ye Fan looked up at the stars in the firmament, tapping his fingertips lightly against the Jiuxiao Huanpei three times. Zhao Batian thought he was still the easily manipulated punk of yesteryear, not knowing that the blade of this lifetime had already been ground sharp enough.
The crickets in the corner of the wall suddenly fell silent. The sound of the patrol guards' wooden clappers drifted from afar, a sharp "Dong—" that startled a few cold crows into flight. Ye Fan touched the remaining half-block of spiritual ginseng in his bosom, then glanced back toward the guest rooms—Xiaohu should be asleep by now, yet the "Lightning Summoning Talisman" he spoke of remained stuck in Ye Fan's throat like a thorn.
He turned and walked back to his room, his boot heels crushing a fallen leaf. Tomorrow, it was time to go meet Master Wang.