Chapter 29: Returning with a Full Harvest (Please Leave a Comment!)

“Speak—who are you, really?”

“…”

“Mr. Qian, bring the needle!”

“I’ll tell you—I’ll tell you. My name is Liu Bao, I’m the third master of the Tiger Blade Sect in Song City…”

“Not a Bai Guo bandit? Then who are they?”

“Cough… None of them are. Some are refugees from Zuo Feng Pass, and some… some are local villagers.”

“The third master of Tiger Blade Sect? Why would you join a bandit gang with a bunch of refugees?”

“Someone approached me. I didn’t want to do this, but she offered us a hundred taels of gold…”

“Us?”

“The first and second masters, too. And from what she said, it seems other factions were recruited as well—not just from Song City.”

“Who was she?”

“I don’t know. She always wore a veil. I only remember she had a lotus mark on her wrist…”

“You’re pretty sharp-eyed. Mr. Qian, this clue feels crucial—better confirm it.”

“Good point.”

“Don’t… Everything I said is true… There is a mark on her wrist… I’m not lying… Ah! Ahhh!”

…

A sickening sound.

Qian Xuanzhong wiped his blade, sheathed his sword, and looked thoughtfully at Chen Yu beside him.

“Daoist Chen, have you found a clue?”

Chen Yu shook his head. He had no clues; he was simply unsettled by the state of the world. Lives were worth so little—a mere hundred taels of gold enough to make a group of seasoned warriors put aside their honor and join bandits in slaughtering ordinary folk.

A hundred taels, just two thousand in silver. A fortune for most, but to the wealthy, perhaps nothing. Yet Liu Bao alone had killed no fewer than a hundred. If the first and second masters were included, nearly a thousand people had likely died directly or indirectly at their hands.

Even he himself, after this battle, had blood on his hands, most of it from refugees—ordinary people swept up and forced to become bandits.

Chen Yu pushed these chaotic thoughts aside. There was no point in dwelling; he had killed evildoers, those who aided and abetted cruelty, all with blood on their hands. Such deaths were not worth pity—there was no need for misplaced compassion.

Qian Xuanzhong was far more composed. Calmly, he severed Liu Bao’s head, wrapped it in cloth, and said he would take it to the authorities.

At first, Chen Yu worried that Liu Bao’s backers might be colluding with the government, and reporting it could be walking into a trap.

But it seemed this was merely a rat lurking in the shadows. If they were powerful, they would have stirred up trouble openly, not hidden behind the chaos of bandit outbreaks.

The matter of the lotus mark remained unclear, and neither of them mentioned it further—reporting to the authorities would suffice. They were not reckless youths; with only two of them, it was unwise to dig deeper. Investigation would have to be done in secret.

The best course was to let the officials intervene as the public hand.

Besides, though the realm of Great Liang was troubled, it was not yet so desperate as to rely on two young men to avert catastrophe, as if they were characters in some tale.

“I won’t go. I have things to attend to, so I’ll trouble you to handle the rest, Mr. Qian,” Chen Yu said. Whether he reported it or not, Qian Xuanzhong would surely spread word of their feat. The Swordsman in Green sought fame, and so long as there was no deeper involvement, Liu Bao’s backers would likely pay little heed to a hero who had always acted with justice.

A swordsman passing by and killing a villainous bandit—too ordinary to arouse suspicion.

As for Liu Bao… If his backers were powerful, the death of a mere hired thug would not matter much. If they were weak, the Swordsman in Green would not be easily trifled with.

Best to leave these matters to a wandering hero; Chen Yu was a solitary man, wishing only to find a village with chicks for sale, and if none, to head to Yun Gu village. It was nearly noon—any later and he’d be traveling at night. The mountain path was rough; climbing would only waste more time.

Fame held little appeal for him. He simply wanted a quiet life on the mountain.

So he dismissed any urge to meddle.

He also reminded Qian Xuanzhong that even when reporting, it was best not to go in person; find someone else to do it.

