Chapter 8: The Fire-Repelling Art

“Young sir, didn’t get burned, did you?”

“No, no…”

“Hair and skin are received from one’s parents; even burning a few strands would make us feel guilty.”

“It’s my own fault for not being careful.”

“Just stand a little farther away, hehehe, let me take one more breath.”

The old man beamed with delight, clearly thrilled by the crowd’s astonished reactions, then returned to the brazier and leaned down to inhale deeply.

“Hss…”

Instantly, flames like smoke entered his mouth and nose.

Lin Jue’s vision blurred for a moment—he seemed to see the flames turn naturally into a glowing mist or vapor as they reached his lips, and even after entering his nostrils, the light remained visible through his skin and flesh.

But the illusion lasted only an instant.

In the next moment, everything returned to normal.

Lin Jue unconsciously rubbed his eyes and looked again—but saw nothing but an old man proudly spitting fire.

He was left momentarily confused and stunned.

Www?ttkдn?￠〇

Not long after, the two sides stood their ground, then agreed to a contest: they drew a line down the center of the square. The money on one side went to the old man, the money on the other to the original performer; the crowd would toss coins or goods to whichever side they favored, deciding the winner by tally.

The performer performed the Fishing Trick.

The old man cut off his own hand and displayed it to the crowd, then reattached it.

The performer performed the Silk-Cutting Act.

The old man borrowed books and silk cloth from the audience, threw them all into the brazier, burned them to ash, then moments later retrieved them untouched from another location.

It was incredibly dazzling.

Some preferred purity—the old man clearly performed better, so they tossed coins and goods his way; others felt the middle-aged performer had justice on his side, and since he spoke so pleasantly, they’d liked him from the start. Now seeing him bullied and wronged, they felt sympathy and injustice, and threw more coins and goods his way.

Some tossed coins to both sides just to stir up chaos; others hoarded their money and gave nothing.

Yet Lin Jue gradually noticed something odd—

When the performers had first put on their acts, the men behind them had merely beaten drums and cymbals. But now that the two sides were clearly opposed, why were those same men still drumming and clashing cymbals during the old man’s performance, amplifying the atmosphere?

Could their rivalry truly be so honorable?

This continued until mid-afternoon, when the performers were exhausted and spectators began to leave. Only then did the performers declare the day’s show over and pack up.

The old man chuckled, clearly victorious, bent to collect the coins on his side, then waved his hand generously, giving all the other items to the middle-aged performer, before strolling away calmly. The middle-aged performer, though furious, forced a courteous bow of thanks, his face still sour, yet politely ushered the crowd away, promising the same time and place tomorrow.

Lin Jue couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

He hadn’t seen more magic.

The old man’s Hand-Cutting Trick, though miraculous, was the one Lin Jue felt most certain was magic—but he hadn’t felt that strange sensation.

He could only guess; he couldn’t yet confirm why.

He didn’t know if the ancient book would react.

Only now did he suddenly remember—he had promised his cousin to meet behind the Luo Xian Temple on the street.

His cousin was rather simple and straightforward, and no older than ten?

“Oh no!”

Lin Jue hurried toward that direction.

He wound through alleys and streets.

Several times he wanted to stop, set down his basket, and pull out the ancient book to glance at it—but he forced himself to hold back.

Until he reached the designated spot.

His cousin wasn’t there.

Lin Jue didn’t know where he’d gone, dared not search randomly, so he stood and waited.

Fortunately, not long after, a black-haired boy with a large basket on his back approached; the basket swayed, revealing it was empty.

Seeing Lin Jue, he hurried over.

“How long have you been here?”

“I… just arrived.”

“Just arrived? Then did you go sightseeing? Did you see the magic tricks?” His cousin’s eyes widened.

“I saw them…”

Facing his clear gaze, Lin Jue felt guilty.

“Phew…”

His cousin sighed in relief.

“Good you went. Good you saw. Today too many people came selling bamboo shoots—lots of little kids about this tall.” His cousin held his hand at chest height, “Luckily, I followed your advice from last time and went to the gates of the wealthy households. They saw the shoots were good and bought them all.”

“Really?”

“Almost made you wait half the day. Good thing you’re clever.”

“Huh?”

“How did you know I couldn’t sell them?”

“I…”

“Never mind! Did you eat? I’ve got food here.” He pulled out two baked rice cakes from his basket and handed one to Lin Jue. “Eat up, then we’ll go sightseeing again, pay respects at the Luo Xian Temple, and get back before dark.”

“We should really get back before dark.” Lin Jue thought of the ghostly shadows he’d seen in the bamboo grove that morning.

“We’ve got time. If not, we can run a bit.”

