Chapter 133: Jing Yan Shu, Let Me Introduce You to It

"It's sand bandits! Quick, quick, run!" Merchant Eric flipped onto his horse, slashed the ropes of one cart, and the others pulled the goods away in a frantic dash.

Eric was a veteran desert merchant; his caravan had twelve men, all seasoned companions who traveled this route year-round, knew every dune, every wasteland, every oasis by heart, and were intimately familiar with the sand bandits' habits—always managing to avoid them safely.

If he couldn't avoid them, his caravan would've been scattered long ago, and his head wouldn't still be on his neck.

Still, Eric carried some "tribute goods"—items sand bandits loved: hemorrhoid ointment, sunburn salve, cloth, thread, aphrodisiacs—cheap, but wildly popular.

These tribute goods were packed separately on one cart, ready to be abandoned outright if needed, letting the bandits fight over them.

Some bandits who preferred steady gains, seeing him so cooperative, would simply turn back.

Thanks to this method, Eric had escaped several bandit chases—but lately, things had changed.

First, the number of bandits on the route had surged, as if most of the desert's bandits had converged on this area; along the way, Eric had already encountered three bands.

This was abnormal. Thanks to his experience, he always avoided the main path—where caravans preferred the straightest route between two oases or water sources, and bandits loved to ambush there.

So he took detours, avoiding the straight line, taking longer but staying safer.

Of course, only a veteran like him had the nerve—across the vast desert, with no landmarks, missing a water source or oasis by even a little could mean death for a caravan.

But now, even after detouring, he'd met three bands—how many must be waiting on the straight path?

The first two times, they escaped by speed; the third time, the horses were too tired, so they abandoned the tribute cart.

But when the bandits reached the cart and saw what was inside, they mounted up and chased after them again, shouting something as they rode.

Eric didn't listen closely, just whipped his horse and galloped hard—his caravan used three horses per cart, with the wheels enchanted with a Slow spell to prevent sinking into the sand at high speed.

It was the cheapest desert wheel solution, full of folk wisdom—who'd have thought a spell meant to hinder movement could work so magically in sand?

Maybe the tribute cart slowed the bandits down, or maybe not—Eric's caravan quickly lost them. Only then did he turn and ask his companion: "What were those bandits shouting?"

A companion behind him, wrapped head to toe in a cloak, even covering his eyes with a veil, replied: "They said, no aphrodisiacs—give them water. They'll pay for it."

"Ha! I believe that as much as I believe a dog can fly. These bastards are evil—pay? I've never heard of sand bandits paying for anything. They just want to trick us into stopping, kill us all, and steal everything." Eric cursed bitterly.

"They're few. If you want, I can kill them all." The cloaked companion spoke without emotion.

"No, no, no—don't go around killing all the time. We're merchants—we follow merchant rules: haggle when needed, pay tribute when needed, share profits when needed. Money isn't something one man can hoard—everyone profits together, that's the long-term way. Without these bandits, who'd buy my expensive goods?" Eric pleaded earnestly.

More bandits meant greater danger and higher transport costs, which drove up prices—now a single cart could sell for four or five times its old value. With so many bandits around, it was too dangerous—prices must rise.

The cloaked companion, hearing this last, gritted his teeth and spat: "Greedy merchant."

Far ahead, figures moved atop the dunes—white headscarves, mounted on camels—classic desert folk attire.

"Why are there desert folk here? There's no oasis nearby—could the bandits be setting a trap?" Eric immediately pulled his horse to a stop, watching from afar.

The desert folk spotted Eric's group too and raised the alarm; several rushed up the dune, watching warily.

But after seeing their gear and carts, they relaxed—except the first one, the rest returned behind the dune.

This was normal desert folk behavior. Eric quickly saddled another horse, rode double, and galloped toward them—if they were bandits setting a trap, he could flee on two horses; if they were truly desert folk, he'd found customers.

Seeing him approach alone, they lowered their hands from their knives—especially when Eric raised both hands, they raised theirs too—signaling no hostility.

