Chapter 79: Chapter Seventy-Eight: The White Cloud Swordman and the Blue Robe Scholar

Zheng Laolao returned to the house to rest, leaving Liu Xiaolou standing alone in the courtyard, utterly baffled—this trip was only fifty li, by cart, no effort at all; after giving the gratuity, wasn’t that enough? Why host a banquet?

“Esteemed steward, perhaps we can skip the banquet?” Liu Xiaolou said to the steward.

The old woman steward forced a smile and replied, “Laolao instructed us—please don’t refuse the guest.” Her face was thick with fat; even the slightest squeeze made her cheeks ripple like waves, leaving Liu Xiaolou startled.

Intimidated by the trembling fat, Liu Xiaolou could only bow his head in assent and followed a maid through the moon gate, past two covered walkways, to a side courtyard. The courtyard held only three rooms: the main room to the north was slightly larger, while the east and west wing rooms were smaller—but not by much. There was no woodshed or kitchen; a jujube tree stood in the center, clearly meant for hosting guests.

The Zheng family’s Hongluo Mountain Villa was vast, and there were countless such guest courtyards; seeing no one in the yard, Liu Xiaolou took the main northern room.

The maid brought hot water for washing, made up the bed, then took her leave. Liu Xiaolou probed gently for information about Hongluo Mountain Villa, but the maid kept her lips tightly shut, smiling faintly without answering. Only when pressed did she utter one sentence: “This maid is of lowly status; I know nothing of what the guest asks.”

The dinner prepared by Hongluo Mountain Villa was exquisite, including a dish of giant snail slices. After eating them, saliva flooded his mouth and a faint, elusive thread of spiritual power stirred in his abdomen—truly a pleasant surprise. Finishing one plate felt like consuming three bowls of spirit rice; their spiritual energy was nearly equal.

When the maid came to clear the dishes, she did not avoid mentioning the dish’s origin: “These are our Hongluo Mountain Villa’s specialty—Bailu Fushou Snails, grown only in Bailu Lake, difficult to harvest. We prepare them to honor our esteemed guests.”

After dinner, night was deep. Liu Xiaolou wandered the courtyard, standing beneath the jujube tree, gazing up at the moon through its mottled branches. The wind was cold, the moon colder, yet his heart burned with warmth.

After eating the Bailu Fushou Snails, he gained deeper insight into the Zheng family’s strength. Any cultivation clan with such output—whether Eyang Mountain Villa or Jinping Mountain Villa—was a vital vassal to major sects, holding high status and ample wealth.

Judging by Laolao Zheng’s actions—offering lodging, hosting a banquet, serving spirit snails today—was she trying to recruit me as a patron? If so, I should accept without hesitation; no need for false modesty. But my cultivation is slightly lacking—I’m barely qualified to be a patron. Still, nothing is absolute. What if the Zheng family’s own cultivation is weak? Didn’t Laolao Zheng herself say her sons were all mediocre?

Even if I can’t become a patron, securing a stewardship would still be acceptable. I’ve inquired about the Zang family’s Eyang Mountain Villa: their stewards receive monthly rice stipends, worth six spirit stones annually. Not much, but stable income, no need to risk life and limb—quite a promising path. Surely Hongluo Mountain Villa won’t be worse.

If this happens, it’s far better than merely receiving a gratuity! The only concern: Laolao Zheng doesn’t mind my Wulong Mountain origins—but what about the rest of the Zheng family?

With this thought in mind, Liu Xiaolou’s emotions stirred. Just as he wavered between hope and doubt, the maid reappeared at the moon gate, followed by two young men.

By moonlight, one was elegant and otherworldly, clad in white as pure as snow, floating like a spirit; the other was refined and graceful, dressed in dark blue robes, effortlessly charming—two distinguished young gentlemen.

Are these two Zheng family disciples? Come specially to thank Master Dao?

Why such effort!

The maid led them into the courtyard, curtsied to Liu Xiaolou, and said briefly: “Liu Immortal Master, this is the White Cloud Swordman, and this is the Blue Robe Scholar. May the three Immortal Masters grow close.”

