Chapter Three: A Cultivator’s Version of the Three Visits to the Thatched Cottage

Several enormous wooden birds soared through the sky, so many that they seemed almost to blot out the sun. Each carried several people overseeing the cargo below. On the foremost bird, three figures stood out in particular. One was a fat man who looked shrewd enough, yet at that moment wore a face full of worry.

The farther they flew, and the more desolate the route became, the stronger the fat man’s suspicion grew that this fellow meant to rob him and take his life. Even if his backer later avenged him, what use was revenge if he was already dead? Look at this man: fierce as a demon, with a scar on his brow, plainly no decent sort. What was he supposed to do?

The other two were Zhou Yihu and an old Daoist. The old priest was shabby and somewhat dirty, but Zhou Yihu showed him no disdain at all, and in fact treated him with a hint of ingratiating warmth.

“Daoist Huang, I’ll leave this matter to you,” Zhou Yihu said. He was delighted by his good fortune. This time he had bought another pile of goods; though none were especially precious, they would count as fairly valuable in the mortal world. It had almost emptied his old savings, and he only wondered whether he would be reimbursed when he got back. Along the way, however, he had been worried that Old Huang Mountain would continue to demand an outrageous price, for they had a record of such things, and Zhou Yihu had to guard against it.

Still, since he was on another man’s turf, he could only swallow his grievance. However high his cultivation, he could not withstand a pack of wolves. Besides, Old Huang Mountain had been famous for a thousand years; how could it lack a few tigers? No, a few true masters, a few great cultivators.

Fortunately, fate had favored him. Just when he was at a loss, he encountered this old Daoist on the road, who insisted on boarding with them. The two of them engaged in a brief exchange of skill, and in the end they swapped calling cards. Zhou Yihu’s expression then changed drastically, for this old Daoist turned out to be the junior brother of the present sect leader of Old Huang Mountain, and he governed one of the mountain’s seven peaks, Brewspring Peak.

The old Daoist was a straightforward man. After learning that Zhou Yihu wished to meet a guest of Old Huang Mountain, he readily agreed. He also gave a fierce denunciation of Qing Song’s habit of taking gifts; thank goodness it had been discovered this time, or how much loss would have been suffered? Huang Sanlong generously took half the goods for himself, but also said bluntly that the matter would be taken care of.

Zhou Yihu deliberately did not reveal Wu Yue’s name. First, Wu Yue was, after all, somewhat of a figure, and if they happened to run into his benefactors or enemies, it would be troublesome. Second, it would also serve as a test: whether Huang Sanlong would be able to invite Wu Yue out or not, Zhou Yihu would at least have some idea in his heart.

“Rest assured, I still have some say in Old Huang Mountain,” Huang Sanlong said with reassuring ease. After taking so many gifts from the man, he still retained a very decent moral line.

This wooden bird was indeed wondrous, able to travel two thousand li in a single day. Compared with the cargo it carried, it was worth even more than three parts extra. No wonder the shopkeeper had an increasingly strong suspicion that Zhou Yihu might well kill and rob for treasure.

After a little over a day, the group arrived at the gates of Old Huang Mountain. Before they had even descended, a disturbance arose; dozens of people rode on clouds toward them with fierce momentum, clearly not coming to welcome them. Before the fat shopkeeper could even explain, the extraordinary old Daoist already began cursing loudly.

“You little brats, are you setting up formations to frighten me, or to arrest me?”

The dozens of people muttered apologies, though their “Apologies for alarming Second Grand-Uncle” was obviously perfunctory. Then they turned and left. Though their attitude was hardly respectful, they said nothing further to this group of strangers.

Huang Sanlong glanced at Zhou Yihu. “Convinced now? So who did you say you wanted to see?”

“Wu Yue,” Zhou Yihu said with a smile.

At the name, Huang Sanlong froze. The one person who had been the most carefree along the way was suddenly no longer carefree at all. Earlier, with three of them together, Zhou Yihu and the fat shopkeeper had been the most anxious. But now that the matter had reached this point, the fat shopkeeper and Zhou Yihu were no longer anxious, while Huang Sanlong was abruptly filled with sorrow.

That was awkward indeed. Of all people, why did it have to be him? Did you know this old Daoist had a grudge against him?

“Um, is there something wrong, True Lord Huang?” Zhou Yihu also changed his form of address.

“It’s nothing, nothing. I was just blown by the wind—my head hurts a little,” Huang Sanlong said, clutching his forehead and wailing.

“Then perhaps the True Lord should rest first?” Zhou Yihu said politely.

“Haha. Just what I had in mind, exactly what I had in mind,” Huang Sanlong hastily replied, not waiting for Zhou Yihu to continue. He twisted his body and rolled straight off the wooden bird, vanishing without a trace. The fat shopkeeper stared, utterly dumbfounded. That move alone would draw plenty of attention even if sold in the marketplace, and it strengthened his resolve to send his own son to cultivate.

As for Zhou Yihu, he was the best cultivator here and had the sharpest eyesight. He clearly caught a look of utter relief, as if someone had escaped with his life.

“There isn’t a single decent thing in Old Huang Mountain,” Zhou Yihu said bitterly. He also prepared himself to be fleeced again, already calculating whom he could call for support.

Yet happiness came so quickly, so suddenly, so unexpectedly that it left one unprepared.

“He’s over there, behind the mountain? Really? He’s recovered? He can meet visitors now?” Zhou Yihu asked in a string of disbelieving questions.

Qing Song nodded with a smile. “Indeed. My friend heard about your matter. A few days after his illness improved, he went to the back mountain, waiting for Your Excellency to come and meet him.” Thinking of Zhou Yihu’s conduct these past few days, he could not suppress a laugh.

Zhou Yihu drew a deep breath and indeed saw a figure in the distance. He stopped several hundred paces away. This was one of the manners of the Immortal Spirit Realm. Though it served little practical purpose, it did bring a sense of ease to the heart. Still, since the two sides were enemies, caution was never a bad thing. But to speak, and even have to shout across several hundred paces, was a little too uncultured.

When Wu Yue turned his head, Zhou Yihu was shaken again—not because he had mistaken him for someone else, but because this newly risen young favorite, now brimming with fame, appeared astonishingly ordinary. Not his appearance, but his aura as an immortal. Zhou Yihu could not see through him at all; he looked exactly like an ordinary person.

At best, Zhou Yihu could sense the slightest trace of spiritual energy, and even that already bordered on rudeness. As for the flow of his life force, there was not the faintest awareness of it. Too terrifying. Just what kind of strength could be hidden so deeply, yet so beautifully within? Truly, the river’s later waves drive the earlier ones, and every new generation surpasses the old. Zhou Yihu once again found himself full of emotion. As for the idea that Wu Yue had lost all his power and become a mortal, Zhou Yihu did not even consider it.

Seeing Zhou Yihu apparently lost in thought and standing unmoving, Wu Yue rolled his eyes dramatically, feeling he had wasted such a fine atmosphere he had so carefully cultivated.