Chapter 86: Shenwu Mountain Villa (Bonus chapter for Wuhuan Baoxiao, Grand Patron)

Though he ran, Liu Xiaolou didn’t go far—he stopped after a li and a half, hiding atop a small hill beside the path, eagerly waiting for the White Cloud Swordsman.

According to Yuan Ziqi, the Yun family’s three-month deadline hadn’t expired, so the White Cloud Swordsman wouldn’t quietly give up; though no other marriage invitations were found on him, he likely still had connections—such high families often knew marriage rumors others didn’t.

Having finally found this path to sneak back gifts, Liu Xiaolou wouldn’t easily abandon it; if he didn’t squeeze every last bit of wool, wouldn’t he waste the fortune he’d discovered? Just one more such opportunity would be enough to open the final acupoint of his Hand Jueyin Meridian!

After patiently waiting a while, the White Cloud Swordsman finally appeared on the mountain path, head bowed, lost in thought, looking lonely beneath the moonlight.

Don’t lose heart, Brother Yun—I believe in you! Keep going, your beauty awaits just ahead.

As Liu Xiaolou cheered the White Cloud Swordsman on, he trailed behind at a hundred zhang, walking like this all night. He noted the direction: southeast, though he didn’t know which noble household this was now.

After two days of travel, they gradually entered another range of mountains; Liu Xiaolou perked up, quickened his pace, and closed the distance slightly.

Ahead, a flat mountain terrace revealed a village, with wisps of cooking smoke and the sounds of chickens and dogs. The White Cloud Swordsman entered the village; Liu Xiaolou paused outside, studying it curiously.

This village was tiny—no more than a dozen households—where was the great family?

After waiting a long time outside, the White Cloud Swordsman emerged again; unlike before, he now carried a bundle on his shoulder.

Liu Xiaolou continued tailing him deeper into the mountains. After crossing one peak, they came upon a dilapidated, abandoned Daoist temple—its walls half-collapsed, overgrown with weeds, utterly desolate.

The White Cloud Swordsman entered the temple, slipped into one of the rooms; Liu Xiaolou dared not approach closely, circling far around until he found an ideal vantage point, then leapt onto the tree canopy and hid within, watching the White Cloud Swordsman’s every move.

The view from here was excellent, offering a commanding perspective—clearly visible. He saw the White Cloud Swordsman emerge from the crumbling room, light a fire by the door, take out cakes and dried meat from the bundle, skewer them on dry twigs, and slowly roast them over the flames.

Liu Xiaolou relaxed, slid down from the canopy, and prepared his own meal.

At night, the White Cloud Swordsman slept inside the ruined temple, beside a glowing bonfire; Liu Xiaolou stayed outside in the wild, shivering in the cold wind, too afraid to light a fire—truly suffering.

For several days straight, the White Cloud Swordsman didn’t move; Liu Xiaolou weighed his options, then finally left, heading to the small village beyond the mountains, spending one tael of silver to beg hot porridge and soup from a farming household, devouring it greedily.

As he ate, he asked the farmer if there were any immortal sects or great families nearby—and indeed received a clear answer: seven or eight li deeper into the mountains lay the famed Shenwu Mountain Villa.

According to the farmer, the immortals within the villa possessed heaven-shaking, earth-moving powers, each able to summon wind and rain—such rustic superstitions were obviously untrue, but at least confirmed he’d followed the right trail: the White Cloud Swordsman’s destination was surely Shenwu Mountain Villa.

As for whether Shenwu Mountain Villa was holding a marriage hunt, the farmer gave no clear answer—he likely had no access to such information; in fact, no one in the entire village had any knowledge of it.

So Liu Xiaolou returned to the ruined temple, using the time to push toward the Zhongchong acupoint while patiently waiting.

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This time he waited a long while—over ten days. Sleeping in the wild during winter, exposed to wind and rain, eating irregularly—this life was harsh, but Liu Xiaolou was born for hardship; he’d never known comfort, and enduring it posed no problem.

Until one noon, his last spirit stone depleted, turning to powder; he opened his eyes, peered through the gaps in the leaves at the ruined temple, and sensed something amiss.

His gaze swept past the collapsed walls, lingering between two rooms, then suddenly fixed on the bonfire—its flames, burning for half a month, had gone out.

Had the White Cloud Swordsman left?

He quickly scanned the surroundings but saw no trace of him; a wave of frustration surged—he’d been careless! Just as he prepared to investigate the temple, his peripheral vision caught a figure atop the northwest peak—clad in white, standing alone at the cliff’s edge.

Liu Xiaolou exhaled in relief and crept over. This time, the White Cloud Swordsman plunged deep into the mountains, arriving at a narrow gorge.

At the gorge’s entrance stood a stone stele, seamlessly fused with the surrounding rocks—only centuries of erosion could produce such smooth, jade-like luster.

The stele bore the inscription: “Shenwu Mountain Villa.”

Inside the gorge stretched a cluster of tiled roofs and overhanging eaves—hundreds of buildings large and small, climbing up the slope. At the peak stood a grand hall, beside which a hundred-chi waterfall cascaded down, yet no thunderous roar echoed—clearly, a silence array blocked the sound.

To install and maintain a silence array daily, the villa must expend at least dozens of spirit stones per year—this alone revealed its immense wealth.

Liu Xiaolou nodded in satisfaction, quickened his pace, caught up with the White Cloud Swordsman just as he entered the gorge, and laughed as he bowed: “What a coincidence, Brother Yun! We meet again—allow me to offer my respects!”

The White Cloud Swordsman stared at him coldly: “Liu, you truly are a persistent ghost.”

Liu Xiaolou grinned: “What nonsense! No fight, no friendship—we’ve clashed twice, our bond is unbreakable! Tonight we drink until we collapse! Come, come, let’s enter the villa first…”

He added softly: “At someone else’s gate, Brother Yun, save your words for later—making a scene won’t help anyone, right?”

The White Cloud Swordsman glared fiercely, then lowered his head and entered the gorge; Liu Xiaolou hurried after him, calling out: “Last time at Damushan, you lost your invitation—I vouched for you and got you inside. You didn’t even thank me, so why treat me like a stranger now?”

He was reminding the White Cloud Swordsman: I got you into the Li family’s Ximo Hall last time—if anyone blocks you now, won’t it be your turn to repay me?

His reminder was unnecessary—the gorge entrance had no guards; the two entered the villa without hindrance.

Liu Xiaolou didn’t care whether this was a clan-based estate or a master-disciple sect—he didn’t care at all; as long as he got his gift, he was satisfied. Understanding such things meant nothing to him.

At a large mansion within the villa, the White Cloud Swordsman finally met the steward, briefly stated his purpose, and was led to a guest courtyard.

Liu Xiaolou didn’t overstep—he gave the main house to the White Cloud Swordsman and moved into a side room, collapsing onto the soft bedding with a satisfied sigh, waiting for the banquet to begin.

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