Chapter 97: Wealth Is Sought in Danger, and Lost in Danger (Requesting Moon Tickets)

It was deep autumn, and the chill in the mountains had grown sharper.

Many people on Mingchou Mountain were descending.

“Master Shao, let us part here.”

“Part we shall!”

Lin Jue and his junior sister bowed farewell to the stout man in hemp robes.

“May we meet again on the rivers and lakes!”

The hemp-robed man also bowed in return.

“May we meet again on the rivers and lakes,” Lin Jue said sincerely, then turned and bowed to the Second Master, “Master, we shall return first.”

“Go, go,” the Second Master waved casually. “We’ll likely meet again. Don’t slack off in your cultivation—I’ll come test you then.”

“Understood.”

Lin Jue knew what he meant by “meet again.”

No need to dwell—he turned and descended the mountain.

Suddenly, he felt eyes on his back.

Lin Jue turned to look—it wasn’t the Second Master or the hemp-robed man, nor any Daoist from Qiyun Mountain, but a group of unfamiliar Daoists standing high above, watching them.

“Who are those people? Are they your friends, Third Brother?”

“Who?”

Third Brother turned and studied them closely.

“Oh, no—they’re Daoists from Yushan outside the capital.”

“Are they old acquaintances too?”

“Sort of,” Third Brother grinned. “I forgot to tell you—though Fuxiu Pavilion has wide connections, wide connections aren’t always friendly ones.”

“Huh? So there are enemies too?”

“These Daoists from Yushan are. No one knows which elder started the feud, but now every Daoist from Yishan clashes with those from Yushan.” Third Brother chuckled. “Last year at the Qiyun Mountain Grand Rite, we even fought on the dueling platform.”

“There was a duel?”

“Of course! Daoists value freedom. With so many elders from Fuxiu Pavilion wandering out, think of the Second Master—he’s still annoying everyone in old age. How many enemies do you think he’s made?” Third Brother shook his head. “It’s got me so embarrassed I dare not admit I’m from Fuxiu Pavilion anymore.”

“….”

Lin Jue glanced at him: “Better not say it.”

“Right? Hey, what’s that mean?”

“Nothing…”

“Stop staring! They’re proper Daoists—open enmity, fair duels, fair fights, fair arguments. They won’t ambush us on the road!”

Third Brother laughed and headed down the mountain.

Lin Jue had no choice but to follow, glancing back frequently.

Down the mountain was even livelier than up top—most people lived below, and many officials and nobles had come. Where there are people, there’s business. Every household in the village had become a makeshift inn; vendors had taken over the roadside, setting up stalls selling everything, like a peculiar temple fair.

Lin Jue bought a pair of bamboo baskets, walked farther, found a secluded spot, summoned his paper donkey, placed the baskets on it, put all their belongings inside, then slung an empty book satchel on his back.

Instantly, his steps grew lighter.

Eating the steaming buns bought at the market, walking and chatting, speaking of their gains from the Grand Rite—the pills and spirit plants Third Brother had traded, the spells they’d earnestly exchanged—unconsciously, they’d passed dozens of li of farmland and green hills.

As Third Brother had said, the journey went smoothly—they reached the dock.

The boatmen here were darker than those at Niaoshu Mountain. The return trip was downstream, yet the fare was higher—and Brother Lu demanded an even higher price. Luckily, Lin Jue had already hidden his paper donkey.

It was a canopy boat, roughly the same size as the one they’d taken coming, but only three people aboard.

Of course, also a fox and a donkey.

The light boat glided with the current, carried by the wind downstream.

“Brother, you’re truly devoted to that book satchel—I’d have tossed it long ago.”

“It was a gift.”

“Not from a childhood betrothal back in the village, is it?”

“From an elder in the neighboring village.”

“Ah, I see…”

Third Brother nodded, reclining in the cabin, seemingly approving of his behavior.

Lin Jue sat on the deck, feeling the wind, gazing at either side.

The great river surged, thousands of sails cutting through waves. Nearby, many boats floated side by side—some with lazy martial folk seated at the bow, others with literati standing with hands behind their backs, as if ready to recite poetry. From the pavilion boats nearby came the sounds of flutes, songs, and dancing, lending a touch of poetic romance to the riverscape.

The boatman looked like a Daoist admirer. As he steered the sail, he smiled and asked: “Where are you three Daoists from?”

“Yishan,” Third Brother replied.

“Yishan?” The boatman looked confused.

“Fuxiu Pavilion on Yishan.”

“Where is Yishan?”

“A remote place, not worth mentioning.”

“Then you three must be reclusive masters of true Dao—surely you have deep cultivation?”

“Hah! You’re quite knowledgeable for a boatman.”

"I've navigated these waters for years. I've heard it all—from tales of the martial arts world to court secrets." The boatman smiled.

“That’s interesting,” Third Brother said. “But we’re no masters of true Dao, no deep cultivators—just ordinary Daoists, here to join the Grand Rite’s festivities.”

