Chapter 18: Seven Mysteries

Clutching sixty taels of silver and a wooden box, Jiang Ding stepped out of the Four Seas Trading House, a faint thrill in his heart.

Decades-old medicinal herbs naturally cannot be consumed raw—they’re too wasteful and potentially toxic; his plan was to entrust a major apothecary to refine them into pills.

Since he had no money to pay processing fees or buy auxiliary herbs, he could offset costs with part of the herbs.

“Has the Seven Mysteries Sect returned?”

“Who says not? It seems it’s today…”

Passing a teahouse, Jiang Ding’s ears twitched; he stopped, stepped inside, ordered a cup of clear tea, and gazed at the street scene.

Hmm, any food from this other world—he wouldn’t touch it unless processed.

Not just Jiang Ding; the other patrons also turned curiously toward this side.

“You’re all talking nonsense!”

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Until his voice went hoarse.

The crowd buzzed with Yilun —some excited, some filled with hatred, each different.

Surrounded by many nobles, Gong Caiyu suddenly glanced in one direction—but saw nothing.

After winding left and right, he returned to his own small shop; still few people came, only occasionally one or two visitors.

The drunkard chuckled: “It’s because the young marquis is betrothed to Gong Caiyu, the daughter of the late Seven Mysteries Sect Master, the Flying Snow Immortal. Since the Seven Mysteries Sect and the Zhendong Marquis House are now one family, reestablishing the sect’s mountain gate is only natural.”

The Seven Mysteries Sect had taken root in Dongling Prefecture for over a thousand years—deeply entrenched, flourishing. Everyone present had likely dealt with its businesses, or even once been its old disciples.

…

The sense of ease and harmony vanished quickly.

The little beggar remained silent—neither resisting nor crying out.

Leaving, he avoided crowds gathering in busy areas and headed toward Luanban Street, where the general store stood.

Still, his features were faintly recognizable—the grandson of the herb-gathering old man from the ruined temple.

Jiang Ding sighed: “Huang Guanshi, remember—everyone’s patience has its limit.”

The little beggar wore tattered clothes, reeking of greasy stench; wounds covered his face and arms—some scabbed, others oozing blood.

The other beggars beat him awhile, then grew bored, cursed, and left.

Yang Laoyao shoved a slice of beef toward him and raised a cup of wine in salute.

Zhang Ziteng continued whispering: “I know you dislike the young marquis, Tang Qingjie—he’s a bit wild and dissolute, but none of that matters. The body is merely a vessel; youthful infatuations are but illusions. You’ll understand later.”

“What’s wrong, niece Caiyu?”

In the poor district, such things happened too often—right and wrong were hard to judge.

Entering Luanban Street, the roadside was old, lacking ornate decoration, the ground pitted and uneven, the air foul—but Jiang Ding sensed a strange sense of ease and harmony.

The entire tavern fell silent, a pin drop audible—then erupted in a “boom,” the crowd surging toward the Marquis House.

Jiang Ding glanced at the little beggar being beaten by a group of beggars, then continued toward the general store.

“I’ll kill you! How dare you steal from me!”

“As long as the sect’s mountain gate can be restored, and our ancestors’ legacy isn’t ruined by us—if you ascend to the Primordial Realm, it’s all worth it.” Gong Caiyu remained silent.

A stumbling, hurried footstep came from behind—as if the pursuer, ignoring his injuries, was racing with his last hope.

“Good, to know you’ve realized your mistake. Everyone errs; what matters is correction.” Jiang Ding pointed to the little beggar behind him, calmly saying: “This one…”

“Dog’s bastard!”

“Your grace’s kindness!”

Jiang Ding ignored him and returned to his courtyard.

“That’s right! Yang Laoyao, aren’t you just here to trick this great sir into buying you booze and meat?”

“Fine.”

“Yang Laoyao, stop teasing us!”

…

“It’s only been half a month—how have you pulled off two big things already?”

