Chapter 627: Entering the Dragon

Luoyang, the former capital of the Zhou dynasty, the ruins of Han and Wei.

It lies at the center of the world, on the sunny bank of the Luo River. During the Western Zhou, bronze inscriptions already referred to the Luoyang plain as "Zhongguo."

Amid a thousand years of war smoke, countless emperors and generals have buried their bones on Mangshan.

But like Chang'an, since the turmoil at the end of the Tang, Luoyang has gradually declined, repeatedly ravaged by war, no longer the glorious divine capital it once was.

Since the end of last year, the weather abruptly changed, turning bitterly cold; though the Spring Equinox has passed, the wind still bites, and snow lingers.

As night fell, the ancient city's ten thousand lamps flickered out one by one.

In the distance, the silhouette of Mangshan lay like a coiled dragon.

Near the North Market, Guiyi Alley.

The blue stone pavement glowed faintly; night mist crept along the ground.

At the corner, an old woman burned paper in the shadows; ash from spirit money spiraled in the wind, faint sobs drifting through the air.

"This is Luoyang today…"

The night watchman Lao Zhao stopped, sighing to his apprentice.

He turned his head, clenching his gong and wooden clapper, limping forward, yet still murmuring: "Back in the day, we in Luoyang could still scrape up a hot meal. But since the court lifted the sea ban, look—anyone with connections has rushed to the coast to chase gold."

"The eastern market's as ghostly as a spirit fair. The riffraff on the streets, starving for profit, their eyes green with hunger—they'll do any vile thing."

Then, lowering his voice mysteriously: "Did you see Old Liu's wife just now? Her son's a good-for-nothing, but he's filial! The other night he went up Mangshan to 'dig for gold'—guess what happened?"

"He didn't even come back with a whole corpse!"

"What kind of place is Mangshan? It holds more emperors than living people! Two years ago, Old Wang Wu dug up a Northern Wei pottery jar—and his eyeballs got gouged out by some cursed thing…"

His apprentice was tall, but starved, thin as a bamboo pole.

He didn't hear a word Lao Zhao muttered; instead, he kept glancing around, each time spotting a dark alley, his eyes filled with terror.

"Look at your nerve!"

Lao Zhao sneered, "If your dad hadn't brought me two paper-wrapped honey cakes and begged on his knees, I wouldn't have taken you out in the first place!"

"This job ain't easy. Old Zhang from Dongguan's son got so scared he wet his pants in three months—you're worse than him."

"Mm."

His apprentice was a quiet one; hearing Lao Zhao's scolding, he bowed his head, saying nothing.

Lao Zhao rolled his eyes, then lifted the clapper and struck it rhythmically, calling out: "Midnight has come—watch your fires!"

That startled his apprentice into a shiver.

Soon, they passed down the alley; just around the corner, dim light appeared ahead, accompanied by the thudding sound of wood being carved.

It was a coffin shop.

They were working through the night—not only were men inside carving coffins, but the entrance was piled high with paper figures; two men's fingers danced with bamboo strips, quickly shaping figures.

The night wind blew, making the white paper figures rustle.

Seeing them, the apprentice's scalp prickled; his legs turned leaden, frozen in place.

Spat! Spat! Spat!

Lao Zhao spat three times on the ground, glanced at his apprentice, too tired to scold him, stepped forward, and asked: "What's going on? Who's in such a rush to have work done at this hour?"

"A big client."

The paper-figure apprentice looked up, grinning: "Came last night to order—urgent. Comes to collect tomorrow night."

"Came at midnight?"

Lao Zhao frowned. "Tell your master to be careful—this smells fishy. He still owes me two drinks."

The other paper-figure apprentice scoffed: "What's to fear? These days, as long as you pay, it's fine if it's man or ghost."

Spat! Spat! Spat!

Lao Zhao spat again, cursing: "Child's babble—don't know the meaning of death."

Saying that, he led his apprentice onward.

After turning the corner, the light behind vanished; he shook his head, murmuring: "These days, incense at the City God Temple has withered, yet paper-shops burn bright every night. The living worship gods less than they beg ghosts…"

There's a taboo on night walks: never speak of ghosts.

Lao Zhao was a night owl—slept and drank by day, patrolled by night. His apprentice grew more terrified with every word, pleading: "Master, stop talking—let's hurry and finish our rounds."

"Hurry? We've got a long way to go…"

Lao Zhao teased, but as he turned his head, his body stiffened, his face turned deathly pale.

"Master, don't scare me."

His apprentice's neck hairs stood on end; he shook his head frantically.

Behind them, the street was now thick with fog; the bright moonlight made it dreamlike, surreal.

Within the mist, several dark shapes emerged, walking with a floating, unnatural gait—not human at all.

"Cover up!"

Lao Zhao barked, pulling two tattered cloths from his backpack—one he draped over himself, the other he threw to his apprentice.

