Chapter 93: Encounter with an Old Acquaintance

“What do you have, Daoist?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Naturally.” Lin Jue’s expression was calm. “Treasures cannot be judged by value or measured in silver. To each what they need, to each their joy—that is best.”

“Huh?”

The middle-aged Daoist was surprised that such words came from a boy; he glanced at him longer, then smiled and fell into thought.

Yu Guang studied them.

He was clearly weighing what to offer—something that would satisfy him and yet leave them content.

Eventually his gaze settled on the long swords beside them.

“Aren’t the Daoists of Fuxiang Peak cultivators of spells? When did you start learning swordplay like the Talisman Sect?” the middle-aged Daoist asked.

“We don’t cultivate swordplay. We carry swords only for self-defense,” Lin Jue replied. “Sometimes, against demons or men, a long sword proves no less effective than spells.”

“True enough. I too cultivate swordplay. Since one must defend oneself in the mortal world, a long sword alone isn’t enough—you need proper sword techniques. I have a Qingdan Sword Art. It was originally taught by Daoists of Fengshan in the capital, and even among the mortal martial circles, it’s considered quite fine—effective against both men and demons. Would you trade these leaves for it?”

“Sword art?”

Lin Jue glanced at his junior sister.

As expected, her eyes sparkled with restrained desire, and she stole a furtive look at him.

“May we see it?”

Lin Jue had no choice but to speak for her.

“Of course.”

The middle-aged Daoist pulled a sword manual from his robe. It bore simple illustrations and dense text.

Lin Jue held it in his hands and flipped through it.

His junior sister leaned in to look.

The third senior brother also cast a glance over.

Seeing their interest, even the fox, though unable to read a word, craned its head forward.

The manual was detailed.

A casual flip revealed three sections: fundamentals and footwork, sword techniques and forms, and extensive text explaining how to duel mortals—strategies for victory.

“It’s a genuine sword manual,” the third senior brother remarked. “Decent enough.”

His junior sister grew even more eager.

Lin Jue looked at her. “If you wish to learn, decide for yourself.”

“I do!”

His junior sister was decisive.

“My junior sister wishes to learn swordplay and is willing to trade with you,” Lin Jue paused. “Even if, as you say, this sword art is fine among the mortal circles, it remains a mortal artifact—no matter how rare, it can still be obtained. But spiritual items cannot be bought. So I will trade only for the pile before my sister.”

“A pile?” The middle-aged Daoist raised an eyebrow. “Young Daoist, you’re greedy!”

“I’ve never been greedy.”

Lin Jue returned the manual to him.

“Not greedy?”

“Not greedy.”

“Just a few leaves.”

“Not greedy.” Lin Jue looked at him calmly. “I helped this tree grow. I know how rare it is.”

“You little Daoist…”

The middle-aged Daoist grew irritated, as if to leave—but seeing Lin Jue’s calm expression, he realized bargaining was useless. He stopped, holding the manual, lost in thought, eyes glinting.

“...”

The middle-aged Daoist’s expression shifted several times. He studied Lin Jue at length, then seemed to make up his mind: “I have nothing else. Let me trade you silver instead.”

“We don’t take silver.”

“What if it’s a lot of silver?”

The middle-aged Daoist reached into his satchel and pulled out a large handful of silver—thick, heavy ingots so dense even he felt their weight. He pulled out one handful, then another.

“While refining elixirs in the mountains, I stumbled upon a silver vein. I refined much of it. Such yellow and white metals are useless to cultivators. If you wish, take it all.”

Silver landed on the bamboo mat with heavy thuds.

Around them, the strange wanderers of the mortal world and reclusive Daoists of the mountains all turned their gazes.

“Mountains don’t need much…”

Lin Jue hadn’t finished speaking when he saw the two handfuls of silver and froze.

Even the fox’s eyes widened.

His junior sister nearly went slack.

The silver was immense—well over a hundred taels. Had Lin Jue not once dug silver from a rat demon’s den, he’d never in his life seen so much Bai Yin. But what drew him wasn’t the quantity—it was the ingots’ size and irregular shapes.

