Chapter 43: The Old House in the Deep Mountains

Li Banfeng knocked on the door, and a man opened it—thirty-five or six years old, short but sturdy, wearing a vest and long pants, every piece of clothing patched over patch.

His face was dark, his eyebrows thick and long, his lips broad, his whole expression radiating simplicity and honesty.

Fatty had once told Li Banfeng that in Yaowang Gou, once you left the inner ravine, restaurants became extremely rare; if you grew hungry on the road, you could ask at a stranger’s home for a meal—three or five yuan would cover it, and most families wouldn’t refuse.

Li Banfeng explained his purpose, and the man warmly invited him inside.

The male host wore plain clothes, but the courtyard was large—just the front yard measured nearly the size of a basketball court.

Three tiled houses and a storage shed stood in the yard; the buildings were old but meticulously clean.

The reason it was called the front yard was evident from the walls and layout—there must be another sizable back courtyard.

As a Zhai Xiu, seeing such a spacious, tidy homestead, Li Banfeng genuinely felt a pang of envy.

“We’ve got a little rice left, no dishes—make do with it,” the man lit an oil lamp in the yard, and a woman brought out a bowl of rice and a small dish of pickled cucumbers.

The woman wore a bias-cut cloth blouse, also covered in patches; judging by her age, she was likely the man’s wife—Li Banfeng didn’t stare, nor should he have.

After setting out the chopsticks and bowls, the woman hurried back inside.

Li Banfeng pulled out thirty yuan and pressed it into the man’s hand; the man waved it off repeatedly: “Too much, really.”

Li Banfeng waved back: “Take it. I’m sorry to disturb you so late.”

The rice was coarse, full of husks—Li Banfeng didn’t care; he was truly hungry, and devoured the rice with the pickled cucumbers.

The man clutched the bills, his expression filled with shame, as if he owed Li Banfeng something.

He slipped quietly back inside, and soon an elderly woman with white hair emerged.

She carried a jar of liquor and approached Li Banfeng with a smile: “Young man, try our home-brewed sorghum wine.”

Li Banfeng shook his head: “Old lady, I don’t drink.”

It wasn’t politeness—he simply couldn’t stomach the local liquor.

For such a poor family, a jar of wine was precious; if the old woman had gone to such trouble, and he disliked it, he shouldn’t waste their kindness.

Yet she insisted on pouring him a bowl: “Young man, just drink one bowl—it’s not fine wine, don’t scorn it. My son took your money, and he feels terrible.”

Since the old woman had poured it herself, Li Banfeng couldn’t refuse further; he picked up the bowl and took a sip.

To his surprise, the wine was fragrant and smooth—better than the liquor at the baozi shop.

He finished the bowl of rice, the pickled cucumbers, and the wine—then let out a contented burp.

The old woman smiled: “Young man, found a place to stay? If not, you can sleep here.”

“I’ve found lodging—I’ll be going now. Thank you for the meal.”

Eat and leave quickly—Li Banfeng was being hunted by the Jiang Xiang Gang; he couldn’t drag this honest family into danger.

As he rose, he suddenly felt dizzy, his vision swimming—the figures of mother and son swayed before his eyes.

Drunk?

No!

Poisoned!

The old woman smiled sweetly at Li Banfeng: “Young man, don’t wander off—you’d better stay.”

What’s going on?

Li Banfeng turned to run for the door—only to find the man’s wife standing in front of it.

The woman raised her head and punched Li Banfeng squarely under the chin.

He tried to dodge, but his body wouldn’t obey—he took the full blow.

This woman had incredible strength!

Li Banfeng staggered back two steps and fell to the ground.

He studied the woman’s face closely.

In the candlelight, he saw clearly now—a dark, stubbly beard around her lips.

It was a man.

This was a black shop!

Impossible—I felt no danger just now!

Li Banfeng pressed his forehead, rubbed his eyes, wiped the blood from his mouth and nose, collapsed on the ground, and slowly closed his eyes.

His eyes shut, but he didn’t lose consciousness—he remained fully aware, hearing every word spoken around him.

The seemingly simple-minded eldest son looked at the old woman: “Mom, do we really need to waste a whole jar of good wine on this white lamb? The pickled cucumbers alone would’ve done.”

So the pickled cucumbers were poisoned too!

Li Banfeng seethed inside—he’d survived the Misty Mountains, only to be betrayed in this filthy alley!

Strange—I can sense malice. At the station, I sensed Chu Yunlong’s intent. Why didn’t I sense any malice from this family during dinner?

Could their cultivation levels be unusually high?

If so, why use such lowly tricks?

The old woman chuckled: “Foolish boy, look closer—this isn’t a white lamb. His gait is odd—he’s a Lu Xiu, and a high-level one at that.”

“Lu Xiu?” The eldest son scratched his head. “Never heard of that.”

The old woman said: “Never heard of it? Then learn today. Lu Xiu walk fast—they can summon wind on flat ground, proving they’ve reached a level.

But he’s only just reached it—he hasn’t mastered control yet. If we hadn’t poisoned him with wine, he’d vanish in a blink.

And Lu Xiu know danger—if I hadn’t acted first, he’d have sensed our malice the moment he stepped through the door.”

“Xingzan” was underworld slang for a victim realizing he’d been tricked.

So the old woman had acted first—preventing me from sensing their malice.

What level was this old woman?

What kind of ability had she used?

The eldest son, pleased, said: “Mom, my wine’s getting better and better!”

The old woman snorted: “You reached Level One two years ago. It’s been a year and a half—can’t even knock down someone of equal level? What face do you have eating this food?”

From her words, Li Banfeng deduced the man was a Poison Xiu, his cultivation level matching his own—both Level One.

Li Banfeng tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were too heavy—he tried several times, failed.

The second son, disguised as a woman, said: “Mom, since he’s not a white lamb, why not just take his head while he’s down?”

The second son had never seen a Lu Xiu, but he believed a cultivator was better dead.

Hearing this, Li Banfeng’s heart tightened.

In his current state, his options for resistance were few.

But even with few options, he had to fight—he wouldn’t die here!

The old woman poked Li Banfeng with her cane; seeing no reaction, she ordered her sons: “Strip him clean, lock his limbs, take him to the captive room. Wait until Zi Shi to act.”

The second son didn’t understand: “Mom, why wait until Zi Shi?”

Yes—why wait until Zi Shi? Li Banfeng didn’t understand either; he’d already prepared for a final, desperate struggle.

Do they plan to strike when I’m relaxed?

That’s her mistake—I’ll never relax.

“Wait until Zi Shi, and wait you will! First, strip him clean!” the old woman snapped. The two sons searched Li Banfeng, taking his sickle, shovel, and wallet—even the spicy strips hidden in his inner lining were seized.

But they missed one thing.

When Li Banfeng wiped his mouth and nose, he’d slipped the key into his mouth.

He’d intended to immediately open his Personal Dwelling and escape—but under their watchful eyes, he had no confidence he could hide the key, let alone turn it smoothly.

The old woman didn’t want to kill Li Banfeng yet.

Why wait until Zi Shi?

Why, even now, could he still not sense any danger here?

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(End of Chapter)