“Hmm…”

Lin Jue had already taken the rice cake and begun eating.

The rice cake was a thin, baked pancake—small or large, made by the auntie as big as a face, stuffed with dried mustard greens or dried bamboo shoots, dry and easy to carry, a staple snack for local merchants on the road.

“Did you buy the medicine?”

“I did.”

“How much cheaper?”

“It’s two thousand cash less per month than last time.”

“Let me see…”

They walked and ate, chatting casually.

But Lin Jue was distracted.

After eating, they paid respects at the Luo Xian Temple and wandered again, but saw no further marvels—even when they passed witches and sorcerers, none displayed any unusual powers. They saw a disabled Daoist calculating fortunes under a bridge, but couldn’t afford his fee.

Only as the sun sank lower did they head out.

Just before leaving the city, they passed through a narrow alley and, glancing up casually, Lin Jue froze.

Ahead in the alley stood the group of performers.

Closer inspection revealed not only the middle-aged performer’s troupe, but also the old man—and several spectators who had joined in the cheering—now gathered together, eating dried rations.

The old man sat atop a wooden crate, highest of all.

He looked clearly like their leader.

Spotting Lin Jue, and noticing Lin Jue staring at him, he was surprised, set down his steamed bun, and smiled: “Young sir, didn’t come to demand compensation for your hair, did you?”

“Of course not.”

Lin Jue followed his cousin, walking closer to them.

“Just passing by?”

“Just passing by.”

“Then we’re fated to meet!”

“Indeed we are.” Lin Jue nodded, glanced around at them, then asked, “Are you all together?”

“Heh!”

The old man shook his head with a smile, raising his hand toward heaven: “Just tricks to amuse the audience, nothing worth mentioning.”

“So that’s it…”

“Nothing worth mentioning. Nothing worth mentioning.”

“Understood, understood.”

Some in the crowd must have seen through the tricks—or already knew them—but as the old man said, they were merely entertainments to amuse the audience and earn coins; no need to expose them.

Lin Jue had already begun walking past the performers with his cousin, but couldn’t shake his confusion. He stopped, turned back, and asked:

“Old sir, the trick you performed today—the one called ‘Yanhuo Shu’—is that a magical art?”

“Magical art?” The old man paused mid-bite, frowned, then replied, “If I say it isn’t, it’s clearly not ordinary skill. But if I say it is, the true cultivators with real power would laugh at us.”

Meaning it was magic.

“Then…”

Lin Jue hesitated, gathered his thoughts, then asked: “Aren’t those who wield magic all high-level cultivators? Then why do you labor here for such meager earnings?”

“Hahahaha! What divine masters? Just a few little tricks! Can’t steal, can’t rob—what else are we to do but earn this hard coin?” The old man laughed aloud, “Besides, we’re just passing through from Jingcheng, heading to Qiyun Mountain’s Xuantian Guan for a Daoist gathering, and stopping here to rest and earn some travel money.”

The middle-aged performer nodded in agreement: “Earning money through skill isn’t shameful—cheating and swindling is! Besides, this is the proper theatrical art passed down from our ancestors—it’s meant to be performed!”

“That makes sense.” Lin Jue nodded thoughtfully, then asked, “Qiyun Mountain Daoist gathering?”

“Yes…”

“What exactly is that?”

“You live right here and don’t know Qi Yun Mountain? It’s one of the famous Daoist mountains—this year’s grand altar ceremony is being held at the Xuanyuan Temple on Qi Yun Mountain, and we’re just here to enjoy the spectacle.”

“Famous mountain…”

Lin Jue frowned in thought.

“It’s getting dark, young masters. Don’t overthink it—head home quickly,” the old man said with a smile.

“Forgive me for asking one more thing—when is the Daoist gathering?”

“You’ve heard too many stories. Even if you yearn for the Dao and immortals, don’t fixate your thoughts here. Go home,” the old man said, his expression one of someone who’d seen countless boys like them—he smiled and waved them off, but was surprisingly kind.

“Then thank you for your advice.”

Following the customs of this world, Lin Jue bowed to them in respect, then followed his cousin away.

But he couldn’t help glancing back as they walked.

The troupe still sat there, each chewing on bread and drinking water, whispering among themselves.

He didn’t know what tricks they’d perform tomorrow.

Or what play they’d stage again.

Lin Jue simply quickened his pace beside his cousin.

They barely made it home before dark.

Lin Jue handed all the herbs to Auntie for storage; he hadn’t eaten yet, but returned to his room.

He took out the ancient book and quickly opened it.

The book had indeed added a new passage:

The Yanhuo Technique—a stage trick.