Chapter 15: The Peddler

Seeing Li Banfeng’s body stiffen, the cart driver stepped back two paces.

Li Banfeng felt his breathing grow painfully labored; before he could fathom what was wrong with his body, two figures emerged from a nearby alley.

Both wore shirts with vests and forward caps, their brims pulled low.

Seeing they were headed straight for Li Banfeng, the driver startled, grabbed the cart, and moved to leave.

Who are these two?

Li Banfeng didn’t recognize them.

Are they after me?

Indeed, they’re after him.

These were Xiao Zheng’s men, trailing Li Banfeng since he left the station.

Their mission: kill Li Banfeng and take the copper lotus on his person.

Li Banfeng wanted to reach for the spicy strip in his pocket, but his hand wouldn’t move.

One of the forward caps drew a dagger from his sleeve; the other man scowled around, warning bystanders to stay out of it.

No resistance, no defense, no escape—Li Banfeng couldn’t so much as twitch.

In all his life, Li Banfeng had never felt so utterly hopeless.

As the two drew nearer, a voice suddenly spoke beside him:

“Take the child to get something to eat, then wait for me at the clinic.”

The tall, thin man, nearly two meters high, settled his wife on another rickshaw, then approached Li Banfeng, one hand in his pocket, the other steadying him.

Seeing the tall man, the two forward caps hesitated; they didn’t know his strength or his background.

One forward cap stepped forward and spoke: “Bingjianzi, hua naitiao, pengma baobao ying tou!”

Li Banfeng froze—what language was that?

It wasn’t a foreign tongue—it was underworld slang.

The forward cap meant: Friend, which path do you walk? State your origin.

Monkey Qiu understood, but ignored them completely.

The other forward cap, seeing no response, issued a threat: “Friend on the road, we’re from the Jiangxiang Gang—

You’ve heard our banner, you know our rules—we’re taking this scoop. If the blade cuts blindly, step wide.”

Friend, this man is ours to kill. Weapons don’t recognize faces—don’t meddle.

The tall man frowned, glancing at the two forward caps.

Instantly, both felt their hearts throb—pulse slowing, beats deepening.

Thump! Thump! Their hearts felt ready to shatter.

One forward cap whispered low: “This is a Huan Xiu! His level isn’t low!”

“Pull back!” The other forward cap realized the danger and prepared to retreat.

The tall man’s power was beyond their reach—without hesitation, they turned and fled, vanishing in an instant.

The tall man didn’t pursue. He held Li Banfeng and asked the driver: “Is your cart fast?”

“Not very,” the driver replied, avoiding Li Banfeng’s gaze—he didn’t want to haul him.

One touched by Heaven’s light is bound for disaster, and now he’s entangled with underworld types—who’d risk association?

“Does it have a firewheel?” the tall man asked.

The driver shook his head: “If I had a firewheel, would I be hauling carts for a few coins?”

“Is there one with a firewheel near the station?” The man pulled out a ten-yuan note and handed it to the driver.

The driver took the bill, smiling: “Yes, sir—I’ll take you there.”

No work, free ten yuan—he was happy to take it.

The driver led ahead; the tall man kept one hand in his pocket, the other carrying Li Banfeng, following through an alley.

At the alley’s mouth, a short, stocky driver squatted, smoking.

The smoke was harsh—he’d rolled his own dry tobacco.

“Sir, this is the one with the firewheel,” the first driver said, then hurried off.

The tall man approached the stocky driver: “What’s the condition of your firewheel?”

The driver looked up: “I’m a cart-puller—what condition could it possibly have? Just ground-level, obviously!”

The tall man nodded: “Do you know where the Hualang is?”

The driver licked his lips: “I saw him this morning. The road’s far—I don’t know if he’s still there.”

“Distance doesn’t matter—name your price.”

The driver held up five fingers: “Five hundred, Huan currency—no haggling.”

The tall man placed Li Banfeng on the cart, reached into his coat, pulled out five hundred-yuan Huan notes, and handed them over.

The driver noticed the tall man used only one hand to pull the money, and glanced at his other hand, still tucked in his pant pocket—he found it odd, but asked nothing.