Soon they closed the distance enough to speak. The desert folk shouted: "Caravan?"

"Caravan!" Eric shouted back.

"Where to?"

"Hope Oasis!"

"We are. What do you carry?"

"Tea, oil, iron pots, needles, medicine, cloth."

"Do you have seeds?"

"Seeds? What seeds? Why would we carry that?"

"No, no, never mind—my kids are curious, wanted to see plant seeds from places without oases. No matter, forget it."

Eric? A shrewd, seasoned desert merchant—he instantly sensed the desert folk were lying. He stayed alert, asking: "And you? What are you doing here?"

"Building a road. You're lucky—once it's done, you'll reach the oasis much faster." The desert folk replied.

"Building a road? You—" Eric nearly wanted to smash the desert folk's skull right then. Lying through your teeth—building a road in the desert? Who's this idiot? If you're going to lie, at least respect the person you're lying to! Who'd believe such nonsense?

"You don't believe me?" The desert folk saw Eric's expression and panicked: "Then come see for yourself!"

Eric cautiously edged toward the dune's edge and looked down.

A road stretched from the horizon all the way to the base of the dune. At its leading edge, two human mages were casting spells, continuously firing magic into the sand until saturation—then, with a sudden sink, the sand hardened into a flat, solid stone-sand road.

Along both sides of the road, desert folk laid down strips of straw matting at fixed intervals, pouring water over them.

On the already-laid road, carts came and went constantly, hauling water and straw mats to spread along the edges. The desert folk moved with practiced ease—clearly they'd repeated this countless times.

"It's… really being built? You… you're insane?" Eric said in disbelief.

The desert folk drew half his saber with a metallic clang: "Who are you calling insane?!"

"No, no, no—mistake, mistake! I meant, in the desert, this road'll be buried by dunes in a few days!" Eric quickly apologized and corrected himself.

He realized he'd spoken foolishly—the two mages casting were clearly absurdly powerful. A long stretch of road formed in one breath, no pause. He'd just called such mages insane—what a death wish.

The desert folk knew it was a slip—otherwise his saber wouldn't have been only half-drawn.

"You don't understand. See those straw mats? Laid at fixed intervals—they'll stop the dunes from creeping over." The desert folk boasted.

"But… but won't they just dry up and die tomorrow? The roots won't even have time to anchor!" Eric worried.

"No worry—we have the Undying One. These plants won't die from sun." The desert folk patted his chest, beaming.

"Ah? Undying?" Eric reacted instantly—did he mean *that* Undying?

"Yes, that Undying—the one that makes plants thrive, never dies no matter how much sun." The desert folk said.

Hey, hey, you've got it wrong—"Undying" doesn't mean that! You mean "Sun-Proof"!

"Undying" was a sensitive term. Eric dared not argue with the desert folk, only asked if his caravan could pass. After receiving permission, he signaled his companions afar, then turned his gaze back to the road.

"Huh? Baby dragons? Four?" Only now did Eric notice three baby dragons playing on the road with a little girl—the fourth baby dragon was arguing with the mage who had his nose in the air.

"You said you'd sell yourself for two years—so for two years you just lie around eating and drinking, not lifting a finger?" Nagelis scolded Brucek firmly.

Brucek panted heavily, weakly retorting: "I thought 'sell yourself' meant like you—just open your mouth, and when enemies come, you scare them off."

"What? You're mocking me for only using my mouth? You think I won't let White Throat beat your son?" Nagelis glared.

White Throat was, of course, the silver dragon egg—it inherited its mother's traits, including the white scales on its throat, and thus inherited her name too, though White Throat was male.

Silver dragons were melee dragons; gold dragons were spellcasters. Under equal size, gold dragons were always the ones getting beaten.

Brucek glared in fury. Facing this shameless dragon ancestor, as clan chief, all he could do was puff his cheeks and glare.

Nai Ai Li was already ancient in lineage; Nagelis was even older—and the only dragon in the clan, besides the legendary Dragon God, who had ignited divine flame. His prestige was terrifying.

