Chapter Sixty-Nine: Preaching with One Bowl of Porridge, Killing with Another

After a night and an autumn rain, morning arrived. There were far fewer people in the lounge than the previous evening; hurried travelers would never linger here for breakfast.

Breakfast was porridge, served with steamed buns and pickled vegetables, or with leftover braised beef. Wu Yue ordered a bowl of porridge but did not drink it—not because he lacked appetite, but because it was burnt and tasted terrible.

The lame innkeeper was absent from the counter. The sole waiter explained that the old innkeeper always slept until noon—this was his daily routine.

Thump, thump.

Hurried footsteps descended the stairs; it was the old Taoist from last night.

"Waiter, bring me a bowl of porridge. Do you charge for porridge?" the old Taoist shouted from afar.

"Porridge and pickles are free. But steamed buns cost a coin each," replied the waiter, his face blooming with a smile. There was neither contempt nor anger, nothing like a typical young man in his twenties.

"Then bring me two bowls, and a plate of pickles," the Taoist said brazenly.

"And the buns?"

"Why bother? If there’s free food, why pay for anything?" the Taoist glared and replied loudly.

Someone in the lounge, unable to resist, laughed and scolded, "You’re miserly for a Taoist!"

The old Taoist laughed heartily. "That’s how you make a living—when you’re out and about, save where you can."

He paced over to Wu Yue’s table and asked, "Young man, may I sit here?"

Wu Yue did not refuse, nor had any reason to. "Go ahead. It’s not mine."

The old Taoist raised his thumb. "Good! There aren’t many young people as reasonable as you these days." Without ceremony, he plopped down on the bench.

"Well, I don’t tell fortunes, nor do I read faces or interpret signs. If my brow ever darkens, I’ll just wait for it," Wu Yue said in one breath.

The old Taoist was stunned, gaping for a while, then exclaimed in that ever-loud voice of his, "You’re like a seasoned veteran!"

Wu Yue smiled lightly, unconcerned. He didn’t know what kind of person the old Taoist was—hermit or ordinary man, it didn’t matter. He had no need to bow to anyone, for he sought nothing from others.

The waiter, still wearing that humble, ingratiating smile, laid out the dishes the old Taoist wanted. "Please enjoy. If it’s not enough, call me and I’ll bring more."

"Not so fast. Waiter, what’s your name?" The old Taoist looked as though he was about to offer some sage advice.

The waiter tossed a big towel onto his shoulder, grinning. "I don’t have a name. Master Wen took me in, so they call me Wen the Second."

The old man stroked his chin. "You’re a sharp one."

"Second, bring me a plate of braised beef!"

"Certainly." Wen the Second replied, then turned to the Taoist, "Enjoy your meal, sir. If you need anything, just ask."

The old Taoist rolled his eyes dramatically and waved, "Go on, go on."

He pulled out a pair of chopsticks and stirred his porridge, remarking, "Eating such rich food so early—aren’t you afraid of upsetting your stomach?"

Wu Yue answered offhandedly, "As long as it makes you happy."

The Taoist’s eyes brightened at this, clapped his hands, "That’s the spirit—happiness above all. But," he shifted, "judging from your face, you’re not the type who likes to speak much."

Wu Yue finally looked up, studying the old Taoist, "Know yourself by observing your own nature."

"Care for a chat?" The Taoist picked up some pickles and chewed loudly.

Wu Yue did not refuse; he was never cold or aloof, nor unkind. Having once been lonely, he yearned for connection. Besides, he had nothing else to do.

"Young man, have you ever thought about what kind of person you want to be?" The old Taoist asked a question of great depth.

Wu Yue replied without hesitation, "A free man." That was his path, his lifelong conviction.

"Are you not afraid that chasing mountains might wear out your steed?"

"I’m not."

"That’s quite a question," the Taoist said slowly. For a moment, Wu Yue felt as if the old Taoist before him was a philosopher, radiating a rare brilliance. "I only hope you’ll be a kind-hearted person."

"With a clear conscience?"

The Taoist shook his head. "Not enough."

"Upright before heaven, blameless before men."

"What heaven, what men?" the Taoist pressed.

"I don’t know," Wu Yue answered simply.

The Taoist showed no disappointment, but rather smiled. "Not knowing is the beginning. Be a kind-hearted person."

"In the beginning, human nature is good," the Taoist declared.

"A noble character deserves a toast of emptiness," he raised his bowl of porridge as if it were wine. "There is no true freedom in this world, yet it is written all the same."

Then he placed the other bowl in front of himself, lifted his chopsticks, and struck down hard. Ripples spread across the surface of the porridge, the sound of the bowl echoing in the air.

Wu Yue sensed something was wrong—the scene before him became hazy, as if shrouded in a veil. The ripples in the porridge seemed to stir waves deep within his heart, slow and steady.

Clang.

The Taoist struck again.

The ripples grew heavier. The sound was like an ancient bell ringing in his ears, deafening. All three hundred sixty acupoints across his body exploded one after another, energy scattering and reversing along his meridians. The waves in his heart transformed into countless concentric circles, locking the injuries within, preventing them from touching heaven and earth. This heart was perilous indeed.

Clang.

The third strike.

The ripples slowed, growing larger. The sound was like thunder. His meridians shattered inch by inch, his foundation collapsed. Another circle of ripples, growing from small to large, then shrinking again. His spiritual power was trapped within. From then on, immortals fell to earth, and only what set them apart remained.

Wu Yue’s head felt unbearably heavy; he sensed the old Taoist was harming him but lacked the strength to act.

The Taoist snapped his chopsticks, shattered the bowl, and the porridge vanished without a trace.

He stood and said with a cheerful smile, "Now we are even." He slapped down a coin, "To pay for the bowl!" Striding away, he turned at the door and called out, "Great Innkeeper, good people will be well rewarded."

The lame innkeeper, who was supposed to rise at noon, had surprisingly appeared early at the counter, absent-mindedly spinning the abacus beads, unmoved throughout.

Then came another thumping descent from the stairs. This time, instead of annoyance, everyone waited expectantly.

It was the woman from yesterday. The light had been poor last night, but now, in daylight, she seemed emboldened, gazing intently.

She was a beautiful woman, but now there was a flaw—a large birthmark on her left cheek, an unfortunate blemish. Her expression remained cold, her hand gripping a longsword tightly. She strode directly to the counter and placed the sword before the innkeeper, her icy gaze tinged with hope.

The lame innkeeper looked up at her, then pointed to Wu Yue. "If he survives, he can help you."

"He will help me?" The woman spoke, her voice harsh, like metal scraping.

The innkeeper lowered his head in silence.

"Old acquaintance, nothing owed between us."