Though slow-witted, the apprentice wasn't foolish.

In the market, it was said that night watchmen, through years of walking the dark, accumulated certain protections—things to ward off disaster.

So the apprentice didn't hesitate—he wrapped the rag tightly over himself, covering nose and mouth completely.

Instantly, a foul stench slammed into his nostrils.

Like falling into a cesspool.

He held back his gag reflex, dared not speak, wrapped himself fully, even crouched to cover his feet.

Only his eyes remained, darting wildly.

Soon, the fog rolled over the entire street.

He finally saw what it was.

Paper figures—swaying, stepping with crossed legs, joints creaking with bamboo friction.

Closer look: they were the very figures from the paper shop moments ago.

But now, their white bodies were covered in dense, crimson script—like blood seeping from within.

What comforted him: the stinking rag on his body seemed to hold real power—the paper figures passed them by, utterly ignoring them.

He knew some characters; he couldn't help glancing at the nearest paper figure, reading: "Soul, return! Carved in Qin seal script, pledged with Chu shaman's sacrifice. East lies the Sun Tree, west the Candle Shadow, south bury three sacrificial beasts, north subdue human sacrifice…"

Rustle-rustle~

Before he could decipher further, a flood of paper figures drifted past.

Amid these horrors stood a vermilion-lacquered coffin, gilded with dragons and phoenixes—far beyond any common family's use.

Soon, the paper figures vanished into darkness.

The thick fog dissolved completely.

Yet neither dared move. Long after, Lao Zhao suddenly rose, yanking the rag off his body.

The apprentice followed, gasping fresh air, trembling: "Master, what was that?"

"How should I know!"

Lao Zhao glared, but his tone softened: "You're not bad, kid. Didn't panic and run off and drag me down."

Praised, the apprentice grew bolder, staring at the stinking rag in his hand: "Master, what's this treasure?"

"Hunyuan Golden Robe!"

"Want it? It's yours—for twenty copper coins."

Lao Zhao brushed it off, then stared at the corner, his gaze heavy: "Something's wrong. Follow me."

Saying that, he turned back with his apprentice.

Before the paper-figure shop, disaster had struck.

The shop was in ruins—the paper figures outside were gone, lights extinguished; both apprentices lay sprawled on the floor.

Faces twisted in terror, bodies coated in frost.

Around the shop, black mold oozed from the brick crevices.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Frantic gong beats echoed through the ancient city's night sky…

…………

Yi River is a tributary of the Luo River, south of the Yellow River. According to the Luan Chuan County Annals, Yi River is also called Yi Water—the ancient Luanshui.

Though the weather was cold, the ice on Yi River had melted; yellow waters surged, slapping against the boat's hull.

Splash—splash—

The wooden boat glided through the choppy current.

At the bow, Li Yan stood with arms crossed.

The river wind stirred his dark hair, and his black fur cloak rippled slightly.

After a long journey, dusty and weary, they had finally reached Luoyang.

The journey had not been peaceful.

They left Chengdu Prefecture, followed the Min River into the Yangtze, then traveled up the Han River through Xiangyang into the Tang-Bai River, and from Nanyang, moved by both water and land.

Three thousand li by water, five hundred li by land.

It took over ten days.

Even with haste, mishaps occurred.

Near Leshan's Li Dui, their boat ran aground—but thanks to his reputation in Sichuan's underworld, the local rivermen's leader came personally to help…

When they reached Hankou, they encountered a conflict between the Cao Gang and the Pai Jiao, blocking the waterway; the official in charge was a fool who dared demand "guotang silver," leading to a fight that drew the Cao Gang's elder to come and apologize.

Of course, they also presented them with a "Cao Army Command Flag," and with the Tu Shi prowling the waters, all bandits and river pirates in Huguang scattered at the mere sight.

Upon reaching the Tangbai River, the water had grown shallow due to reservoir construction, so they split up and switched to several "zemeng boats" to continue onward.

Beside him, a burly man sat cross-legged on the deck, slowly eating snacks, his eyes half-closed in delight.

Among them all, Wu Ba was the most carefree.

He ate wherever he went, and his taste had grown fussy.

The snacks wrapped in oiled paper must have been exceptional to satisfy him so thoroughly.

Luoyang, capital of thirteen dynasties, blended imperial court cuisine, Daoist offerings, and urban street flavors—its pastries carried both the refined elegance of a thousand-year legacy and the heavy weight of the Heluo folk culture.

These were "Tang Guozi" purchased during an evening stop at Bowang Post, when they moored for a meal at a decent pastry shop.

Originally a court delicacy, refined by incorporating Hu culinary techniques, they were once served only to nobles and officials; now, with the divine capital's decline, they had long spread among the common people.

There was "Imperial Consort Hong," filled with Luoning red beans, wrapped in glutinous rice dough dyed crimson like rouge, shaped like a peony—legend says Yang Yuhuan loved them most.

