Chapter 722: The Dao Fruit: The Storyteller Pleads with the Ancestor for the Initiation Scroll (56k, request

Outside the capital’s Dao district, beside the official road.

A low thatched roof leaned crookedly, bearing three characters: “Zui Xian Lou.”

Though this tavern consisted of only three thatched huts and a reed awning outside, it barely qualified as a tavern, let alone a wine house.

Yet due to its prime location, it became a resting spot for travelers and martial artists passing north and south.

This was no ordinary place—it was the most frequented crossroads of travelers and all manner of people.

Truly, a mix of dragons and fish.

The owner who dared run such a business was no ordinary man.

Added to that, the owner of Zui Xian Lou was a woman—and a strikingly beautiful one at that.

That day at noon!

The tavern was unusually lively. The storyteller slammed his wooden clapper, and the entire room fell silent.

“Let it be said that beyond the heavens, four golden crows hang side by side in the azure sky; the earth has eight directions, and through three thousand worlds flow countless primordial holy spirits, among whom those who claim to be founders and ancestors possess the power to pierce heaven and earth, altering past and future…”

“They exist at all times, in all universes, born before creation, friends with the cosmos and creation…”

“Swallowing rivers and seas is but child’s play; with a snap of the fingers they can blot out the sky. What they seek is but two characters: ‘Dao Guo.’ What is Dao Guo? One word: ‘Void.’”

“They ride heaven and earth as chariots, treat all living beings as chess pieces—one game lasts a million years; oceans turn to ash, great mountains become sunken mulberry trees beneath the sea.”

Dust floated in the sunlight leaking through the awning; patrons held rough porcelain wine bowls, utterly entranced.

A man sat with his mouth open, a crumb of bread stuck to his beard.

Several escort guards gripped their sword hilts, yet unconsciously loosened their grip.

Even Liu Sanniang, the owner behind the counter, paused her abacus and leaned against a wine jar, lost in thought.

Inside the tavern, all listened with rapt attention, their minds swirling with wild imaginings!

The storyteller wore a monkey mask, slender of frame, dressed in spotless white linen. His voice suggested a middle-aged man.

His tone was unhurried, balanced between softness and strength, carrying a peculiar rhythm that made his words unforgettable.

At his side crouched a golden-furred little monkey, its eyes darting nimbly. Each time the wooden clapper cracked “Pā,” the monkey dashed to each table, toppling a small brass basin to beg for coins.

The patrons of this tavern, those who could afford to stop here, were no heroes or warriors of note.

Even if they were, they had no wish to reveal their wealth.

“Go away, go away—my pockets are emptier than my face.”

Some pretended not to see.

Only at the door table did a noble young man speak up.

“Fine performance! Reward!”

Before his words ended, a silver ingot clinked into the brass basin, jolting the monkey backward.

The nobleman was barely twenty, fair-skinned, with a jeweled sword wrapped in gold thread at his waist, his eyes radiating arrogance.

The storyteller hurriedly bowed from the stage in thanks—but slipped on the floor and tumbled down from the three-foot-high platform.

Behind the counter, Liu Sanniang rolled her eyes—this penniless storyteller had arrived a month ago, starving, his belly pressed against his spine, circling the door for half an hour before daring to beg for a bowl of noodle soup.

Liu Sanniang had taken him and the monkey in out of pity.

Seeing them so pitiful that day, she thought to keep them as a storyteller—anything to draw customers. Who knew this penniless scholar actually had talent?

At first, no customers came. Then, slowly, business improved.

The martial travelers became obsessed; word spread, and Zui Xian Lou’s name traveled along the official road. Now, every day before noon, the place was packed with listeners.

One couldn’t just sit and listen for free—sooner or later, one had to order a plate of salted peanuts, two taels of braised beef, and a warmed pot of old liquor. Even Liu Sanniang, who didn’t care for stories, found herself drawn in by tales of “beyond the heavens” and “fairy paradises.”

She had assumed this man was a hidden master, but after several tests, she confirmed he knew no martial arts at all.