Liu Xiaolou froze. So they weren’t Zheng family disciples—were they also recruits as patrons? He bowed in greeting, but both men merely snorted through their nostrils, ignoring him entirely, instead inspecting the three rooms.

The maid whispered gently: “Liu Immortal Master arrived first and has taken the main room. The two of you may take the east and west rooms. It’s late—rest well, this maid takes her leave.”

With that, she exited the courtyard.

The two men turned their gazes toward Liu Xiaolou. He still held his hands clasped in greeting, but seeing their demeanor, he slowly lowered his arms, letting the jade pendant slip from his sleeve into his palm.

He didn’t know their cultivation levels—could his illusion array trap them? But this wasn’t a place for mortal combat; the Li Di San Yuan Rope was too risky to reveal, and the Mili Xiangjin had been exhausted in the battle against Hou Sheng. His only weapon was the Three Xuan Sword. Facing two at once, it would be dangerous.

He lowered his gaze, watching their shoulders and wrists, ready to activate the Lin Yuan Xuan Stone Array at any moment.

Suddenly, the Blue Robe Scholar asked: “Liu Immortal Master? May I ask your homeland and sect?”

Liu Xiaolou never felt shame for his origins and answered calmly: “I come from Wulong Mountain in Xiangxi, Sanxuan Sect.”

The White Cloud Swordman immediately frowned: “How could Hongluo Mountain Villa recruit a wild cultivator from Wulong Mountain?”

The Blue Robe Scholar swept his sleeve in displeasure: “Truly shameful to be grouped with such a one! The main room is off-limits. East and west rooms—let us settle who is stronger by cultivation level, and the victor chooses!”

The White Cloud Swordman nodded in agreement: “Exactly!”

They turned their gazes away from Liu Xiaolou and locked eyes, sparks flying between them.

Liu Xiaolou was speechless. But after over a decade of cultivation, he’d been scorned countless times—he’d long grown accustomed to it, neither angry nor furious. If Wulong Mountain cultivators let such things provoke them, they’d have died of rage long ago.

He was instead eager to witness the coming duel, curious to see the skill level of Xiangdong cultivators. He stepped aside, ready to observe.

The White Cloud Swordman slowly drew his long sword, flicked his finger, and released a rainbow-like sword beam. He addressed the Blue Robe Scholar: “This is the White Cloud Sword—its beam can extend three feet. My Qi Refining has reached the sixth level. May I ask your level? Are you worthy to test my blade?”

The Blue Robe Scholar flipped his wrist, revealing a large iron fan that opened and closed with a rustling sound, lightning crackling faintly between its ribs.

This too was a form of “sword beam”!

“This is the Wind and Thunder Eight-Fold Fan—within it lie eight pillars of thunder and lightning. I, too, am at the sixth level of Qi Refining.”

Watching from the side, Liu Xiaolou grew excited. Their magic treasures were extraordinary—likely scions of renowned families, both two levels above him. This duel promised to be spectacular!

For a long while, both men stood motionless, staring at each other, building up their momentum.

Liu Xiaolou knew they were gathering strength—the greater the buildup, the fiercer the clash. His anticipation deepened.

Suddenly, the White Cloud Swordman asked: “Which meridian are you currently breaking through?”

The Blue Robe Scholar replied: “The Hand Jueyin Meridian. I’ve already pierced Jian Shi and am now pushing through Nei Guan.”

Hearing this, the White Cloud Swordman’s face darkened. He sighed deeply, sheathed his White Cloud Sword, and bowed deeply: “I’ve just unlocked Xi Men. I’m one step behind you. I yield!”

The Blue Robe Scholar smiled, fanning himself: “Your magnanimity and grace are admirable. Then I shall not be modest—I accept your courtesy.”

With that, he snapped his iron fan shut and strode straight into the east room.

The White Cloud Swordman, filled with melancholy, turned and entered the west room. As he closed the door, he sighed softly: “Beyond the mountains lie greater mountains—we must strive harder.”

The courtyard fell silent, leaving Liu Xiaolou standing bewildered, looking left and right, utterly confused.

That’s it?