Usually, irregular silver was fragmented. Large pieces, even if not intact official ingots, were at least halves of them.

Such large, irregular ingots truly did resemble what he claimed—refined directly from ore.

But why did they look so much like stone?

Lin Jue frowned and reached out to take one.

“Hmm?”

Lin Jue was startled.

The ingot felt heavy—pure Bai Yin’s weight. Pressing it with the pommel guard left a dent. Visually, it showed no anomaly.

Only the instant he touched it did a strange feeling flash through him—otherwise, he’d never have known.

This must be a spell.

This old fool was trying to trick him.

But it gave him something else.

“Well?”

The middle-aged Daoist watched him, pleased with his reaction. All Daoists who entered the mortal world needed silver, didn’t they?

But Lin Jue lifted his head, expression strange.

“What?”

The middle-aged Daoist was confused.

Then Lin Jue reached out, plucked a single leaf.

“Daoist, your skill is impressive. I gift you this leaf—as payment for witnessing your trick, and to end our encounter today!”

“What skill?”

The middle-aged Daoist froze.

Had he been seen through?

“These silver ingots.” Lin Jue pushed them back to him. “Return them to you.”

His junior sister had also picked up an ingot, studying it closely. The sudden flood of gleaming silver had stunned her mind. At his words, though puzzled, she immediately dropped hers—as if burned.

The third senior brother had been turning an ingot over and over, unsure if it was real but seeing no flaw. He was still pondering whether the middle-aged Daoist spoke truth when his junior brother made his judgment.

Not knowing if right or wrong, he too tossed his ingot away.

“Why return it to me?”

“Why explain?”

“What explanation? These are genuine Bai Yin—anyone can verify. Don’t speak nonsense, young Daoist.”

“Enough…”

Lin Jue sat calmly, watching him.

“Huh?”

The middle-aged Daoist was even more astonished.

Had he truly been seen through?

But if seen through, shouldn’t he be angry?

Why give him a leaf?

The middle-aged Daoist hesitated.

Yet as he met Lin Jue’s gaze—unshaken, unwavering—he quickly realized: he had been seen through.

“Hah! No wonder you’re from Fuxiang Peak! I was only joking with you!” The middle-aged Daoist retrieved all the silver, then asked, “How to trade for both piles?”

“If you teach us this spell, we’ll give you both piles.”

“You clever little Daoist!” the middle-aged Daoist said without hesitation. “But spells are rare and profound. Even if I could explain it here today, I’d never trade a spell for two piles of spirit leaves. This spell ensures lifelong comfort!”

“Then take this one leaf.”

“Hmph! You little Daoist!” The middle-aged Daoist smiled, yet remained where he stood. “Can you cast spell-seals?”

“Only one.”

“What spell?”

“Xianxing Spell.”

“I’ll teach you a Fu Jian Spell. It uses incantations to enhance your weapon’s power against demons and spirits—any blade will do. But I take all the spirit leaves.”

“Fu Jian Spell…”

Lin Jue found it useful for himself.

Fortunately, this man was cunning, and the spell-casting method was simple—true or false, it could be sorted out in just an afternoon.

He turned to look at his third senior brother.

The third senior brother had no objections.

“Fine,” Lin Jue agreed, but added, “You’ve already deceived me once; if you deceive me again, it would contradict the very purpose of the ritual.”

His meaning was clear: they would meet below the mountain.

“Hahaha, just a joke—I’ve known Fuxiang Pavilion for years.”

The middle-aged Daoist grew serious:

“First, listen to the incantation—

“The incantation unites heaven and earth, summoning divine thunder to the blade’s tip; the decree governs yin and yang, true fire glows along the edge! The Three Realms and Five Elements lend their strength, making my weapons manifest the divine mystery!”

“I’ve memorized it.”

“You’ve got a good business going—sell one leaf, and three people learn magic,” the middle-aged Daoist shook his head. “I’ll tell you the key points once—only once.”

“Good!”

The middle-aged Daoist sat down unceremoniously, lowered his voice, and explained in detail.

This couldn’t be faked.

Lin Jue listened intently.

He forgot even that the sun was sinking.