She was happily calculating today’s earnings when a thunderous snore erupted from the corner.

There lay a middle-aged man, unkempt and filthy, sprawled across a bench, drool nearly dripping onto his shirt.

Liu Sanniang’s eyebrows shot up—she kicked him hard.

“Ow!” The man jolted awake, still half-asleep, when she grabbed his ear.

“Sleep, sleep, sleep! Like a pig in a pen! Don’t you see we have guests?”

“Madam, forgive me! I’m going now!”

The man scrambled about, clutching his head.

Regular patrons were used to this. The filthy man was surnamed Li; everyone called him “Li the Lazy.” He was one of Zui Xian Lou’s hired hands.

He spent his days napping or slacking off, yet Liu Sanniang refused to replace him.

Some gossips claimed he was her kept lover.

Though ugly, he was “good in bed,” keeping the madam satisfied—hence her reluctance to let him go.

When this gossip reached Liu Sanniang, she didn’t anger—only smiled coyly behind the counter: “Just a tin spearhead—looks good, useless. If you want real action, you gentlemen are the ones who can handle it.” She deliberately swayed her supple waist.

Her words left the patrons dry-mouthed, yet none dared reply.

Who in the capital’s official road would dare run a tavern unless they were a master of diplomacy? Especially a woman running it alone.

At that moment, Li the Lazy shuffled out from the kitchen with a tray. His left leg limped, yet his steps were surprisingly steady.

The storyteller slammed his wooden clapper again.

“Pā—”

Someone suggested he tell a tale of present-day Bianjing, since so many were gathered.

They were tired of hearing about the four kingdoms—they wanted tales of the martial world.

“Let it be said that in Bianjing, the nine great clans…”

Before he could finish, a domineering voice cut in.

“How much for this monkey?”

“My young master wants it!”

The storyteller turned to see his loyal golden monkey.

It was tied to a table leg with a hemp rope, its neck constricted, squealing frantically as it leapt in place.

The nobleman who had just tossed the silver ingot lounged in his chair, calm and amused: “How much for this monkey?”

The storyteller panicked: “Master, this cannot be! It’s impossible! I cannot sell this monkey—it’s my life!”

His voice cracked into a sob, plaintive and feminine.

The nobleman laughed. “A feathered beast? What’s it worth? I’ll give you money!”

The storyteller descended the stage, already kneeling, pounding his head on the floor: “I beg you, Master, have mercy!”

The nobleman smirked, tapping his fingers lightly on the table: “Are you male or female? Take off your mask. Let this young master see your face.”

The storyteller trembled, his fingers instinctively brushing the edge of the mask—but hesitated.

All the martial travelers in the awning fell silent.

This nobleman was no ordinary man—his attendants radiated calm, deadly energy, clearly experts.

Worse still, outside the tavern, men in straw capes had silently surrounded the place, blades glinting in the snow.

—This was about to turn bloody!

The storyteller’s fingers trembled as he slowly reached for the monkey mask.

The nobleman suddenly sneered: “Boring. Get lost. Don’t tell me you’re some ugly monster scaring me.”

He lazily waved his hand, curious: “I wonder—do you even have balls?”

Behind him, a henchman grinned and stepped forward, seizing the storyteller’s collar like a chicken and hurling him to the ground.

“My master says: do you want to do it yourself, or shall I help you?”

The monkey, still tied to the table, shrieked in panic, struggling violently—the rope bit into its flesh, its throat gurgling with suffocation.

The nobleman frowned impatiently: “Just kill it.”

The henchman holding the rope grinned and yanked hard—

The storyteller was pinned to the ground by two henchmen—one twisted his arms behind his back, the other crushed his legs, immobilizing him.

A third thug grinned, reaching out to tear open his shirt—

“Wait—” A clear voice rang out.

All turned. Liu Sanniang stepped from behind the counter, her pale lilac wide-sleeved robe swaying with each step. Though simply dressed, her voluptuous figure could not be hidden.

