Chapter 86

Curiosity about something doesn’t require owning it.

Chu Tianshu walked slowly, “I’ve been curious about caverns deep beneath a great mountain—should I have dragged that thing back with me?”

Cheng the Blind said nothing more.

They were nearly approaching that Wang Cheng.

From afar, only the high walls and tower outlines, the upturned eaves, were visible, half-hidden in mist beneath the hills, surprisingly elegant.

Only when they drew within a few li did the angle to look up at the city walls grow steep, bringing a true sense of scale.

Even in this ancient Tang era, the cities built by people already carried a grand, majestic air.

Two or three li from the city gate, shops and homes had already begun to appear.

This rain had truly helped the headless man immensely.

With rain falling, few pedestrians remained on the road.

Otherwise, by the time he reached here, with crowds around, someone would surely grab a club or farming tool and hurl something at that headless corpse in panic.

At his current state, even a wooden barrel hitting him would knock him down, stopping him cold.

Fortunately, the knife master’s own home seemed nearby—he didn’t need to enter the city proper.

Chu Tianshu and Cheng the Blind stood at the alley’s mouth, watching him turn into it.

Deep in the alley stood a modest but prosperous courtyard.

The gate stood open; a woman in plain linen dress held an umbrella, waiting at the threshold.

The moment the headless man turned into the alley, she saw him.

Her face turned pale with grief; one hand gripped the doorframe as tears fell like beads.

Chu Tianshu saw the headless man reach her—on his blade, the blue lines shattered completely; his body swayed, then toppled forward.

The woman rushed forward, embracing the corpse, sobbing aloud.

“Let’s go.”

Cheng the Blind spoke, then turned away.

Chu Tianshu said, “That’s it?”

“We met on the road—seeing him off is the knife master’s duty.”

Cheng the Blind said, “The rest is their family’s affair.”

As he spoke, his expression paused, his tone growing slightly awkward.

“You’ve just arrived in Nanzhao—need a place to stay?”

“I know a good spot—fine wine, fragrant meat, and the wine lady’s steamed fish is exceptionally delicious.”

“There’s also a storyteller who recites from the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors through Qin, Han, Wei, and Jin, as if listing family heirlooms—he can even tell tales of the Eastern Sea, the Western Regions, Nanzhao, and Tubo.”

“Those who drink and tea there, listening to stories, grow ever more spirited with every sip.”

Cheng the Blind stopped, thinking for a moment.

“Oh, and every other top tavern in the city charges more.”

Chu Tianshu’s expression turned faintly odd.

Brother, you’ve never practiced this sales pitch, have you?

If you’re doing it for free, fine—but if the tavern pays you to promote, they’re truly unlucky.

“Alright.”

Chu Tianshu smiled, “Lead the way.”

Cheng the Blind took him to a spot near the city gate.

At a glance, at least four or five taverns hung wine flags.

But a two-story wooden building, spacious, with red-painted doors and railings, eaves curved like crescent moons—that was rare.

Chu Tianshu stepped into the grand tavern.

The first floor was a large hall, surrounded by low tables and cushions; guests sat cross-legged or knelt while eating.

In the center stood a wooden platform, with a Hu stool upon it, where an old man played the pipa.

In the middle of the second-floor floor, a square opening, about ten feet per side, was left clear and bordered by railings.

Guests on the second floor could look straight down onto the first-floor platform.

Cheng the Blind entered and tilted his head slightly.

Chu Tianshu sensed again a fleeting chill emanating from him.

That must have been Cheng the Blind’s knife soul force.

Throughout this journey, Cheng the Blind’s hearing was sharp—he could identify sounds and positions.

But some things, he simply couldn’t hear.

For instance, when he was still in the earth shrine, rain drumming the forest, the headless man passed by.

A man walking with his own head in hand—Cheng the Blind couldn’t have discerned his condition by hearing alone.

At that moment, his full awareness of the headless man’s state came from his own knife soul force.

But knife soul force doesn’t stay active—it opens only for an instant when he deems it necessary.

“Over there.”

