bullyxtreme Chapter 556 This is the Jianghu
Chapter 556 This is the Jianghu
After the martial arts tournament ended, Zhenbei City became even more lively.
As darkness fell, lanterns along the streets lit up one by one, their orange-red glow spreading out in the twilight like flowers blooming in the night breeze.
The restaurants and teahouses were packed with people, and even the doorsteps were filled with diners drinking soup from their bowls.
A long queue formed in front of the pancake stall, with steamers stacked higher than a person. The white steam mixed with the aroma of meat and dough filled half the street.
A few teenagers carrying pinwheels squeezed through the crowd, the pinwheels spinning in the twilight like little flowers being blown by the wind.
Inside the restaurant, several tables of guests were gathered together, drinking and gesturing about the scene from today's martial arts tournament.
A northern man in a fur coat placed his wine bowl on the table, then stretched out a hand as large as a palm leaf fan, drawing an arc in the air:
"I'm telling you, I saw that sword strike with my own eyes! That sword light, just like that, with a whoosh—it cleaved the sky in two!"
Across from him stood a thin young scholar holding a wine cup, shaking his head slightly, his tone hesitant:
"I can't completely believe what you're saying... Split the sky in two? Isn't that divine intervention? Do you Northerners always exaggerate like that?"
Upon hearing this, the man in the fur coat's eyes widened in surprise:
"You don't believe me? Ask them! Everyone there saw it! The clouds really did break open, and the sun was letting in! If you still don't believe me, go to the training ground tomorrow and see for yourself; the sword mark on the arena is still there!"
An elderly man next to him also put down his chopsticks and slowly nodded:
"It's absolutely true. I've lived for over sixty years and this is the first time I've ever seen such a sword light. It's not a sword technique that's been practiced; it's beyond the scope of sword practice. It's like a person who was walking and suddenly suddenly takes flight."
Upon hearing this, the gaunt scholar paused in mid-air with his wine cup, remained silent for a moment, and then slowly put the cup down.
"Just who exactly is this Zhao San?"
The man in the fur coat scratched his head: "I don't know. I heard even Prince Xu doesn't know where he came from. I've never heard of the Qingfeng Sword Sect before either."
A young man carrying a long sword at the next table turned his head and whispered, "I heard he even defeated Bai Yujing."
"Bai Yujing has lost?"
The scholar put down his chopsticks. "That Bai Yujing is from Penglai Island in the East Sea. I've heard his swordsmanship has long since reached the realm of oneness with heaven and man. To be able to defeat him on the arena, what level of cultivation must that Zhao fellow possess?"
The young man paused for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully: "I think even Prince Xu stood up from his seat; that's beyond what you can describe. Anyway, tomorrow's list will say Zhao San is number one."
Another round of discussion arose in the restaurant, spreading out in circles like wheat fields being blown by the wind.
Inside the teahouse, the storyteller was recounting the most exciting part of the story.
The gavel struck, and the hall fell silent: "Now, let's talk about Zhao San. As he raised his sword, the sky suddenly changed, and the clouds surged like a sea. With a single sword stroke, the heavens seemed to tremble!"
Several tea drinkers, engrossed in the conversation, involuntarily held their breath.
Some people brought their teacups to their lips but forgot to drink.
A child was riding on his father's shoulders, his eyes wide open.
The storyteller struck his gavel again: "Bai Yujing was no ordinary man either. With a backhand strike, his sword flashed like the moon, colliding in mid-air with the descending sword light—in that instant, the wind stopped, the sound ceased, and the thousands of people in the audience dared not even breathe!"
"And then what happened?" someone couldn't help but ask.
"later?"
The storyteller picked up his teacup, took a sip, put it down, and tapped the gavel. "Later, Bai Yujing sheathed his sword and admitted defeat, saying only, 'I lost.' Those three words were more effective than three hundred rounds of fighting!"
The sound of chopsticks hitting the rim of a bowl came from upstairs, and someone responded:
"Let me tell you, that Zhao San is no ordinary person. My cousin works as a guard at the training ground, and he personally witnessed Zhao San casually hand the Nine-Turn Qi Condensation Pill to a disciple from a small sect next to him after he stepped down from the stage, without even blinking."