She smiled sweetly: “Young Master, if my storyteller offended you, Liu Sanniang offers her apologies.”

Behind the kitchen curtain, a slight stir revealed several waiters gripping long blades, waiting for their mistress’s signal—though their presence paled beside the hundred swordsmen outside.

The nobleman smirked lewdly: “Easy. If San Niang will join me for a few drinks, this matter is settled.”

He deliberately lingered on “a few drinks,” and the entire tavern fell silent.

Seeing Liu Sanniang frown without speaking, the nobleman rose.

The crowd parted as he stepped forward, his gaze like hooks tracing her curves: “Hmm, they say a woman of thirty is a she-wolf… but today, this young master shall be the tiger-slayer.”

His men erupted in laughter.

Liu Sanniang’s smile bloomed like a flower; she swayed her waist and leaned into his arms: “Tiger-slaying is certainly fun.”

She breathed softly: “But with so many watching… won’t it spoil the mood, Young Master?”

The nobleman reached out and squeezed the fullest part of her backside hard.

Liu Sanniang’s body trembled slightly.

The nobleman smiled: “Good, good. Far better than those women in the brothels—passive, lifeless, utterly dull.”

He lifted her chin with his finger: “Too bad—I’m going to slay the tiger in public. Everyone loves a show!”

Liu Sanniang glanced up at Li the Lazy, who had just stepped out.

Yet he was cowering beneath the table, trembling uncontrollably, too terrified to even glance this way.

Her face betrayed disappointment.

The noble young master seemed to sense her gaze; with a mere gesture, a clever, towering servant behind him stepped forward and dragged Li Lanhàn out from under the table.

The noble young master chuckled, “Could this be San Niang’s lover?”

Li Lanhàn turned deathly pale, kneeling and begging for mercy.

Seeing this, the noble young master grew intrigued.

Observing the scene, he found even greater amusement. He ordered Li Lanhàn to kneel in the center of the hall, then sat upon his back, embracing Liu San Niang.

Li Lanhàn showed no hesitation, nodding obediently and doing exactly as told.

Liu San Niang’s eyes hardened; she unleashed her Third Realm Martial Arts cultivation, her soft palm striking straight for the noble young master’s chest.

At that moment!

A far more terrifying aura suddenly descended—like a needle flying through darkness—striking Liu San Niang’s wrist with pinpoint accuracy, draining her strength instantly, leaving her limbs limp.

“This…”

Liu San Niang felt a chilling true qi coil around her meridians like a venomous snake, her internal power forcibly sealed!

With all her strength, she twisted her head—her gaze fell upon an old man with a hooked nose seated at the table by the door, his finger retracting. A faint ripple stirred in the wine cup before him; the single drop of wine that had struck her moments ago had been flicked by him effortlessly—his mastery was plain to see!

Liu San Niang felt despair. To have cultivated true qi was already beyond the Third Realm of Martial Arts; in the capital’s underworld, she was like a dragon in water, unmatched.

The noble young master turned his head and whispered with a smirk, “San Niang, do you truly believe this coarse cloth hides the grace of the former top courtesan of Yulouchun?”

His fingertip traced her trembling neck. “The Young Prince of Great Sui died under mysterious circumstances—who could have guessed it was his own bedmate who pierced his throat with a golden hairpin?”

Liu San Niang’s pupils shrank sharply. Ten years of hiding her identity—even her closest servants didn’t know her origins—and now it was laid bare!

“Are you men of Great Sui?”

The noble young master laughed. “Of course. Great Qi is bound to fall. We’ve come along with Great Sui’s troops to see what valuables we might pick up, what bargains we might seize.”

“We had no wish to draw attention. But if one of our sect’s Elders recognized your voice and face, I might have missed this roadside romance—traveling has been dreadfully dull.”

“Today, I intend to taste what even a Young Prince never experienced.”

“I’m curious—how did you escape the encirclement of Great Qi?”

Only now did Liu San Niang realize: from the very beginning, this noble young master and his men had targeted her alone.

She had dragged the Storyteller and the tavern’s servants into this.