If Nagelis chose to return to the dragon clan, even the great dragons might not know whose orders to follow.

After a moment of anger, Brucek sighed helplessly: "But you shouldn't have lied to me."

"Where did I lie? Didn't you say yourself: 'Whatever Ange does, I'll do the same'? Didn't you say that?" Nagelis replied firmly.

"I… I…" Brucek was speechless. Yes, he'd said that—but who could've imagined Ange was a monster?

He'd thought himself a Truth-tier powerhouse—others struggled for a year to finish a task; he could do it with one or two spells. If others could finish it, he could easily do it too.

Who could've imagined this Ange Master worked nonstop, day and night, endlessly, harder than any slave-donkey in the labor gangs?

Whatever Ange did, he did the same. Oh gods—why did he open his mouth and say that?!

"Huh? A caravan's here? Quick, quick, bring them down, let them test the road—see how smooth it is!" Nagelis spotted Eric's group on the dune and ordered immediately.

Nai Ai Li was the desert folk's god—even without igniting divine flame, their devotion to it was no less. And Nagelis, as Nai Ai Li's nominal spouse—what was he? God-husband?

Hearing the God-Husband's order, the desert folk hurriedly invited Eric's group down.

Stepping onto the stone-sand road, Eric instantly sensed the desert was about to change. If those building this road lacked the strength or time to protect it, the bloodshed and strife around it would be immense.

This road would drastically shorten the journey to the oasis—from twelve days down to two or three.

In the future, his detouring would vanish—others would cover the route in two or three days; he'd take ten or more. His caravan couldn't survive.

Traveling this road meant facing bandits head-on. These two powerful mages could build such a road—but could they spare the time to guard it?

A thousand thoughts surged in Eric's mind—but when he looked up, he saw everyone's attention wasn't on him, but on the cloaked companion behind him.

Eric's heart sank—he realized the two powerful mages had seen through his companion's identity.

But the two mages seemed uninterested, glanced briefly, then returned to work. The one with the nose in the air shouted: "I'm done. I'll build two more kilometers, then go to sleep. Don't wake me. When I wake up, I'll make up whatever's missing."

With that, he strode forward, stepping directly into the sand. Where his bare feet touched, the sand sank as if crushed by an invisible giant foot.

Step by step, he forged the road's shape, running up the dune, then turning back two kilometers away, the ground sinking again with each step. After several repetitions, a two-kilometer stone-sand road was stamped into existence by sheer force.

This time, Brucek finally collapsed. Panting, he found an open patch of sand, dove headfirst—and sank in immediately.

Any observer knew Brucek had surrendered. His efficiency was high, but his mana cost was enormous. Ange moved slowly, but endured. In short bursts, Brucek won—but over time, he was worn out like a dead dog.

Nagelis stretched his neck, scoffed, then shouted: "Lisa! One of the guests is a lich—come greet him."

Eric and the cloaked companion froze, hearts in their throats: They'd been seen—what now?

What could they do? Within the sight of two powerful mages, they dared nothing—only watched as a woman in a black veil dress approached them.

"Huh? A little girl?" Lisa's first glance fell on the cloaked figure, and she exclaimed in delight.

Might as well die—since they couldn't act, Eric boldly said: "Madam, calling her a 'little girl' isn't appropriate—this lady is very old."

"Oh? How old?" Lisa asked curiously.

"This lady is two hundred years old." Eric replied.

"Ah?! Then that's not right—I'm over a thousand! Calling you a 'little girl' makes you sound ancient!" Lisa fretted.

Pfft—your fresh, youthful face dares claim you're over a thousand?! Eric nearly spat blood.

"Forget it. Don't dwell on this. Little one, take off your veil so Grandma can see you." Lisa beamed warmly.

The cloaked woman hesitated: "No, please—I'm not pretty. I'm afraid I'll scare you."

"Hahaha! Business has arrived! Don't worry about being ugly—Jing Yan Shu, let me introduce you to it." Lisa beamed like a bull-headed aunt hawking wares at the temple gate.