Chapter 783: The Method of Casting the Dragon

It’s this guy…

Li Yan felt a flicker of doubt.

The man was recorded in ancient texts like The Biographies of Immortals; he wasn’t curious, having encountered too many such figures—even cultivated a relationship with Erlang Zhenjun.

What puzzled him was why this man had come to Jinling.

According to the earlier bandits’ confessions, this earth immortal had clearly been coerced or feared the Jianmu Organization, which was why he revealed the information and fled hastily.

Logically, he should have fled far away—yet here he was, arriving in Jinling, a place brimming with danger…

Gazing at the distant Qiyuan Tower, Li Yan’s eyes flashed with sharp intent.

He had a hunch that things might take an unexpected turn.

He’d already accepted the mission; there was no rush. After his Yin Official authority increased, he wouldn’t be punished for acting—or not acting. He’d wait and see what the man intended…

With that thought, he strode toward Qiyuan Tower, raising his palm in a gesture.

Several hundred meters away, Wang Daoxuan stood on a rooftop, fingers forming the Yang Seal, channeling his divine power; with his exceptional eyesight, he clearly saw Li Yan’s signal.

“There’s something unusual inside, but don’t act yet.”

He turned to look beside him; Sha Li Fei, holding a fire gun, gave a slight nod.

Jinling was now a nest of dangers; they naturally couldn’t risk letting Li Yan enter alone, so they’d split into two teams to await outside.

Meanwhile, Li Yan had reached the front gate.

The gatekeeper spotted him and immediately scurried over, bowing deeply.

“Esteemed young master, you…”

Before he could finish, a woman stepped out from within, cutting him off coldly:

“You may leave.”

“Yes, Miss Wang.”

The gatekeeper’s eyes widened in surprise, but without a word, he stepped aside.

Li Yan studied the woman before him.

She wasn’t dressed as a courtesan, but in a black martial suit, wearing a bamboo-plate vest; each bamboo slat gleamed with metallic luster and was inscribed with dense, intricate blood runes.

She wasn’t beautiful, but carried an air of fierce vigor; though short, her posture was rigidly upright.

This attire was familiar to Li Yan.

Demon hunter!

Compared to the ferocity of northern demon hunters, this woman appeared more efficient; her weapons had been replaced by a row of flying daggers, fire guns, and various medicine pouches at her waist.

“I am Wang Lu. Young Master Li, please come in.”

The woman’s face remained expressionless as she stepped aside and gestured with her hand.

Why was a demon hunter working as a bodyguard?

Though curious, Li Yan asked no further questions and followed her inside.

As soon as he stepped through Qiyuan Tower’s gate, noise and warm scents surged toward him.

Before him stretched a vast “horse-running tower” courtyard—a luxury in the gold-value waterside of Qinhuai River.

Two levels of corridors encircled the space, their vermilion railings exquisitely carved; beams and lintels bore intricate Suzhou-style painted decorations; the floor was paved with polished stone, gleaming like a mirror.

In the courtyard’s center, a stage raised a foot above ground was in performance.

The performers on stage weren’t heavily made-up Kunqu opera actors, but a man and a woman: the man struck a cloud board, the woman cradled an erhu, singing in authentic Jinling dialect a rhythmic, lively, folk-style melody.

“Cloud board clinks, erhu strings pull, esteemed guests, listen as I tell my tale… / Barbarians ravage, hearts tremble, / Jinling’s walls bristle with blades and spears. / Don’t panic, don’t fear— / Heroes shall protect us… / Oh my, safeguarding this land of six dynasties’ splendor, / This ten-mile Qinhuai home!”

This was the local folk ballad known as “Bai Ju.”

Bai Ju lyrics were timely, laced with wit and satire; the guests seated around the stage were mostly merchants, literati, and officials—some listened intently, others clapped and cheered, while a few frowned slightly, perhaps unsettled by the blunt reflection of current affairs.

The air mingled tea fragrance, alcohol fumes, perfume, and the refined aroma of Yuhua tea. Waiters darted through the crowd, carrying delicate Qinhuai Eight Delicacies, moving with practiced speed.

Li Yan’s gaze swept over the bustling scene without lingering.

The demon hunter named Wang Lu led him through the noisy courtyard, along the corridors, toward the quieter rear section.

Along the way, several elegant rooms with Xiangfei bamboo curtains revealed muffled whispers within.

Finally, they stopped before an unassuming sliding door.

The door was made of chicken-wing wood, its grain fine as feathers.

She pushed it open with a creak and stepped aside, gesturing for Li Yan to enter.

Inside was a quiet, refined chamber, utterly unlike the noise and opulence outside; on the wall hung a ink painting titled “Scenic Jinling,” and in a blue-and-white porcelain vase at the corner stood a few simple seasonal flower branches.

On a redwood eight-immortal table, a lavish feast had been laid out, steaming and fragrant: golden-brown Jinling salted duck, deep-red savory lion’s head meatballs, crisp golden squirrel mandarin fish—all local specialties.

Yet Li Yan’s gaze swept over the dishes in an instant, then locked onto the two figures waiting beside the table.

To the right stood a middle-aged woman, around forty, elegant and composed.

Her face was lovely, well-maintained; she wore a long qipao in autumn-saffron hue, its brocade woven with intricate “phoenix pecking peony” hidden patterns; her black hair was styled into a “peony knot,” with a gold swallow hairpin adorned with kingfisher feathers and red gems slanted through it.

The swallow’s beak held a pearl, wings poised to take flight—the mark of the Golden Swallow Sect.

To the left stood an old Daoist, his hair and beard snow-white, his frame slender; he wore a plain green hemp robe, so humble it bordered on destitution, utterly out of place amid the lavish chamber and sumptuous feast.

Most striking was the large, ancient gourd tied at his waist.

The gourd was deep brown, glossy and smooth, clearly aged from years of handling, its surface polished into a thick patina; carved into it in bold, vigorous strokes was the ancient character “Cook.”

His eyes showed clear wariness upon seeing Li Yan.

Seeing Li Yan enter, Murong Yan, leader of Jinling’s Golden Swallow Sect, rose with a warm smile, her steps graceful and warmly familiar: “Young Master Li, heroic youth, famed throughout the capital! Your southern journey has already turned the tide in Yangzhou, slaying demons one after another—who in Jinling doesn’t know your name? I’ve long admired you; to finally meet you today is indeed a glory to Qiyuan Tower.”

“Please, take your seat—taste these Jinling delicacies, all freshly served…”

Her tone was respectful yet composed.

Yet Li Yan didn’t move a step; his gaze, sharp as a blade, passed right over Murong Yan and fixed on the face of the hemp-robed old man with the ancient gourd.

“Zhou Yin?”

Li Yan’s voice was cold: “Why show yourself before me?”

As he spoke, his hand closed around his soul warrant.

Judging by the man’s expression, he clearly knew Li Yan’s identity; rather than passively follow the man’s rhythm, better to ask directly and learn the truth.

The sudden question shattered the harmonious atmosphere Murong Yan had carefully constructed.