Chapter 10: How Long Has

Hearing Feng Xue speak thus, the old man hesitated slightly, but after glancing at Feng Xue’s clothing, he sniffed his cigarette and, as if by instinct, tucked it behind his ear before speaking:

“That young master is the son of Master Qin, the wealthy merchant of the county. He’s studied abroad, and the man behind him is Master Zhao of the Tiger Subduing Fist. Though he’s only second-rate in the martial world, here in our county he’s top-tier! This one…”

Here the old man hesitated again, then chose what seemed a suitable title:

“This young master probably wants to do business with the Qin family? I’d advise you to go straight to the foreign trading house and speak with the manager. This young master may have studied abroad, but he’s clearly read too many books and lost his wits—he speaks nothing but foreign gibberish. You won’t get anywhere with him!”

As he spoke, the old man shook his head with a look of utter disdain, as if scorning all things foreign.

“Oh.” Feng Xue now had his bearings, and immediately smiled:

“I’m not interested in that Qin young master at all—I’m just curious about masters. By the way, does this county have any true adepts? Not martial men, but those who… well, the kind who summon spirits and divine the future.”

Upon hearing Feng Xue’s question, the old man’s eyes brightened with understanding. He weighed his words carefully:

“As for Daoist adepts, we do have a few in the county. For instance, Ninth Aunt is a famed spirit-medium throughout the surrounding villages—anyone needing spirit boards or rice divination goes to her. She also handles funerals and burials, but such matters carry ill luck; best not to disturb her unless necessary.”

“Then there’s Daoist Qian at the North City Charity Hall, with two disciples. He was once renowned for exorcising ghosts and subduing demons. Now that he’s old, he just wants to live quietly—mostly he advises on feng shui. But if real trouble arises, he won’t back down. A few years ago, when zombies plagued the north village and nearly wiped out everyone, he was the one who led the effort to deal with them.”

“Then there’s Miss Lan. Her ancestors came from the north, and for generations they were immortals. But she’s the first to abandon the path—she studied medicine abroad for several years, then returned to open a pharmacy. Still, I suspect her so-called foreign medicines are actually immortal techniques. Walk two streets ahead—you’ll see it.”

Here the old man suddenly remembered something and added with clear distaste:

“Oh! There’s also a foreign monk—some disciple of a foreign god, they say. But he’s useless. He just hands out fruit juice and biscuits every few days, tricking the greedy into listening to his sermons… Still, the county magistrate believes in him and gave him prime land.”

Listening to the old man’s clear-cut opinions, Feng Xue couldn’t help but smile. Though the old man disdained “foreign temples,” he didn’t omit them—evident proof of his honest nature. If not for his good fortune in meeting a kind man, then the county’s folkways must indeed be decent.

As he thought this, Feng Xue began to deduce the nature of this world from the information he’d gathered:

This world seemed similar to his own, with technology roughly at mid-20th century levels—bicycles appeared occasionally, but not a single automobile.

Moreover, the old man’s demeanor and the general living conditions of the townsfolk suggested they were better off than those in his own era—either the region was remote, or the presence of transcendent forces had altered its history.

But Feng Xue understood that such an old man could not possibly know high-level information. What he knew was likely just street gossip—worth hearing, but not necessarily trustworthy. He’d have to see for himself.

Thinking this, Feng Xue asked the old man where the pawnshop was, but upon learning the county had a moneychanger, he abandoned the pawnshop entirely and exchanged his gold beans for cash and coins in various denominations.

Though he could have easily sold the dozen watches in his pocket for a high price at a pawnshop, given his low risk tolerance, he chose the safer moneychanger—even if only slightly safer.

…

“Boss, how much for your buns?” With money in his pocket, Feng Xue approached a breakfast stall. The vendor, initially impatient, was about to gesture toward the sign and tell him to look for himself—but upon seeing Feng Xue’s attire, distinct from ordinary folk, he instantly changed his expression and smiled:

“Young master, plain buns are one cash for two. Buttered ones come sweet or savory—each one a cash. I’ve some braised meat too—chopped and stuffed inside, delicious! Just three cash each!”

“Then give me two buttered buns—one sweet, one savory.” Feng Xue, having walked over ten kilometers since morning, immediately pulled out three coins and handed them over, while silently pondering.

Though a small gesture, the vendor’s glance implied that literacy rates here were likely high.

“I exchanged roughly ten grams of gold beans for fifteen guan—fifteen thousand cash. Based on bun prices, gold is worth more than in modern times, but grain prices are grain prices. If it’s luxury goods, the premium is probably worse—but overall, the economy seems relatively stable.”

“Young master, one buttered bun is one cash! You’ve given too much.” As Feng Xue pondered, the bun vendor had already wrapped the buns and noticed the extra coins. He immediately spoke up. Feng Xue laughed:

“I’ve got a question—heard there’s a pharmacy run by an immortal family. Do you know how to get there?”

He chose this “immortal pharmacy” first for no special reason—simply because it was a pharmacy. Pharmacies and clinics are inseparable. Better to ask about his Zhe Shou condition here than to seek out the funeral woman or the tombkeeper Daoist.

“How could I take your money for such a small thing!” The bun vendor handed him the buns and one cash, then pointed:

“Walk straight down this road—you’ll see a little Western-style building selling foreign rouge. Very noticeable. Turn right at the rouge shop, and the second storefront is it. But Miss Lan dislikes people mentioning her family. If you’re just buying medicine, fine—but if… cough, you know what I mean!”

“Then give me another buttered bun, boss.” Seeing the vendor’s knowing look, Feng Xue didn’t bother correcting his assumptions. He took the two buns in hand but refused the coin. The vendor chuckled and wrapped another bun in oil paper, handing it over. Feng Xue ate as he walked.

Whether from eating two meals of compressed biscuits, or not, the simple buttered bun was unexpectedly crisp. The tiny bit of malt sugar inside couldn’t compare to modern sweeteners, yet it was strangely satisfying.

“The old man earlier, this bun vendor too—this county’s folkways really do seem honest! Though, perhaps it’s just because I don’t look like an ordinary commoner.”

Feng Xue glanced at his own parka. Though it meant nothing noble in his own eyes, to people of this era, it might well be worth more than the Western suit worn by that Qin young master.

As he walked and ate, Feng Xue’s expression grew peculiar.

He’d seen the little Western building—but “foreign rouge”?

“Well, well—perfume and foundation are called ‘foreign rouge’?” Looking at the wooden sign bearing six large characters: “Mei Lan Sha Foreign Rouge,” Feng Xue nearly groaned. But first—

“Mei Lan Sha? Is that the Mei Lansha who makes essential oils? Do they sell foundation now? Translation error? Or a subtle parallel-world coincidence?”

(End of Chapter)