There was "Mandala Cake," a offering for the Buddha's birthday at Bai Ma Temple, shaped into an eight-petaled lotus with sesame and honey, symbolizing the "Eightfold Path."

There was also Peony Flower Dish, Peony Pastry, Peony Honey Cake—alongside the Eight Luoyang Delicacies: "Kai Kou Xiao," "Jin Ma Zao," "Jiang Mi Tiao," and more.

Such a large bundle was naturally expensive.

Someone once said, "Luoyang noble families make pastries—one box costs ten gold pieces"—imagine the price.

From these delicacies alone, one could glimpse the grandeur of that era.

Of course, Wu Ba didn't care—he popped one into his mouth after another.

"Aren't you sick of how sweet they are?"

Li Yan glanced over, silent, and shook his head.

Many of these were sweet treats; he could only eat more when paired with good tea.

Saying this, he squinted slightly, then turned his head.

On the rear "zemeng boat," the Tian Tong Jiao's Di Longzi leapt from the deck, soaring eight meters before slamming his foot hard against the water.

With a thunderous crash, water sprayed in all directions.

He rose again, landing steadily on their boat.

Though his hands were still injured, his skill remained—this move was beyond the reach of any ordinary dark-force expert.

He had already entered Hua Jing.

But in Li Yan's eyes, every motion was riddled with flaws.

He was only half a step away from Dan Jing.

Of course, Li Yan would never show off; he merely smiled and nodded. "Senior, your skill is truly impressive!"

"You flatter me."

Di Longzi shook his head, gazing ahead, and said gravely: "Li Shaoxia, ahead lies the Yi River Ferry. There's a Longmen Post there—we can change horses and head straight for Luoyang."

"As you wish, Senior."

Li Yan nodded slightly, his expression calm.

He was no greenhorn fresh to the Jianghu; after several casual chats along the way, he was certain the old man had ulterior motives.

He had even vaguely guessed the man's plan.

It was nothing more than using him to eliminate a few rivals.

When they were on Mount Qingcheng, the old man had six or seven disciples; now he had only four—the other three were likely ahead, setting traps.

Though he understood, Li Yan didn't care.

With different levels of cultivation and status, methods naturally differed.

In the past, they had no reputation and insufficient strength, facing off against demonic titans and reincarnated demons, each harder than the last.

So they had to play both sides, avoid direct conflict, and recruit allies.

Now, all they needed was to remain unchanged and respond to all changes.

In the end, it would force the mastermind behind the scenes to reveal himself.

Not long after, a ferry appeared ahead—though not as bustling as Hankou Ferry or Chaotianmen, it was still sizable.

The boats here differed from those in the south.

Mainly Cao Yun ships—shallow-bottomed "grain boats" of the Yellow River, commonly called "Huanghe Bianzi," with Zhe wood keels and tightly riveted willow nails.

Twin-masted vessels, used for both passengers and cargo, known as "Huanghe Yaozi."

And paired-hull boats, two vessels lashed side-by-side with iron chains, planked over, under the jurisdiction of the Yuzhou Regional Military Commissioner; boatmen needed a "Cao Fu."

Others included the Hunjiang Long and Kunxiang boats.

They also spotted a military Yellow River Tower Ship—double-decked, with battlements and arrow slits on the upper deck, oarsmen hidden below, and cannons mounted at the bow.

After a flurry of activity boarding the ferry, the group followed Di Longzi away from the shore immediately.

After traveling a short distance along the official road, a sizable post station appeared before them.

Di Longzi gave a signal, and one of his disciples dashed into the station.

They had long operated in Yuzhou and knew the area well—even if the postmaster was ignorant, they could still requisition horses using their Dao Die.

But the disciple had barely entered before he rushed out, face filled with helplessness: "Master, there are no horses."

"Interesting."

Di Longzi laughed bitterly. "No horses at the post station? Does every official here want to lose his head?"

Imperial regulations required post stations to always keep fast horses ready to relay urgent intelligence; if the postmaster rented them all to merchants, he was trading his life for money.

The disciple hurried to explain: "Longmen Post originally had many, but this morning a detachment of Battalion Commanders arrived, urgently heading for Luoyang, and took all the horses!"

"Oh?"

Li Yan recalled the military ship he'd seen by the shore and said gravely: "Has something happened in Luoyang?"

The disciple shook his head. "I don't know."

"You don't know anything—what kind of scouting is this?!"

Di Longzi's face darkened at this.

These disciples were good at flattery, but they were dull-witted—and often made him lose face before fellow Daoists.

The disciple quickly added: "Master, don't be angry—I've already asked. We can still get horses. According to the postmaster, a Long elder of the Heluo Horse Gang is resting at a guesthouse just ahead."

"The Horse Gang still has a few horses left."

"Oh, and that guesthouse is called Longmen Guesthouse…"

(End of Chapter)