After counting the bills and confirming none were missing, the driver crushed his cigarette, lifted his left wrist upward to support the left shaft, and pressed his right wrist downward onto the right shaft.

Li Banfeng thought the driver’s grip on the handles looked strange—one hand up, one down—why did it feel so awkward?

He didn’t understand—it was the Yin-Yang grip, the standard stance for pulling rickshaws.

In movies, rickshaw drivers always lifted both handles upward; if their grip slipped, passengers would rock forward and back, even fall off.

If a driver pulled that way, he’d risk not getting paid—or worse, a beating.

The Yin-Yang grip—one up, one down—let the driver lift the cart steadily, then shout: “Go!”

Before the word ended, the driver had already pulled the cart out of the alley.

Li Banfeng remained conscious; wind howled past his ears, buildings and trees blurred backward.

Perhaps because the alley was narrow and the buildings close, Li Banfeng’s vision distorted.

What speed was this?

The driver was pulling the rickshaw like a car.

Monkey Qiu also sensed something unusual: “Your skill—this isn’t Level One cultivation.”

The driver laughed: “You pay, I pull—this isn’t marriage. Why ask so much?

Let’s be clear: this man beside you is a White Lamb touched by Heaven’s light.

I’ll just deliver you to your destination—whether he lives or dies, it’s none of my business!”

“Don’t worry—he won’t die,” the tall man said. “This young man’s lucky—he’d never have met the Hualang if not for the train’s three-day delay. He caught it just in time.”

The driver blinked: “Really? That lucky? Did he bump into a Fortune Star?”

Li Banfeng couldn’t move his neck—he couldn’t see the driver’s legs.

He could only watch the scenery from a fixed angle.

The town’s architecture was strange: brick and stone interlaced, neat and clean, no sign of decay—but carrying a deep, haunting sense of age.

Not ancient age—elegant age. Wide courtyards between walls, grand beams and upturned eaves, steeped in old-world charm.

Yet carvings and portholes on the walls carried Western touches.

Especially the two- or three-story houses along the lanes—with protruding balconies and verandas, arched windows and doors, roses and ivy climbing the walls—Li Banfeng felt as if he’d stepped into a peculiar era, one caught in history’s crack.

What era it was, Li Banfeng had no time to ponder—his labored heartbeat and stifled breath warned him of mortal threat.

Listening to the tall man and driver chat, they raced from town to countryside, then stopped in a wasteland. The driver wiped sweat.

“He’s lucky—the Hualang hasn’t left!” the driver gasped, glancing back at the tall man and Li Banfeng.

The tall man set Li Banfeng down and saw, beneath a willow tree, a handcart holding a two-tier wooden cabinet, with a red lantern stuck atop.

Beside it squatted a man—a thirty-something fellow, napping under the tree.

The driver called out: “Hey! Still doing business?”

The man lifted his eyes, stretched, then pulled out a rattle and began shaking it:

Ding ling guang dang! Ding ling guang dang!

“Foreign soap, snow cream,

Silk scarves, handkerchiefs, needle-and-thread kits,

Leather buckets, iron water pails,

Matches, candles, iron shovels!

Pickled vegetable jars, soy sauce flasks,

Rice spoons, water ladles, cleavers!

A cart of fine goods, time-tested brand,

Everything priced fair—pick what you like!”

Hualang?

This was the Hualang?

The Hualang yawned at Monkey Qiu: “Monkey Qiu, what’ll you buy?”

The tall man was Monkey Qiu—the Hualang knew him.

Monkey Qiu said: “A White Lamb touched by Heaven’s light.”

The Hualang pulled out a key and opened the cabinet’s top drawer: “A White Lamb touched by Heaven’s light must enter the Dao—or die.

How’ll you pay? Huan currency or silver?”

Monkey Qiu: “Huan currency.”

The Hualang opened a drawer beneath the cabinet: “I’ve five powders left: Geng Xiu at thirty thousand, Huan Xiu at fifty thousand, Shi Xiu at sixty thousand, Lv Xiu at eighty thousand, Zhai Xiu at one hundred sixty thousand. He can’t speak—does he choose himself, or do you pick for him?”

PS: Thank you, Snow Mountain Far Peak.

Dear readers, have you ever used snow cream?

Which Dao sect do you prefer?

(End of chapter)