"Given it to someone else?" Someone gasped. "One of those things is enough to save an ordinary person ten years of hard work, and he gave it to someone else?"
"He gave it to her. He also gave a little girl a bottle or something. He didn't take any of the 30,000 taels of gold or the Frost River Sword; he returned them all to Prince Xu."
The room erupted in uproar.
"You don't even want 30,000 taels of gold?"
"What does he want?"
"I don't know. Anyway, that guy surnamed Zhao is a weirdo."
The storyteller struck the gavel again, "But no matter what, today's battle will surely be known throughout the land. From tonight onward, no one will forget the name Zhao San."
In the market, several night watchmen were also whispering to each other.
The one carrying the lantern lowered his voice and said, "Have you heard? The battle at the training ground today was so fierce it split the sky open. There was a rogue cultivator named Zhao San who single-handedly took on the entire martial arts tournament."
The other person shook his head: "I've heard that too. They say that Zhao San is probably not a direct disciple of a terrestrial immortal."
"But if he really is a disciple of a deity, why was there no word of it beforehand?"
"Who knows? The world of martial arts is full of people whose origins are unclear."
Qin Mu was sitting on a rock outside the gray-white tent of the Qing Shi Sword Sect, holding a bowl of warm rice wine in his hand.
An iron pot was set up at the entrance of the Qing Shi Sword Sect's tent, and the stewed chicken inside was bubbling away, its aroma mingling with the scent of firewood and spreading in all directions.
Lin Xiaolu squatted by the pot, gently stirring the soup inside with a long spoon. Her movements were very careful, as if she were taking care of something that required patience to grow.
Lin Qingshi sat opposite Qin Mu, holding a bowl of wine in his hand.
He took a sip, put down the bowl, as if he had something to say but didn't know where to begin.
He was silent for a moment, then said, "Brother Zhao, I'm still a little dazed."
He paused, as if searching for a suitable explanation, "Three Nine-Turn Qi Condensation Pills... I'd never even heard of them before. You just gave them to me like that."
Qin Mu didn't reply, but simply held the wine bowl and watched the steam rising from the pot.
Lin Qingshi continued, "My master just told me that I should only use one of those three pills at most, and keep the other two for emergencies. I argued with him for a while, saying that Brother Zhao gave them to me, and I should decide what to do with them myself. He didn't say much, just nodded, glanced at me, looking both worried and relieved."
Qin Mu did not interrupt him, but listened quietly until he finished speaking.
Then he put down the wine bowl in his hand, as if listening to something very ordinary: "You can keep it for yourself. Eating one will help you walk a few more steps."
Lin Qingshi lowered his head, then raised it again, as if he had finally made up his mind: "Brother Zhao, if I have the chance in the future, I will definitely repay this favor."
Qin Mu looked at him, noticing his serious expression, which suggested he wasn't just being polite.
He chuckled softly, not saying "no need to pay it back," but simply picked up his wine bowl, took a sip, and said, "Well, just remember it. It's not too late to pay it back later."
Lin Xiaolu had already served a bowl of stewed chicken and placed it in front of Qin Mu.
There was still a little soup left on the rim of the bowl, indicating that it was served rather hastily.
She took out a pair of bamboo chopsticks from her sleeve, wiped them on the hem of her clothes, and handed them to him: "Brother Zhao, eat them while they're hot."
Qin Mu took the bamboo chopsticks, bent down and picked up a piece of chicken.
The meat was stewed until tender and melted in your mouth, with a rich flavor from the simmering of herbs and spices. It wasn't fancy, but it had a comforting and substantial quality.
He took a bite and nodded: "It's delicious."
His tone was flat, but it made Lin Xiaolu's lips twitch slightly.
As if remembering something, she pulled the porcelain bottle from her sleeve: "By the way, Brother Zhao, what is this you gave me today?"
She couldn't bear to open it, afraid of accidentally spilling it, and also afraid of not knowing what to do with it once she opened it.
After returning from the training ground, she carefully tucked the porcelain vase into her sleeve, touching it every now and then to make sure it was still there.
Qin Mu glanced at the porcelain bottle: "Bone-Regenerating Pill. Take one when injured; it can be used for both internal and external injuries. Keep it; you'll always find a use for it."
