Chapter Sixty-Eight: Autumn Rain Holds One Hostage (Part Three)

A tavern appearing in the wilderness is such a warm sight, so extraordinary. Even now, when it is no longer appropriate to call oneself human, Wu Yue still cannot grow accustomed to treating night as day. Wu Yue entered the tavern, no longer needing to indulge in the “free meal” of old; he carried money carefully prepared by Li Suizhu, along with pearls, gold beans, and loose silver—women are always meticulous when they love.

He also possessed two items: a white jade dragon heart pendant and another object, likely a protective treasure, whose mere appearance set it apart from the ordinary. Wu Yue felt his heart grow heavier.

It was late autumn, with little rain but much melancholy. That night, suddenly, the sound of rain arose.

Wu Yue sat in the main hall; he liked being among people, yet remained ever vigilant. This seemed contradictory.

He was inconspicuous in the crowd, despite wearing robes from the Brocade Manor worth a hundred gold coins. But not everyone possessed the insight to recognize such finery.

Many people sat in the hall: wealthy young men in lavish attire, scolding their servants and complaining about the humble place; scholars in white, traveling with their books, passionately discussing the state of the world; some who knew a bit of cultivation—merely wanderers of the martial world—drinking rough wine and boasting of their heroic deeds from days past; solitary adventurers sitting quietly; and travelers in worn clothes. There was also the innkeeper, a man with a limp, squinting as he worked his abacus.

Though they lived in the same world, these groups were destined to never truly intersect. Yet a single autumn rain had trapped them together in this small tavern. Now, as they sat in the hall, they seemed so harmonious.

“In truth, they are all travelers passing through, no different from one another. Living for life, because of life,” Wu Yue mused, as if on the verge of grasping something.

Suddenly, the tavern door was pushed open, letting in a gust of cold wind mixed with rain, prompting a chorus of curses. The newcomer was an old Taoist, soaked through. Hearing the crowd’s complaints, he seemed to realize his fault and quickly closed the door, offering a respectful gesture and apologizing. Seeing the old man’s good manners and advanced age, the people relented and returned to their own affairs. The hall remained lively.

The cold wind startled Wu Yue, leaving him with the unsettling feeling that he had missed something, though he could not say what. He shook his head and continued to absorb the lingering souls.

The old Taoist walked toward the counter, muttering to himself, “I’ve spent my whole life preaching reason—this time I won’t. I’ve messed up someone’s fortune for no good reason.”

“Bring me a bowl of yellow wine,” he called to the innkeeper.

The innkeeper, his eyelids barely lifting, replied carelessly, “So you’re just an ordinary Taoist. I thought you might be a master from Old Huang Mountain.”

The old Taoist grinned, “Perhaps you’re seeing things, old innkeeper.”

The innkeeper poured a bowl of yellow wine, placing it on the counter with a lazy air. “My eyes are fine. The great masters of Old Huang Mountain wouldn’t travel so far just to ruin someone’s fortune.”

The old Taoist’s expression became serious, and he replied earnestly, “Old innkeeper, you must understand the principle of moderation. See how this bowl is too full? If you try to lift it, it’ll spill—such a waste, truly regrettable.” With that, he leaned over the counter and took a sip from the bowl, looking utterly content.

“I always give what’s due, never shortchanging anyone,” the innkeeper said with a hint of disdain.

“Old innkeeper, you are wise,” the Taoist said, giving a thumbs-up. “And bring me a plate of peanuts.”

The innkeeper glanced at him but still produced a dish of peanuts from beneath the counter.

“If you don’t enjoy my company, I’ll take my leave,” the Taoist said.

“Suit yourself,” the innkeeper replied, pointing toward the door.

“Then prepare a room for me—just an ordinary one. I’ll eat in there.” With that, he picked up the wine and peanuts, calling out, “Waiter, bring me another cup of yellow wine; I can’t carry it all.” He never once looked at Wu Yue.

At last, the innkeeper broke into a smile.

When there’s lively conversation, it’s hard for people to feel sleepy. Though it was already deep into the night, the unknown tavern remained bustling. The innkeeper made no effort to hurry anyone, leaning on the counter and leisurely working his abacus.

Many people travel at night; perhaps they fear neither cold nor loneliness. But when they suddenly see a place aglow and radiating warmth in the darkness, they find themselves unable to move on.

Again, the door was pushed open, letting in cold wind and rain. This time, no one cursed; the hall even fell silent for a moment, the only sound the creak of the closing door.

The newcomer was a woman—a beautiful woman, though her manner was somewhat aloof. Yet no one dared tease her; a lone woman arriving in the night, untouched by the pouring rain, could not be an ordinary person.

“Prepare an upper room,” the woman said, striding to the counter.

“Eighty coins,” the innkeeper replied without looking up.

The woman tossed a piece of silver and turned to leave.

“Thank you for your generosity,” the innkeeper said, and nothing more.

The woman quickly vanished from the hall, leaving the crowd feeling a touch of regret, wishing they had looked a little longer. Had they only known, they would have stolen a few more glances.

The rain fell not only here; there were sleepless souls elsewhere as well.

Crystal Palace.

A woman in official robes sat cross-legged in meditation, holding a jade bottle and a glass seal. Suddenly, she spat a mouthful of blood.

After a long moment, the woman slowly opened her eyes, her face still pale. She waved her hand to wipe away the blood, lost in thought.

“What time is it outside?” she asked suddenly.

A young girl lifted the beaded curtain. “It’s late autumn, and it just rained,” she said, looking at the official-robed woman with concern. “Dragon Maiden, you mustn’t be so anxious. The last layer of the Pure Heart Glass Technique can only be mastered by those with deep foundations. You’ve only just broken through—don’t rush yourself. You love reading so much; didn’t Master Kong say, ‘excess is as bad as deficiency’?”

The official-robed woman shook her head. “I don’t want to marry Su Xuan Dao.”

“Why not?” The girl was thoroughly puzzled. “Young Master Su is wonderful: skilled in cultivation, talented, kind, polite, and from the Grand Planning Sect, which is even more prestigious than the Crystal Palace. Plus, he’s quite handsome.” She counted off his virtues on her fingers.

“I think, little one, it’s your heart that’s overflowing. Your eyes are full of spring flowers, and by your age, that’s normal,” the woman teased.

The girl blushed. “Dragon Maiden, you only know how to tease me.”

“How am I teasing? What maiden doesn’t have tender feelings?”

“Then whose spring do you cherish, Dragon Maiden?”

“Go on, you little rascal. I’m seventy or eighty years old—what spring could I possibly cherish?”

After a bout of laughter, the two fell silent, as if they could hear the sound of rain falling.

“A rainstorm keeps me here,” the official-robed woman sang softly.

“What song is that? It sounds so strange.”

I asked the same question back then...