Chapter 381

Half a quarter-hour later, Chen Guanlou returned silently to the forest; the elder was gone, and so was the thousand-ounce silver note.

Chen Guanlou smirked smugly.

Said he wasn't short on cash.

Hah!

Yet he still took the money.

He'd guessed right—out on the road, everyone was after a few silver coins. Life boiled down to one word: money. With money, ninety-nine percent of problems could be solved.

Martial artists needed money even more. Training, toughening the sinews and bones, required medicinal herbs. The higher the martial rank, the better the herbs needed, and the more expensive and rare they became.

Chen Guanlou didn't need herbs for his training, though he occasionally soaked in medicinal baths. He had the Immortal Dao Fruit, which instantly healed any hidden injuries from cultivation, restoring him to peak condition.

Other martial artists had no such advantage—they had to rely on pills and medicinal baths, spending exorbitant sums on herbs to repair hidden bodily damage and maintain peak condition to break through to higher levels.

Taking his money meant tacitly agreeing not to interfere in this case, not to sneak out at night and slip them drugged smoke.

To hell with Ning Zecheng's two dan.

Five people: three dead, one gone, and the last one had fled long ago—right when he and the elder clapped their hands, the coward had already run for his life.

When he returned to the posthouse, the main hall was half-burned; the fire was nearly under control.

Everyone was awake; no one was hurt.

Fortunately, the courtyards where they stayed were some distance from the main hall. When the fire broke out—more precisely, when he and the elder clapped and made a loud commotion—the stronger men had woken first. That's what prevented them from inhaling both the drugged smoke and the fire fumes, which would've sent them straight to the Yellow Springs.

Thank heaven and earth!

The posthouse runners looked gloomy; the postmaster smoked his pipe, face etched with worry. Such heavy losses—he had no idea how to explain it to his superiors, how much money would be deducted, how long repairs would take, or how long the posthouse would have to shut down.

Chen Guanlou knew the posthouse couldn't compare to the Tianlao's profits. Most of the time, it relied on funding from the Ministry of War, offering free lodging to traveling officials. Officials never understood the posthouse's hardships—its expenses ballooned far beyond the official limit. The excess? The runners dared not ask passing officials for money, so they bore the cost themselves. Occasionally they hosted wealthy travelers, but it was never enough to cover the deficits.

Now the building was burned—another massive loss.

Chen Guanlou walked up to the postmaster, slapped his shoulder. "Big loss?"

The postmaster turned and saw him. "Ah, it's Officer Chen. I didn't see you earlier—I was worried you'd been hurt. Good you're safe, good you're safe. Luckily we spotted it early; the fire's contained, losses are limited."

Chen Guanlou glanced at the collapsed buildings; he estimated a few dozen ounces would fix them.

He remembered another matter. "Have you checked? Any casualties inside?"

"None, none—everyone's safe. Thank heaven and earth." That was the only thing worth celebrating tonight.

Chen Guanlou raised an eyebrow. Had the three corpses been taken away? By whom? By the elder? Or by the one who fled?

"Don't worry too much. After darkness comes light—you'll get lucky."

The postmaster gave a bitter laugh, waved his hand, and thanked him. He didn't dare compare himself to Tianlao jailers. Both were runners, but their incomes were worlds apart, their suffering utterly different.

Truth be told, posthouse runners were slaves—horses and oxen serving passing officials. If they met reasonable officials, fine. But if they met hot-tempered ones? Pure torment.

Tianlao runners, by contrast, were practically living in luxury—higher pay, open extortion, no fear of being reported. Their superiors turned a blind eye. Even convicted officials had to curry favor with the jailers.

A man's greatest regret is choosing the wrong trade.

But too late now—he was stuck in the posthouse trade, and his descendants would be too.

Chen Guanlou gathered the jailers and counted heads.

Seeing him, they felt like they'd found their anchor.

"Thank heaven and earth, my lord is safe."

"I told you all along he'd be fine—you just panicked."

"When the fire broke out, your room was empty—we were terrified."

"Where were you, my lord?"

They all spoke at once, voicing their concern.

Chen Guanlou silenced them with a few words, calming their nerves. "Have you checked the goods and prisoners? Any problems? Any missing?"

"Relax, my lord—we've counted everything. Nothing's missing, no one's gone."

"Those prisoners were well-behaved—when chaos broke out, they stayed put in their cells, didn't try to escape."

"Where could they run? No village ahead, no town behind."

"Good of them to be sensible."

"Somebody got up in the middle of the night, accidentally set the building on fire. And didn't even shout a warning. My lord, should we investigate?"

Chen Guanlou snorted. "Investigate what? Among us, I'm the lowest rank. Those officials didn't ask—why should you? Tomorrow the sky clears, the road dries, we leave. Don't stir up trouble."

"Yes, my lord."

"Those officials' womenfolk? Real beauties."

"Where are your eyes wandering? Never seen a woman before? Keep your gaze in check. Don't cause trouble. I don't want to deal with those officials."

They weren't the same crowd—just happened to stay at the same posthouse. Those officials looked down their noses; when they learned the jailers were from Tianlao, their disgust was plain. Chen Guanlou kept his distance, each side on their own path.

"My lord, we're just looking—no trouble at all."

"Even looking's forbidden. They're officials' families—how dare you dream of them? Crush those filthy thoughts. You're representing Tianlao's face out here. I won't have Tianlao jailers known for greed *and* lechery. Understood?"

"Understood!"

"You're not short on cash. If you're restless, go spend it on whores."

"Heh, my lord's got experience."

"My lord, recommend one for us."

"Recommend a good value."

"Shut your filthy mouth. I don't lack money—why settle for good value? The pricier, the better. The more expensive, the more satisfying." Chen Guanlou laughed and scolded.

The jailers cheered, the mood lively—shedding their earlier gloom, their spirits revived.

Women were men's spiritual opium. Talk of them, and no one felt tired or sleepy anymore—everyone had energy.

Chen Guanlou personally inspected the prisoners, wondering: could one of them be Ning Zecheng?

He could disguise himself—others could too.

But he didn't ask.

He had no intention of pursuing this man or this matter further, no desire to sink deeper. He knew what had happened—that was enough.