Just as the noble young master was about to speak, the hooked-nose elder suddenly cut in with a grave tone: “Young Master, time is running short. The Old Master’s carriage will soon reach Bianjing—we cannot delay.”

“What a bore,” the noble young master muttered, lips curling. “Then, San Niang, kindly join me in the carriage. We’ll catch up on old times—slowly, along the way. Let you see what I’m capable of.”

“Boom—”

The kitchen curtain exploded outward! Five or six servants charged out, swords in hand; the foremost roared: “Let go of the Boss Lady!”

The noble young master didn’t even lift his eyelids.

Gray shadows flashed—two burly servants stepped forward to meet them.

A flash of cold steel— the lead cook’s neck split open with a crimson line; his head flew high, blood splattering across the ledger on the counter.

Another servant was pierced clean through the chest; his blade protruded from his back, pinned to the counter, still twitching.

The stench of blood instantly filled the entire tavern.

Several martial artists had blood droplets splashed across their faces, yet they dared not move, gripping their swords so tightly their knuckles turned white.

Liu San Niang’s gaze pierced through the blood mist, falling upon Li Lanhàn—he was pale, trembling, cowering on the ground like a dead dog.

The light in her eyes extinguished completely.

She became a walking corpse.

The noble young master no longer cared for the Storyteller or Li Lanhàn—he half-carried, half-dragged Liu San Niang toward the door.

The Storyteller held the little monkey, untying its ropes.

One arm holding Liu San Niang, he walked toward the exit, his posture slightly hunched, as if in discomfort.

“Young Master, let this servant assist you,” a clever servant grinned, inching forward, his hand reaching for Liu San Niang’s slender waist—only to be kicked squarely in the chest by the noble young master: “Get lost!”

At the threshold, the noble young master suddenly halted, not turning back, he tossed out: “Clean up everyone inside.”

“Yes, Young Master!”

The sound of swords unsheathing rang in unison; all the martial artists in the hall turned ashen, eyes filled with terror.

At that moment!

A piercing whistle split the sky.

The noble young master and his men all looked up, drawn by the sound.

There, perched atop the tavern’s banner, was a snow-white falcon, its feathers shimmering with silver luster.

“This…” the hooked-nose elder stared at the soaring bird, eyes wide with surprise, frowning slightly: “It appears to be a Haidongqing of the Three Truths Sect!”

Legend says that when Prince Yan left two Haidongqing on Mount Zhongnan, the Three Truths Sect began using these divine birds as messengers across generations.

This snow-feathered, golden-eyed raptor normally circled only the peak of Mount Zhongnan—yet today it appeared in Jingshidao, ten thousand li away.

The hooked-nose elder’s gaze flickered. In Great Sui, the Three Truths Sect held exalted status, comparable to Great Qi’s Academies.

Even princes and generals would respectfully address a True Person bearing the talisman as “Daochang.”

Our “Cloak Gate” is but a second-tier sect, with only two experts of the upper Third Realm—how could we dare provoke such a force?

The swordsmen surrounding the tavern also recognized it.

Only the travelers who weren’t from Great Sui looked puzzled.

In the corner, Li Lanhàn, curled like mud, slowly lifted his head.

His cloudy, drunken eyes cleared slightly.

Around the Haidongqing’s neck hung a jade talisman of pale green; cloud patterns and thunder script on its surface glowed faintly, emitting a soft, luminous light.

From within came the voice of an old woman.

“Unworthy disciple, answering the Three Truths’ urgent matter, returns to the mountain gate. After death, my soul shall meet the Ancestors.”

The tavern’s patrons were confused.

The hooked-nose elder’s eyes sharpened—this was indeed tied to the Three Truths Sect.

This jade talisman was an artifact used by Primordial Spirit cultivators for “voice across a thousand li.”

What did “rejoining the Three Truths lineage” mean?

“Plop.”

A single tear struck the blue brick floor.