“Alright,” Qian Xuanzhong replied, understanding. Chen Yu’s reluctance was likely due to his ascetic nature, disdaining fame and fortune, leaving the credit for slaying the bandits to him.

The Swordsman in Green was easygoing—if others didn’t want it, so be it. But he couldn’t comfortably take all the credit; after all, they subdued the bandit chief together, and Chen Yu had dealt with the entire gang.

He rummaged through his robes and pulled out a cloth pouch, plump and pleasant to the touch.

“Daoist Chen, you are noble and disdain fame, but I must remember this favor. Gold and silver may not appeal to you, so please accept this bag of Yangzi seeds.”

Qian Xuanzhong had learned herb identification from a mountain healer, collecting many herbs along his journey. Most had been used, but he kept the rarest, including these Yangzi seeds—said to be the prime ingredient for the Dragon-Tiger Power Pill of True Martial Mountain. He had hoped to take them to the Central Plains to ask a Daoist to refine the legendary pill, which was said to bestow boundless energy.

But now, handing them to Chen Yu felt right.

To Qian Xuanzhong, Chen Yu was upright and refined, clearly a learned Daoist, and a good man.

He then untied the small sword at his waist—a bronze blade engraved with flowers and clouds, and inscribed with stylized characters.

Chen Yu glanced at it and recognized the two characters: Yuanhua.

“This was forged by my uncle in the sect. Please keep it. If we meet again, or you encounter someone from my sect, it can serve as a token.”

Qian Xuanzhong spoke thus. His earlier claim to be from Qilian Sect was a lie; even his interrogation technique was improvised. In truth, he was from Yuanhua Sect of Qiyang, with a respectable status as the sect leader’s second son.

Chen Yu accepted the gifts without refusal—not out of greed, but because Qian Xuanzhong seemed a decent man. It was a memento; if they met again, perhaps they could share tea or wine.

At that moment, villagers from Ma Family Village emerged. The two men paused their conversation and joined in clearing the corpses scattered across the fields.

Amidst the villagers’ profuse thanks, Chen Yu and Qian Xuanzhong parted ways—one strode off, leaving a graceful silhouette, while the other was surrounded by villagers eager to ask about chicks.

Unfortunately, no household kept chicks.

There were a few grown chickens, and some villagers wanted to tie them up and give them to Chen Yu, but he politely declined.

They had suffered enough, and he would not take their possessions.

Without lingering, Chen Yu left quickly, accompanied by the elderly villager with a spear, who saw him all the way to the riverbank.

Yun Gu village lay to the east; after crossing the river and passing Liu Family Village, he would arrive.

He wondered how that old cattle herder had managed to run so far, all the way to the foot of Qing Tai Mountain.

The old man had claimed his legs weren’t good, yet managed the journey.

…

By afternoon, Chen Yu reached Yun Gu village, though he didn’t encounter the cattle herder. After changing into a Daoist robe and freshening up, he washed away the scent of blood.

As expected, his attire brought him a warm welcome in Yun Gu village—not overly enthusiastic, but without any hostility.

Yun Gu was much larger than Ma Family and Liu Family villages, with hundreds of households nestled along the foothills.

He hadn’t searched long before several farmers arrived with baskets lined with straw, chirping sounds escaping through the gaps—a lively, vibrant energy.

With a sweep of his hand and no haggling, Chen Yu bought the entire basket of chicks.

He also caught one rooster and two hens, paying for all three.

He figured, having never raised chicks, the hens would surely know how—it was safer to rely on their maternal experience.

Before leaving, Chen Yu bought two slabs of meat from a farmhouse: a rack of wild boar ribs and a slice of spotted wild pheasant. Adult wild boars were massive—encountering one in the mountains was no easy feat. He’d only heard stories, but now he intended to try some for himself.

The key was to improve his meals; the chicks were small and would take a long time to grow, but the two slabs plus half a smoked chicken in his temple should suffice for a while.

He changed out of his Daoist robe, strapped the bamboo basket on his back, and, amid a lively chorus of clucking, strode home through the grass, laden with his spoils.