Chapter 21: Someone Gifted Wine and Food

In the ancient city’s old alley, an old man sat hunched against the wall, while a young scholar stood bent over.

A murky gaze met a clear one.

“Can this be fixed?”

“The roof can be repaired—renew it with bamboo. The cloth inside is torn too; it’ll need stitching.”

“Good, it can be fixed.”

“It’ll cost two things!”

The old man was jet-black-skinned, his face deeply lined, watching Lin Jue with concern—as if grieving for him, or fearing he’d refuse.

“How much?”

Lin Jue grew worried too.

“Three cash to stitch the cloth, five cash to repair the book satchel.” The old man gestured with his fingers as he spoke.

“Eight cash…”

Lin Jue was momentarily stunned.

Hearing the old man’s earlier words and seeing his expression, Lin Jue had expected to pay a fortune—or be gouged. Yet here in Danxun County, just like in Shu Village, the old man’s worry, his labor, his meager earnings—all boiled down to eight cash.

“Thank you, old man.”

Lin Jue paid first, arranged a time and place to collect it, then left.

After walking far with his book satchel on his back, walking empty-handed through the city felt weightless—his shoulders unburdened, wonderfully light.

With leisure in his steps, his eyes wandered more.

But mostly he wanted to buy a knife.

The world had grown chaotic these past years—men, demons, ghosts all ran wild; merchants dared not travel without weapons. A small knife simply wasn’t enough.

Besides, demons and ghosts here weren’t all born with the power to kill like slaughtering chickens—most were still flesh and blood. So a steel weapon could guard against men as well as monsters. Even against ghosts, more elusive and insubstantial, holding a stronger weapon bolstered one’s courage and vital energy, making one less vulnerable to their influence.

Lin Jue had heard tales of martial artists slaying ghosts at night, their swords frost-covered for three years—how much truth was in that, he couldn’t say.

In any case, he needed a knife.

His first choice: the pao dao.

As the saying goes, an inch longer, an inch stronger. Even elite soldiers claim their single knife can break spears and halberds, yet when they go to battle, all carry spears and halberds—not knives.

The masters do this, and so do the weak.

The pao dao is also cheaper, more practical, and more discreet.

Lin Jue wandered a while and soon bought one.

Because the pao dao was everywhere.

It was a composite weapon:

A chopping knife;

A whistle staff.

Normally kept separate, each could be used alone. The chopping knife could be carried inside the book satchel, while the whistle staff served as a walking cane. Use the knife when needed, use the staff when needed.

In danger, the two could be joined.

It arose from the imperial government’s strict ban on long weapons:

The court forbade commoners from carrying long spears or broadswords—even long staves had to be drilled at the tip to whistle when swung, called whistle staffs. Undrilled staves were called muffled staves—the “muffled strike” came from this. Such staves were banned. Yet martial artists needed self-defense and combat tools, so they combined the common chopping knife—whose handle was hollow—with a whistle staff. The knife’s handle fit the staff’s end perfectly; the staff’s hole sealed, the whistle silenced, the blade lengthened. Two benefits in one.

The pao dao was born.

It was extremely practical for Lin Jue.

He now had a cane and a chopping knife. If he later journeyed to the treacherous Yishan, the knife would be far better than a sword or dagger for clearing branches and thorns.

A scholar carrying a book satchel and a wooden cane was harmonious enough.

Thus leaning on the staff, he walked back to the inn.

Lin Jue smelled his own odor—he’d last washed in a roadside river. The water had been cool, but nothing beat hot water. He asked the innkeeper:

“How much for a tub of hot water?”

“Sir, small tub or large? Small tub, full, downstairs with cloth screens—five cash. Large tub, big enough to sit in, can be brought to your room—twenty cash including tub and water, plus two more if brought upstairs. Our water comes from the canal, and we’re at the very upstream—clean as can be.” The innkeeper said.

The price was higher than Lin Jue expected.

Likely because water and firewood were expensive now—water and fuel were major expenses for city dwellers.

Lin Jue hesitated.

He’d just earned money, but the road ahead was long—he must save.

Besides, his uncle and aunt and cousin back home likely still scrimped and saved. This route overlapped with the Shu Village merchants’ trade path; he hoped to meet them on the road and ask them to carry back ten taels of silver—repaying their kindness.

Yet in a moment’s thought, he let it go.

Rarely did he get true rest. If he skipped this, he’d dwell on it for days, restless and sour.

“Bring a large tub—hot water!”

“Shall we carry it upstairs?”

“Save yourselves the effort.”

“Got it! Sir, rest a moment—I’ll come fetch you when the water’s ready!”

The innkeeper went to fetch and heat the water.

Soon, steam rose from the bathing room.

Lin Jue sat in the wooden tub, scrubbing himself clean, then sat still—his entire body below the neck submerged in hot water, a wordless, profound relief.

This relief was something he hadn’t felt in half a month, nor since arriving in this world. When his pores opened and his head grew dizzy with drowsiness, the many miseries of this new life faded momentarily—he felt as if all were but a dream.

“Sir, need more hot water?”

“Is there a charge?”

“Four cash per tub, two cash for half a tub—we’ll bring it only when boiling.”

“No, thank you.”

“Shall we prepare your meal now?”

“Just five-leaf greens with scrambled eggs,” Lin Jue said weakly, pausing. “And a bowl of rice. A large bowl. White rice, dry.”

“Got it!”