…

When he finally left, the middle-aged Daoist asked how he had seen through the illusion, and why he had still given him a leaf despite seeing through it—Lin Jue only shook his head in silence.

Coming back to himself, he saw the sunset just dipping below the horizon.

The bamboo treetops glowed gold in the fading light, bowing humbly; many Daoists and martial folk descended the narrow path.

Lin Jue and the others turned back as well.

The three piles of leaves were gone, replaced by one sword technique, one spell-casting method, and perhaps one more spell that turned ordinary stones into silver.

The Daoist had never intended to give it to him—but it ended up in Lin Jue’s hands anyway, and so Lin Jue quietly accepted it as half a deal.

The Daoist had bad intentions, so he gave him a leaf to dismiss him.

This spell was somewhat dishonorable, but its use depended on the wielder—it was much like the Qingfu Method: it could be used to cheat for money, to commit evil, to perform for crowds, to protect one’s own silver from theft, or even to punish the wicked.

In the end, it was only a spell.

“See? Most of the wandering cultivators here at the grand ritual are just this kind,” the third senior brother spoke casually. “And some are downright treacherous.”

“Indeed.”

“Lucky for you, younger brother, you’re clever.”

“Indeed.”

“But how did you figure it out? I stared at that silver for ages and couldn’t tell real from fake.”

“I’m clever.”

Lin Jue said this calmly, casually.

The third senior brother’s face twisted as if he’d swallowed a fly—he fell silent.

Only the youngest sister nodded in agreement, her expression utterly serious.

Suddenly, they saw firelight ahead on an open patch of ground.

Someone was performing a trick.

A few spectators had gathered, but not many.

Before Lin Jue even drew near, he saw the flames spewing from above the crowd’s heads and knew it was the Yanhuo Spell.

For a moment, he felt a pang of nostalgia.

Fortunately, they were heading that way.

But as he drew closer, Lin Jue suddenly froze, his expression startled, his eyes locked on the performers on the clearing—he said nothing.

It was the troupe from his hometown

I never expected to meet them here.

At this moment, the troupe had stopped their usual trick of pretending to be two rival families quarreling; they asked for no money, merely performing their art in segments, pausing after each to bow to the crowd. They knew those who had come here were not merely martial travelers, fellow performers, or other oddities of the jianghu—but genuine Daoists come to exchange.

“Forgive my poor performance—should any of you esteemed guests have advice, please do not hesitate to speak; this old man would be eternally grateful.”

The voice from that direction kept coming.

The old man kept bowing and bending his body.

To seek guidance is not so simple.

Besides, it was already dusk.

At dusk, many headed down the mountain, so the roadside grew crowded with pedestrians—some local folk who came simply to watch the spectacle, some high officials and nobles pausing to observe—but most glanced twice and then followed the crowd down the mountain.

Gradually, only two Daoists and a fox remained, standing on the green stone steps beside the bamboo grove, gazing toward that direction.

Third Shixiong had vanished as well.

“Third Shixiong …”

The youngest sister walked beside her Shixiong , watching him quietly.

“Nothing,” Lin Jue turned and smiled at her. “I met some old acquaintances.”

With that, he stepped forward, heading toward that direction.

The old man led his troupe, his body bearing the weariness of years wandering the jianghu, yet also the quiet resolve forged through wind and snow. Though no one paid attention, he still bowed and asked around a few more times. Seeing the earlier crowd had mostly dispersed and the sky had not yet turned fully dark, he thought to perform once more—perhaps another group would gather.

Only when night fell did the fire become visible.

Perhaps this time someone willing to teach would appear.

Seeking the Dao is hard; how much easier is it to seek technique?

Just as he bent his hunched back to turn and signal the drums and gongs to begin again, a young man suddenly appeared before him. The youth wore a Daoist robe and carried a long sword—handsome, yet unfamiliar.

He must be just another spectator.

The old man thought so, raised his hand—but before he could bow, the Daoist stood face-to-face with him and first bowed deeply.

The old man was momentarily bewildered.

“Old man, do you still recognize me?”

The Daoist lifted his head and asked him.