“I’ve seen all kinds of people in my decades on the water—I can tell you three are high cultivators!”

“How so?”

“Just from hearing your conversation, I know your character is refined! They say cultivating Dao means cultivating virtue—those with good character must have deep cultivation!” the boatman smiled. “Besides, traveling a thousand li from Huizhou to Yuanzhou—if you had no skill, how could you make it so far?”

“Huizhou is far more peaceful, and the whole way is by water—much easier than land travel,” Third Brother replied politely, waving his hand. “Don’t flatter us—the sun’s nearly set. Let’s find a place to moor and cook.”

“Right away!”

The light faded; mist rose from the water.

Several boats drifted at a distance on the still water; boatmen stood at the bow, casting nets with a casual flick—a perfect circle falling into the water.

Boatmen often shouted loudly, exchanged a few words—how many passengers they’d taken, how business had been. Some got lucky and caught too many fish to eat; others caught nothing, casting net after net into empty water, yet still shouted across the river, shared their catch, and thanked each other.

Even though fish here were cheap, the gesture was graceful.

Soon, smoke rose from every boat.

The caught fish were simply boiled with rice, a few slices of ginger to remove the fishy smell, a pinch of salt for flavor—dinner was ready.

The boatman served it to them.

“We’ve nothing else—the rice has been stored too long and got damp. I’m not good at cooking. If it tastes off or fishy, please bear with me.”

“No problem.”

“Eat while it’s hot.”

“Thank you, boatman.”

The three weren’t fussy—they laughed and began eating.

But Lin Jue had barely taken one bite when he frowned.

Wrong! This porridge is wrong!

Yes, it had a fishy smell—but not just that.

His ingestion method reacted.

He looked ahead—Third Brother was pressing his bowl’s bottom, sipping slowly, lips curled in satisfaction.

“Brother, why are you staring at me—”

Only after the first spoonful entered his belly and disrupted his internal yin-yang balance did he sense something amiss—his brow furrowed too.

Both turned sharply to look at the junior sister.

Though today she hadn’t carried Third Brother’s book satchel, she’d carried a load of dry grass for a stretch and was now ravenously hungry, eating heartily. But suddenly finding both brothers staring at her, her face flickered with confusion—she didn’t know why, but immediately stopped eating.

The fox followed suit and halted.

Lin Jue and Third Brother reached for their swords.

The junior sister’s expression hardened—she reached for her sword too.

“Boatman!”

The boatman stepped in, smiling, a bowl of fish porridge in hand. “What’s wrong, Daoist? Is the food unsatisfactory? The boat’s humble—we’ve only this…”

But Third Brother was smiling broadly.

“As the saying goes: wealth is sought in danger, but lost in danger too—ten percent chance to gain, ninety percent to lose.” Third Brother paused, still smiling. “Besides, Daoists returning from the Grand Rite—you’re taking too great a risk for this wealth.”

“Huh?” The boatman froze. “What do you mean, Daoist? I don’t understand.”

“The poison in this porridge—colorless, tasteless. Even my junior sister, who cultivates yin-yang spirit methods, couldn’t detect it. Had I not some cultivation, and had my brother not studied ingestion methods, we’d truly have been taken in. Ordinary Daoists who cultivate heaven-and-earth spirit methods—even if they’re high-level—without other skills, they’d fall for this, wouldn’t they?”

“Pfft!”

Lin Jue had already drawn his iron sword.

“What poison? What are you saying?” The boatman was terrified, face pale with panic. “I’ve been on the water half my life—how could I poison anyone?”

“….”

Lin Jue and Third Brother exchanged a glance.

Lin Jue suddenly remembered—the boatman on their original boat hadn’t caught any fish. The fish had come from the nearby canopy boat.

Coincidentally, the boatman now said:

Could it be… could it be that the fish just taken from the boat beside us is tainted?

The third senior brother still smiled warmly:

“Fine acting, boatman! Brilliant trick! Call out everyone from the neighboring boat—or you’ll never leave today, alone as you are!”

“Master Daoist, what is this…?”

The boatman remained terrified and confused, stammering an explanation; his expression didn’t change, but he flung the bowl in his hand toward them—the scalding porridge splattered into a thousand glowing dots.

The boatman spun and sprinted toward the deck.

Lin Jue swiftly swept his sleeve.

“Whoosh!”

A sudden gale erupted in the boat—swift as if born from nothing, fierce enough to blow the porridge right back.

At the same moment, the third senior brother pushed off with his feet, lunging forward, drawing his long sword in one fluid motion, leaping after the boatman as if flying—true “Jade Maiden Shuttle.” With his cultivation, his Daoist robes, and his sword-dance foundation, the move looked more ethereal than many martial artists could manage.

Just as the swordtip neared the boatman’s back, in an instant, he spun around—somehow a short knife now in hand.

A sliver of cold moonlight flashed in the dusk-lit cabin.