He seemed to sink into drowsiness—or perhaps slept.

“Splash…”

Lin Jue finally rose, picked up his old clothes—smell stronger than before—but clean ones lay nearby.

He stepped out and met the innkeeper coming toward him.

“Sir, did you enjoy your soak?”

“I’ve lost half a pound.”

“Your meal’s ready—I was just coming to call you.”

“Alright, I’m coming.”

Lin Jue was too lazy to go upstairs to put down his things, so he just left his clothes on a bench and started eating.

The five-leaf greens were a local wild vegetable, growing wild all spring and summer, abundant and free—eaten boiled, stir-fried, or in soup.

The inn didn’t stint on oil—almost too greasy—but the greens with eggs tasted decent and nourishing.

Paired with a bowl of white rice, it would’ve been meager in his past life—but now, Lin Jue felt utterly satisfied.

He’d grown used to porridge at his uncle’s house.

Satisfaction brought ease.

After all, he’d earned this himself.

The young scholar bent low, digging in—scattered egg bits mixed with separate, fluffy grains of rice, slicked with oil, sliding down his throat with perfect ease.

He didn’t notice someone watching him.

At that moment, the innkeeper emerged carrying a jar, steaming continuously, wrapped in a damp cloth, hurrying toward a nearby table.

Unexpectedly, the man at that table spoke:

“Are you the young scholar who, this afternoon, helped slay the demon monkey outside the city with the martial hero?”

“Yes.”

Before Lin Jue could answer, the innkeeper replied for him.

“I gift you this pot of soup!”

“Huh?”

“Quickly, bring it to him.”

The innkeeper, startled, dared not refuse—he nodded quickly, turned, and hurried toward Lin Jue’s table.

Thud—the earthen jar landed on the table.

The innkeeper immediately let go, pinching his ear.

Inside: half a chicken, uncut, steeped with thin, seaweed-like strands in broth, the liquid swaying.

“Hmm?”

Lin Jue was taken aback.

The man at the next table was a middle-aged man, unremarkable in appearance, bowing to him:

“Young sir, don’t be surprised, don’t be polite—my elder brother runs a tea shop outside the North City Gate. Today he lent you the pao dao.”

“That’s your brother?”

“Yes.”

"If that's the case, I should be the one thanking your elder brother—but what is this…?"

"Sir, no need for such formalities. That group of strange monkeys outside the city has been causing trouble for a long time; we’ve long been furious. Today, everyone in the city is talking about how someone eliminated them and carried a full saddle of monkey heads to the county office to claim the magistrate’s reward. Everyone who heard it was overjoyed, all admiring the two heroes’ bold courage and noble spirit. I’m no different—I came specially to find you, nothing more than to see how hard you worked ridding us of the pest, eating only a small dish and a bowl of rice is far too little, so I invite you to a pot of chicken soup, to help restore your strength."

"How can I accept this?"

"Why not? Are you saying it’s not good enough? If so, waiter—bring another plate of Dao Ban Xiang!"

"No, no, no…"

Lin Jue couldn’t possibly accept such generosity and quickly called a halt.

Looking at the man again, he had already forced a smile and bowed to him once more: "Thank you, young sir, for honoring me with your presence."

"This…"

It was no longer proper to refuse.

Lin Jue had no choice but to continue eating.

"We have many misty, rainy days here, and the weather is often damp, so stone ears often grow in the damp crevices of cliffs and riverbanks. They look thin and soft, seemingly not worth eating, but in truth, they’re delicious." The man continued chatting with him. "I wonder if your hometown eats this? We do. I especially love using it to stew chicken soup—it adds a unique flavor."

"Not much."

With him saying this and looking directly at him, Lin Jue had no choice but to take a bowl and taste it.

This was the city, a guesthouse on the main street, with other patrons inside; Lin Jue had no fear of any trickery.

A clear bowl of chicken soup floated with thin, cotton-like stone ears. Lin Jue blew gently, parting the oil on the surface and dispersing the steam, then lowered his head to taste.

It was indeed different from ordinary chicken soup.

The stone ears looked like purple seaweed and tasted somewhat similar, but their effect on the broth’s flavor was far less than that of seaweed.

"How is it?"

The man asked, watching him.

"Good."

"I’m glad you like it! If there’s anything else you fancy, just say so!"

"Don’t go to such lengths," Lin Jue repeatedly declined, then changed the subject: "Are many people in the city talking about this?"

"What? Your slaying of the strange monkeys?"

"Of course."

"Indeed, many are talking. Before my elder brother came to find me, I’d already heard the story once. That group of strange monkeys has been a great plague on Danxun; many say that if they meet you, they must invite you to a bowl of wine. But only I have succeeded."

"It wasn’t just me—the main work was done by the other one."

"Where is that person now?"

"He left the city."

"Then that’s settled."

The man ordered more wine from the waiter, poured himself a cup, and offered one to Lin Jue. He raised his cup and drank with him, sighing: "Fortunately, few know you’re staying at this guesthouse—if they did, you wouldn’t be able to leave tomorrow."

"You’re exaggerating."

Lin Jue didn’t like alcohol, but this wine had little strength, and given the man’s sincere kindness, the generous meal, and the raised cup, he took a small sip.

It was rice wine, rich with the aroma of rice.

The man continued chatting across the table, filling the conversation with praise, and for a moment, Lin Jue truly felt like the hero of a tale—wherever he went, people bowed to him, invited him to meals.