Lin Xiaolu looked down at the porcelain vase, its surface warm from her palm. She gently stroked the curve of the vase with her thumb. "Thank you, Brother Zhao. I'll keep it safe."
She looked up at Qin Mu again: "Brother Zhao, are you leaving tomorrow?"
Qin Mu glanced at the rising moon in the night sky: "Not necessarily, let's wait and see."
Lin Xiaolu did not ask any further questions.
She served Qin Mu another bowl of soup, carefully wiping the rim of the bowl clean before handing it to him.
The other junior disciples also came over. Some squatted by the fire, some leaned against the wooden stakes not far away, and some held a bowl of wine in their hands, like a group of younger people sitting around the campfire.
The shortest of them, A Yuan, squatted down next to Qin Mu, tilted his head back, and asked, "Brother Zhao, how did you master that sword strike?"
Qin Mu looked down at him and saw his eyes, which shone brightly in the firelight, like a small lamp illuminating a path he himself hadn't yet trod: "You'll understand once you practice more."
A-Yuan nodded as if he understood, then looked up and asked, "How long would it take to become as good as you?"
"It will take a long time," Qin Mu said. "You have to learn not to rush first."
A slightly older junior brother chimed in, "Brother Zhao, will you come to the Northern Border again in the future?"
Qin Mu didn't answer immediately, as if he were pondering a question he himself wasn't sure of the answer to: "Maybe."
The firewood in the bonfire crackled softly. Lin Xiaolu gently pushed a dry branch into the fire, her movements slower than before. Her gaze lingered on the branch licked by the flames, as if she were looking at something she couldn't bear to burn completely.
An old man from the Qing Shi Sword Sect came out of the tent, carrying a rough teacup in his hand.
He didn't approach the fire, but stood at the tent entrance, watching the young faces illuminated by the firelight. After a while, he lowered his head, took a sip of his now-cold tea, and said nothing.
A night breeze blew from afar, carrying the aroma of baked flatbread and the intermittent sounds of traditional string and wind instruments from a distant restaurant.
Qin Mu picked up the wine bowl and took a sip. The rice wine was warm, not strong, and had a faint sweetness.
As he put down his bowl, his gaze fell on the street illuminated by lanterns in the distance, on the figures of people still moving about, and he realized that it had been a long time since he had sat quietly somewhere like this.
He traveled through the North, meeting many people and experiencing many things.
Some were scheming, some were guiding, and some were simply watching them unfold on their own.
But like tonight.
Sitting on a rock under a crooked locust tree, drinking not-so-good rice wine, surrounded by a group of people whose real names he hadn't even told, he felt a long-lost sense of peace, something he hadn't experienced in a long time.
It feels like... this is what the martial arts world is all about.
Lin Xiaolu sat not far from him and began weaving something out of grass stems.
She was more skilled at weaving than in the morning. The leaf stem wrapped around her fingers twice, was gently flattened, and then wrapped around them again. The outline of a grasshopper was slowly taking shape.
Her gaze shifted from the grass stems to Qin Mu's profile, then she lowered her head again: "Brother Zhao, if you ever pass by other places in the future... will you still remember today?"
She spoke softer than usual, as if afraid of disturbing something.
Qin Mu turned his head to look at her, at the grasshopper that was slowly taking shape, and then at her serious expression: "I will remember."
The night wind swept through the streets and alleys of Zhenbei Town, carrying with it the intermittent sounds of string and wind instruments and scattered laughter from the distant taverns. It swirled around the campfire outside the tent before being drowned out by the crackling of the firewood.
At the entrance of the Qing Shi Sword Sect's tent, the bonfire was still burning.
The stewed chicken in the iron pot was almost gone, with a ring of oily broth remaining on the rim, glistening slightly in the firelight.
Several rough earthenware bowls were placed next to it, each with wine stains of varying depths remaining on its rim.
The aroma of rice wine mingled with the smoke from the firewood, carried away by the night breeze, drifting towards the open space outside the tent.
Lin Qingshi picked up the bowl of wine in front of him, with a little less than half left on the rim. He glanced at it, then at Qin Mu sitting opposite him, and suddenly laughed.