Clang!

The long sword was split in two!

Seeing the boatman had martial skill, the third senior brother didn’t care how high or low it was—he had zero intention of close combat. He stamped the deck and leapt back.

As he returned, his hand slipped into his robe.

But before he could scatter the bean soldiers, a fiery whistle tore from the left—a pillar of flame, like a dragon, surged forward.

From the right came several sharp whistling sounds.

The fire pillar split as it advanced, rolling heat filling the cabin. The boatman, who had been chasing the third senior brother, had no time to jump overboard—he could only frantically raise his sleeve to shield his face.

“Boom!”

The fire was truly scorching!

As the boatman gritted his teeth against the agony, he suddenly sensed something wrong—years of experience triggered his instinct—he twisted sideways.

A steel blade spun through the flames, slicing down right past his nose.

Then he felt pain on his body.

“Plop! Pah!”

Two sounds, one after the other, two sensations.

He looked down—two thrown daggers.

Shaped like belt-daggers, but without cloth strips. At such close range, they must have spun through the air, using the fire’s glow and the sword’s sound as cover—one struck his waist, the other also hit, but struck with the dagger’s tail.

Fortunately, the force wasn’t great, and they didn’t sink deep.

“Clever calculation!”

The boatman yanked them out casually, looked up—and saw the young Daoist flicking his finger, as if flinging a bean at him.

What kind of hidden weapon is this?

The boatman instinctively tried to dodge—but as he began to turn his head, his eyes still locked on the bean, he saw it instantly swell the moment it left the finger, growing as if fed by wind—by the time it reached him, it had become a soldier in armor.

Truly like divine power.

The armored soldier held a round shield in his left hand, a long knife in his right—raising the knife to slash diagonally at him.

The boatman gasped, raising his own blade.

Clang!

But the soldier’s strength was immense—the clash sent him reeling sideways, slamming hard into the rear of the cabin.

Thud! Thud!

Heavy footsteps shook the boat.

The boatman didn’t dare blink—he aimed for an opening and stabbed—but the soldier didn’t pause, simply raised his shield to block, then charged forward with such force he was flung out of the cabin, crashing into the gunwale.

“Ssshh!”

Pain flared in his waist, but he didn’t stop—he rolled along the gunwale.

Clang!

A steel blade struck the gunwale right where he’d been.

Exactly his former position.

He started to rise—but before he could push off, he dropped flat again.

“Swish!”

A steel blade slashed horizontally, grazing his face.

The blade’s wind was chilling.

The boatman kicked out with both legs, hoping to shove the soldier back—but it felt like kicking a wall or a boulder.

The soldier didn’t budge an inch!

Such overwhelming pressure!

The boatman clenched his teeth, kept pushing his legs—forcing himself to slide backward, rolling over the stern, barely managing to stand steady at the boat’s tail.

The boat trembled violently; footsteps pounded like war drums.

No sooner had he steadied himself than the soldier appeared before him again.

“What kind of spell is this?”

He thought, raising his blade.

In the blink of an eye, they clashed several times.

The boatman wanted to trade blows and parries—but the soldier fought like a soldier, swinging his blade at him with brute force, as if not human, heedless of his own wounds.

Good news: he’d landed one cut on the soldier.

Bad news: it hit the armor.

Worse news: the soldier had slashed him once.

One slash—from left shoulder to right chest.

He might not live…

…

Not far from this boat, another junk lay anchored, carrying several idle martial artists, all now drawing bows and nocking arrows.

The commotion on this boat had been brief—but the watchers on the other vessel had noticed. They’d been rowing closer; now that they saw the boatman dead, several arrows flew toward them.

Aimed squarely at the armored soldier at the bow.

Close range meant accuracy and force—but the soldier paid no mind, simply turned and walked calmly into the cabin.

His footsteps thudded on the deck.

Then three sharp taps—

Three arrows struck his armor, two hit his head—but the soldier showed no pain, bent down, reached into the cabin, retrieved something, then stepped out and hurled it far away.

The martial artists on the neighboring boat saw the soldier struck by arrows yet moving freely—already astonished—then saw him make a throwing motion toward them.

“What is that?”

In the dusk, it was hard to see.

As they puzzled, the objects rapidly grew in midair—when they drew near, they became several armored soldiers, flying toward them.

The archers had just nocked a second arrow; the swordsmen had barely drawn their blades—when they suddenly widened their eyes: towering, muscular soldiers clad in steel armor, faces painted crimson, each holding shield and blade, descending from the sky, already swinging their blades in midair, twisting their waists, letting momentum carry the cut downward.

Such a slash could cleave mountains and split rocks.

It was nothing but a one-sided massacre.

In the blink of an eye, the river fell silent again.

Only distant boats remained clueless—their occupants held fishing lanterns, standing at the bow, gazing this way—yet all they saw was the calm river, reflecting the sky, two junks swaying gently, producing soft ripples and creaks.