Cheng the Blind found an empty table amid the tavern’s noise and walked toward it.

Chu Tianshu followed and sat down.

By etiquette, one person should sit behind each table—but this was a tavern, not a noble household banquet.

Here, four people sharing a long table was perfectly normal.

Chu Tianshu wasn’t used to kneeling; he sat cross-legged.

Cheng the Blind was even more casual—left leg crossed, right knee raised, arm resting atop it.

“Huh! You actually brought me a guest today?”

A woman in red approached with a tray, setting down two black-glazed wine bottles.

Her hair wasn’t coiled or pinned—only tied with a red cord and headscarf; her red dress was worn, dull in hue, and a coarse cloth belt wrapped her waist—she looked like a kitchen maid.

Yet her eyebrows were willow-soft, her eyes almond-shaped, lips thin—her features and figure held undeniable charm.

“This is Wen Jing Niangzi—this tavern is hers,” Cheng the Blind told Chu Tianshu.

In this era, “niangzi” was a common term, roughly equivalent to “girl.”

Addressing her by full name wasn’t intimate—it was distant, polite.

Wen Jing Niangzi gave Cheng the Blind a half-reproachful look, then turned to Chu Tianshu with a bright smile.

“Guest, would you like wine and meat, or some vegetarian dishes—freshly picked banana flowers?”

“Wine, meat, and vegetarian dishes—all of them.”

Chu Tianshu pulled out something and handed it over.

“This is…”

Wen Jing Niangzi hesitated, “A copper nail?”

Chu Tianshu cleared his throat: “It’s a gold needle.”

Cheng the Blind reached out, took it, rubbed it twice, then pinched it with his fingernail—his expression shifted slightly.

“It’s real gold. Very pure.”

Before the Han dynasty, both gold and copper were called “jin”; even many copper alloys carried this name, their value judged by hue and luster.

Only when Han alchemists produced “medicine gold”—highly polished but worthless—did people begin to distinguish gold from copper carefully.

Copper’s value dropped sharply; gold’s soared.

Chu Tianshu’s previous silver needles were nominally silver but mostly steel.

This trip, he’d taken several “gold needles” along.

The value of these few needles paled beside the Golden Silk Armor or Iron-Charmed Copper Rope; the qi they consumed was negligible.

But with these needles, his lodging and meals were covered for now.

Wen Jing Niangzi, utterly trusting Cheng the Blind, took the gold needle and beamed.

“One needle for just one meal? That’s more than enough!”

Chu Tianshu said, “Then give me a room—I’ll be staying here for now.”

Chu Tianshu said, “Then give me a room—I’ll be staying here for now.”

Wen Jing Niangzi added two more wine bottles before Cheng the Blind. “On the house—you brought me a noble guest.”

Cheng the Blind picked up a black-glazed bottle and poured it straight into his mouth.

Chu Tianshu hissed: “Brother, don’t you at least eat something?”

In a breath, Cheng the Blind drained the entire palm-sized bottle.

“No rush—just wet the throat.”

He savored it, then picked up the second bottle, groped on the table, and this time poured into a cup.

The wine was faintly green, slightly cloudy.

Chu Tianshu poured himself a cup, sniffed first.

It smelled like rice wine—mostly fermented lees.

He took a sip—it wasn’t as sweet as rice wine, nor as harsh as baijiu, but a subtle blend of sweet, spicy, and a faint bitterness.

Complex, yet refreshingly smooth.

A complex flavor, but pleasant to drink.

After drinking three cups, Chu Tianshu noticed the bitterness growing stronger; unless he changed his palate, he would no longer taste the subtle sweetness and spiciness from earlier.

Just then, a server had brought out the dishes.

The restaurant had over a dozen servers, rushing dishes like wind, filling the air with fragrance.

The server placed the dishes on the table and, seeing unfamiliar guests, proceeded to explain them.

“This first dish is steamed green essence rice with banana flowers—originally created for the ‘Success Banquet’ of a Tang Dynasty imperial scholar, later passed to Nanzhao; few establishments today can prepare it well.”

