Chapter 744: Jinan, the City of Springs

Fine rain fell like silk, veiling the river in a thin gauze.

The ink-green, silent fields and villages along both banks were shrouded in misty rain, as if one had stepped into the misty south of the Yangtze.

Yet this was the Xiaoqing River route outside Jinan City.

Li Yan and the others had left Tongzhou Wharf; by land, they would have to disembark at Cangzhou, crossing mountains and ridges for days on end.

Fortunately, the entire journey from Tongzhou to Jinan Fu could be made by canal route, following the Grand Canal through Linqing, Dongchang, Dongping Lake, Jining, and other wharves to reach Jinan City directly.

Though it looped around, it saved at least seven days of travel.

The only discomfort was the constant rain, but the unseasonal summer downpour brought little coolness—only a heavy, stifling dampness, and the waterlines hanging from the gunwales never ceased dripping.

The treasure-ship “Yunfan,” found by Lin Fatty, now had its sails soaked through, darkened slightly, sagging heavily, forcing the crew to exert great effort.

“Damn, this rain’s got mold growing in my bones.”

Sha Lifei leaned against the cabin door, gazing at the rain curtain and grumbling.

His short tunic hung half-open, revealing a patch of chest hair that shook constantly as he tried to snatch the faintest breath of cool air from outside, his body drenched and reeking of sweat.

Wang Daoxuan sat cross-legged in a corner of the cabin, eyes closed, his blue Daoist robe spotless.

He sat in meditation, reading a Daoist scripture, not a single bead of sweat on his forehead.

“Wang Dao-ye’s got real skill—still so crisp in this stifling weather,” Lin Fatty couldn’t help but admire.

Wang Daoxuan lifted his eyelids slightly, his gaze seeming to pierce through the deck as he sighed southward: “The qi of heaven and earth moves in its own rhythm. This endless rain isn’t the sign of northern summer heat—it carries the dampness of the south. Qilu land is anchored by Mount Tai, nourished by springs; such a sight may not be auspicious.”

“Jinan Fu is called the ‘City of Springs’—hundreds of springs bubble within its walls, and hidden rivers weave beneath. Under such weather, water vapor accumulates even more; a misstep could trigger an anomaly…”

Others might have spoken this as mere speculation.

But since Wang Daoxuan had cultivated the Five-Head Divine Scripture and completed the lineage, all the miscellaneous arts he’d once studied had merged into one; along the journey, observing mountains and moonlight, he’d correctly guessed many things, and the group had grown deeply convinced.

Kuai Dayou, carving a wooden component with a knife, lifted his head dismissively: “What’s to fear? We’re the Twelve Zodiacs—if any evil thing stirs, isn’t that the perfect chance to make a name for ourselves?”

“We don’t have time for that…”

Sha Lifei shook his head and leaned over, teasing: “But you—you claim this thing’s miraculous. When will it be done? Don’t end up embarrassing yourself.”

“Just watch. Don’t go back on your word!”

Kuai Dayou curled his lips, glancing silently toward the cabin’s exterior.

Outside the cabin, on deck, two others sat.

The days of rain and heat had made the cabin stink unbearable; Long Yan’er, who cultivated Gushu , couldn’t stand the filth and odor, so she’d set up a shaded canopy outside, reading a book while mixing strange powders in a medicinal jar.

Li Yan stood alone at the bow, fine rain dampening the brim of his straw hat, dripping drop by drop.

His nose was too sensitive—he couldn’t stand the smell either.

Kuai Dayou’s words reached his ears.

Luo Mingzi had tasked him to investigate the southern situation and assigned Kong Shangzhao as an aide; he understood the intent: to use this opportunity to bring Kong Shangzhao into the Twelve Zodiacs.

Kuai Dayou, who loved a good spectacle, had proposed a wager with Sha Lifei.

He’d seen how troublesome it was for Lu San and others to set up a temporary altar for Wang Daoxuan, so he claimed he could craft a mechanical altar that, when not in use, could serve as a backpack, and with a simple twist, transform into a full altar.

If he succeeded, both he and Kong Shangzhao would be admitted into the Twelve Zodiacs.

Sha Lifei had long coveted these two.

One, well-read in classics, skilled in reasoning and analysis, able to extract clues from scattered texts and documents.

The other, a genius from a northern artisan family, whose hands could turn decay into wonder.

Though their martial skills were mediocre and they couldn’t stand alone, both were rare logistical talents.

Thus, with Li Yan’s silent approval, Sha Lifei had readily taken up the wager.

In truth, the only task was to observe their character along the way.

The Twelve Zodiacs were comrades bound by loyalty; now many sought to join them, but if they didn’t fit, no matter how great their abilities, they would never be accepted.

What truly troubled Li Yan was Wang Daoxuan’s earlier words.

In his past life, this time had also seen a mini-ice age.

By logic, after entering summer, the north should have remained cool—but now it had become the oppressive, humid heat of the south alone.

All signs indicated this celestial anomaly differed from his past life.

Added to that, the human transformation had already begun—the unprecedented Gang-Sha steam engine had appeared.

What would the future hold?

Li Yan could not yet judge.

And what had happened to Mount Tai?

As Li Yan pondered, the treasure-ship reached the Banqiao Wharf area; voices pierced through the rain.

“Young Master Lin, ahead is Banqiao Wharf—we’re almost there!”

The boat captain wiped rain from his face and shouted a warning.

Hearing this, everyone stepped onto the deck.

The wharf teemed with boats, not slowing despite the rain—quite the opposite, it grew busier.

Wooden sailing junks, black-canopied boats, cargo vessels crowded the waterway, their sails soggy, rolled or half-lowered.

The shouts of haulers, the cries of sailors, the dull thuds of hulls colliding, mixed with street vendors’ calls wrapped in oilcloth, formed a symphony within the rain mist.

The wharf’s stone slabs, washed black and glossy by rain, saw countless coolies in straw capes and sandals hauling sacks and crates back and forth between boats and slippery banks, splashing mud and water.

The air reeked of river mud, damp wood, unavoidable fish odor, and sweat—all suppressed by rain, yet stubbornly rising again.

Jinan Wharf’s status as a water transport hub was unquestioned.

The Xiaoqing River route they traveled was first dug during the Southern Song’s Shaoxi era, starting at Jinan, flowing east through Zibo, Weifang, Dongying, and emptying into the Bohai Sea—the only artificial canal linking inland and coast in Qilu land.

Sea salt from the coast traveled upstream via the Xiaoqing River to Jinan, then distributed by land to Zhonglu, Xilu, and the prefectures of Yuzhou and Jizhou; Jinan’s local goods, meanwhile, were loaded onto ships at the wharf, floated downstream to the Bohai Bay, then shipped to Liaodong, the Korean Peninsula, and even Japan.

It was this wharf that made Jinan a vital transit node for north-south goods and land-sea cargo.

The closer they drew to the city, the richer the riverside scenes became.

Brick-and-tile homes stood beside the water, interspersed with shops and warehouses featuring upturned eaves; their banners, soaked by rain, faded in color.

Finally, the massive, ancient silhouette of Jinan Fu’s city wall emerged through the mist, looming in the distance.

The treasure-ship struggled for a while before finding a mooring spot in the crowded wharf.

The anchor plunged into the murky water; the gangplank was laid across the slippery stone steps.

Li Yan and the others packed their gear and stepped onto the soil of Banqiao Wharf.

Instantly, the cool, sticky chill of the wet stone slabs rose through their soles.

A tide of people surged through the rain, capes and straw hats forming a gray, moving barrier; shouts, arguments, and the clatter of loading and unloading cargo rang clear beneath the drumming rain.