The little beggar’s eyes lit up; he nearly bowed, but seeing Jiang Ding had left, hurried after him.

Gong Caiyu forced a smile: “Uncle Five, nothing’s wrong.”

“True or false? Afraid the Golden Knife Sect’s ‘Splitting Sea Blade’ will come again?” Jiang Ding halted, turned around.

“Master, one must recognize one’s error,” Huang Deyou stammered.

“That’s a long story…”

“Waiter! Bring this table a pot of Dongshan old wine, a plate of pastries, and two dishes of braised beef!”

“Master, my grandfather is dead.”

Saying this, he turned and left.

The little beggar’s long-suppressed emotions shattered—he burst into loud sobs: “Killed by those black-cloaked men! Grandfather pushed me into the river, but he himself…”

“The Marquis, the young Marquis, and all the Marquis House’s guest masters have left!”

This man was Zhang Ziteng, the Fifth Elder of the Seven Mysteries Sect, nicknamed “Crimson Hawk Iron Sword.” Rumor said his sword descended like a hawk from the sky, snatching grass-rabbits with ferocity—its momentum heavy and overwhelming; ordinary experts couldn’t survive a single strike.

“Master…”

An old man with a few strands of beard noticed her distraction and whispered a question.

Soon, the teahouse held only Jiang Ding, seated, and Yang Laoyao, devouring wine and meat—waiters and shopkeepers had vanished.

But the drunkard’s words suddenly cut off, provoking the crowd to curse loudly.

When poor, one cultivates one’s own virtue; one can’t manage everything.

“Master, can I follow you?” the little beggar asked softly.

Jiang Ding listened quietly as the boy sobbed incoherently.

Jiang Ding said calmly: “My shop needs an assistant. If you’re interested, come try.”

He wouldn’t act first—but since the boy had come to him, and he was a child, he’d help a little.

“Ladies and gentlemen, nothing secret here.”

At that moment, someone shouted from outside.

The Zhendong Marquis House stood right in the busiest district, only a few streets away—visible from here were rows of disciplined black-armored soldiers escorting a group; nearby streets had been sealed off, the display grand.

Soon, Huang Deyou ran over, pale-faced, trying to kneel—but a sword scabbard tapped him, drenching him in cold sweat; he dared not speak, only stood rigid.

Everything has a cost; letting Long San go consumed his own goodwill.

The boy had endured much these past days; suddenly encountering someone who’d shown him kindness, his emotions spiraled out of control.

He’d been away visiting relatives when the Seven Mysteries Sect was destroyed; Wei Xian, the ‘Splitting Sea Blade,’ was far too proud to waste time hunting him down—so he’d lucked out.

Huang Deyou froze, face ashen, upon seeing Jiang Ding.

Long silence.

Someone speculated: “Though the Zhendong Marquis House can’t match the Golden Knife Sect, it still represents the imperial court’s face—a former pillar of the Twelve Celestial Columns. The Golden Knife Sect may not dare touch the Marquis House’s kin.”

Some astute patrons called out.

They simply had to care.

The crowd was skeptical.

!.

Jiang Ding nodded slightly, tossed a grain-sized silver sliver toward the counter, and rose to leave.

“Remember—the Golden Knife Sect may be powerful, but it cannot compare to the imperial court.”

“Possible.”

Both the Marquis House and the Seven Mysteries Sect were titans; any change would affect countless livelihoods. Mismanagement could plunge people from overflowing wealth to utter poverty.

Yang Laoyao took a sip of wine and growled: “I heard this from my uncle who works at the Marquis House—and it happened today! How could it be false?”

“Niece Caiyu,”

“Master, this humble one is Han Lin.”

“Young Han, assign him a suitable post. Also, start collecting animal specimens—insects, birds, mosquitoes, anything small. Price begins at one cash per item.”

“Yes, Master!”

Huang Deyou stole a glance at the little beggar’s proper, courteous demeanor—and felt a chill.

(End of Chapter)