The rice is dyed black-green with juice from green essence leaves, then cooked with a layer of red dates beneath; after cooking, young banana flower buds are washed and mixed in, steamed by the heat.

Chu Tianshu picked up a forkful and put it in his mouth—his whole palate filled with fresh, faintly sweet aroma.

The second dish was roasted lamb, and a plate was also placed before the blind man.

As Chu Tianshu was eating, the pipa music stopped, and someone new stepped onto the stage.

A server removed the Hu stool and brought another table, half a person’s height, onto the stage.

The table held various objects.

A round fan, a short knife, camel bells, a wooden seal, and a large paper mache hammer.

An elderly man with white hair and vigorous spirit walked onto the stage and bowed to all sides.

“I am Dao Baishu, the storyteller here. Whether you know me or not, I offer my apologies in advance.”

“Since I earn my living telling stories, the characters, though drawn from history, inevitably carry some folk tales.”

“If any among you are related to those in the tale, or hear a passage resembling your own life, it is purely coincidental—no hidden meaning is intended. I beg your forbearance.”

Chu Tianshu looked up.

Very professional—comes out with a disclaimer first.

Many in the audience were regulars; at once, someone teased.

“Old man, go ahead—I feel every hero in your stories is a veiled reference to me. I tried to hide my name and blend in, but you’ve exposed me.”

“But I don’t blame you—tell it!”

This drew a burst of laughter.

“Very well. Today, I’ll tell a tale from the transition between Sui and Tang.”

Though the story had begun, Dao Baishu first wandered off-topic.

“The Sui and Tang eras were truly an age of heroes. The first renowned storyteller in our tradition was recorded from that time.”

“Telling stories for a living dates back to the Warring States, but those were mere recitations. It was Hou Bai of the Sui Dynasty who pioneered using objects, gestures, and performance to bring tales to life.”

“The great Hou Bai, by this skill alone, first befriended Yang Xuangan, then earned recognition from Emperor Wen of Sui, who summoned him to compile history—he truly rose to prominence.”

Chu Tianshu nodded slightly.

Regarding the evolution of storytellers, this matched the historical records of his hometown.

“Yet in the chaos of late Sui, a storyteller, even a historian, was but grass—this was the age of warriors, the golden era of military men.”

“The Nine Senior Pillars of Sui, the Eighteen Rebel Kings, Zhao Wang Li Yuanba, General Tianbao Yuwen Chengdu.”

“And Li Shimin, the Prince of Qin who ultimately won the empire, along with his generals—each was famed across the land, each shook the world.”

Dao Baishu said, “To speak of great generals, one must first speak of their martial arts.”

“From the end of Han to Sui and Tang, duels between champions on the battlefield were universal—because top warriors could break through thousands; if your general could not stand against theirs, unless you outnumbered them by several times, defeat was certain.”

“Martial arts are divided into three schools: Strength Cultivation, Technique Enlightenment, and Blood Refinement.”

“Corresponding to strength, technique, and armor.”

“Clearly, among the three, armor is most vital—thus, Blood Refinement is also called Blood Refinement of Arms, the foremost criterion for selecting generals.”

“Every famed general possesses an object imbued with a soldier-soul.”

“No matter how strong or skilled a warrior’s body, it remains mortal flesh—prone to many limitations, especially against dark arts. But soldier-soul power is uniquely wondrous, giving rise to countless legends.”

“For example, during the Zhen Guan era, Emperor Taizong toured the realm and, to encourage resistance against locusts, swallowed them himself—thus attracting pestilential miasma. Rebel remnants then summoned dark creatures to harass him.”

“Generals Qin Qiong and Yuchi Gong stood guard outside the imperial palace with their golden maces and divine whips. That night, flames surged and thunder roared, driving away all dark evils, keeping them at bay.”

“This tale is well known. But what I shall tell you today is the hidden twist behind it—the finer details…”

Chu Tianshu’s heart stirred.

Is Blood Refinement of Arms the art that cultivates soldier-souls?

Here, everyone seems to regard this art as part of “martial skill.”

Would the Martial Demonstration Token recognize it?

(End of Chapter)