Crouched in the corner, Li Lanhàn slowly straightened his hunched back; his cloudy, drunken eyes now shone clear as twin swords reflecting starlight. He trembled as he gazed at the jade talisman, tears soaking his tangled beard.

“Still refusing the talisman?” the old woman’s voice in the jade turned sharp.

“Thud!”

Li Lanhàn slammed to his knees, his forehead striking the ground so hard it made the wine jars hum. His voice was hoarse.

“Disciple Li Qingniu begs the Ancestors—grant me the talisman!”

His cry rang like thunder on open ground—the tavern erupted:

“Li Qingniu?!”

“The Second Greatest Swordsman in the World, Li Qingdi?!”

The hooked-nose elder’s face turned ashen. This tavern’s lowly servant was one of the Ten Greatest Sects of the world!

Liu San Niang couldn’t believe it. She knew this man was extraordinary—otherwise he wouldn’t have escaped Great Qi—but this… this was Li Qingdi.

The next Heavenly Master of Great Sui’s Three Truths Sect, nearly guaranteed.

And it was he—this man—who had wasted ten years in obscurity.

The Haidongqing spread its wings and flew far away, its wings stirring the tavern banner into a fierce flutter.

The noble young master’s face turned ashen, yet he dared not move a muscle, his eyes locked on the slowly rising figure.

Li Lanhàn’s tangled beard fell away as if sliced by invisible sword qi, each strand drifting down. His cloudy eyes grew clear, like twin pools of cold water reflecting starlight.

More astonishing still—his matted hair stirred without wind, cascading like an ink waterfall down his shoulders, revealing the face long buried beneath dust: swordlike brows, eyes bright as stars—a strikingly handsome middle-aged man!

A sword intent surged from the heavens; the tavern trembled. From the kitchen flew a fire poker.

Ash peeled away in flakes, revealing a brilliant golden glow. When the black mud vanished, a three-foot-long green blade stood firmly in his hand.

On the blade’s surface were carved two characters: “Peach Blossom”—the sight chilled the entire hall.

He threw back his head and laughed—a clear, dragon-like cry: “Where is Li Qingdi in this world? I am Lu Qingniu of Mount Zhongnan!”

Before his words faded, the Peach Blossom Sword in his hand burst into radiant light.

He took one step forward—and his entire body merged with the swordlight, transforming into a radiant beam of light piercing straight to the heavens.

The tavern’s eaves trembled violently, tiles falling like rain.

All looked up—watching the swordlight chase the Haidongqing into the clouds, just as ancient texts described: “Riding the wind on a sword, ascending to immortality.”

Only now did the hooked-nose elder realize his back was soaked in cold sweat; he exhaled a trembling breath—such an ultimate figure among the Ten Greatest Sects would never deign to punish mere insects like them.

“Squeak—”

Suddenly, the monkey squealed happily. Turning, they saw the Storyteller had risen—his golden-threaded monkey on his shoulder, lively and alert, no trace of its earlier weakness.

The Storyteller, wearing the monkey-headed white mask, gently stroked the monkey, gazing at the fading swordlight in the sky, murmuring softly: “Sixty years to hone one sword. It seems Brother Lu has truly set his sights on becoming a Landbound Sword Immortal.”

Seeing this, the noble young master—who had just survived a brush with death—grew impatient, his eyes flashing with cold malice.

“Faking divine powers!”

“Kill him!”

The hooked-nose elder, staring at the masked man, suddenly realized—the “Storyteller” of the Ten Greatest Sects was also known for playing the world through storytelling.

The storyteller chuckled, “Aren’t you all dead men?”

The hawk-nosed elder froze.

Suddenly, a rain of swords descended from the sky.

The noble young master and the others—over a hundred in total—all died.

Liu Sanniang stood stunned in a pool of blood, her black hair streaked with crimson dots, gazing up at the endless blades of light, entranced.

When he came to his senses, the man and the monkey were gone.

Only one phrase remained.

“To speak of heroes, to praise heroes—none compare to this sudden ascension!”

PS: A bit rushed—need to revise the sentence!

(End of Chapter)