Chapter Eleven: Leaving the Valley

“Isn’t this outfit a bit inappropriate?” Zhang Chengyi looked down at the silk robe and the jangling trinkets hanging from it.

He didn’t even need a bronze mirror to know that he looked utterly out of place.

This body, once a hunter, had darkened skin from years under the sun and rain—a rugged, rough man. His features held a certain heroic quality but were hardly handsome; only some wealthy women might find him appealing.

He was nothing like a scholar, a literary man, or a noble son. Coupled with his own carefree spirit as a time traveler, the first impression he gave was one of a bandit.

The bold, unrefined air of the second son to the eldest brother, a true outlaw spirit.

Not unpleasant, but completely unsuitable for this seemingly elegant silk robe.

Moreover, his hair was thinning; in his forties, the problem of hair loss had worsened with age. Even with inner strength, lost hair didn’t grow back much. He relied on long hair to cover the thinning crown; a trim would reveal the sparse scalp beneath.

His temperament and appearance clashed entirely with this attire. Insisting on wearing it was like watching a clumsy imitation, laughably out of place.

“This body really doesn’t suit the carefree noble son style. If it were me from my previous life, wearing this silk robe would definitely look striking.”

Su Xinghe lowered his head, unwilling to critique his master.

Zhang Chengyi quickly changed out of the clothes, tossing aside jade pendants, wrist beads, pearls, and fans. He chose a crane cloak from the Deaf-and-Dumb Gate’s wardrobe—a large-sleeved, straight-collared robe with side slits, layered over a cross-collared undershirt.

Since he possessed unparalleled inner strength, impervious to cold or heat, what he wore mattered little—style was the priority.

“Not bad, not bad.”

Holding the bronze mirror, Zhang Chengyi was quite satisfied, though he was a bit too stout. The cloak, meant to be loose and ethereal, now appeared just fitting, making it look like an ordinary outer garment on him.

But who cared? It was expensive and exquisite.

“Let’s go.” He strode over eagerly and climbed into a bamboo sedan chair.

The chair was made of two bamboo poles with a netting stretched between for seating, carried by members of the Deaf-and-Dumb Gate. They were accustomed to traversing steep mountain paths without hesitation or being startled by sudden noises, so the chair was carried very steadily.

Su Xinghe hesitated. His master looked heroic and stylish, but the moment he walked, that outlaw aura was overpowering.

Forget it.

He didn’t ride in the sedan but followed alongside. Soon, they reached the foot of Drum-Beating Mountain, where a horse-drawn carriage was ready. Watching Zhang Chengyi leap onto the carriage like a monkey, Su Xinghe pretended not to notice and climbed aboard himself. Using sign language, he instructed the Deaf-and-Dumb Gate attendants to keep watch over the Silent Valley, then spoke a bit louder, “Master Zhang, please sit properly.”

“Go!” With a flick of the reins, the carriage clattered along the mountain road heading south.

Before long, the eight friends of Hangu emerged stealthily from the woods, each leading a horse. They mounted and followed at a measured pace.

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Several days later, at a small town in the evening.

“Master Zhang, there’s an inn here renowned for dozens of miles around. Their signature dish, the Mountain Trio Crisps, is outstanding—made from tender bamboo shoots, wild mushrooms, and pea shoots…”

As the horse hooves clopped slowly, Su Xinghe drove the carriage while describing the restaurant they were headed to.

Noticing his master’s growing boredom and weariness from the journey, he adjusted their route, cleverly sharing interesting stories and visiting places with delicious food and fun sights.

Though he had served his master for thirty years, Su Xinghe never ceased gathering intelligence. He was truly a polymath, inheriting all of Wu Yazi’s talents in various fields. Aside from a somewhat stubborn personality, he excelled in every aspect.

Taking care of others was naturally his top skill.

Zhang Chengyi listened attentively, saliva subtly gathering. His true self lay beyond this world, unsure how long it had been since he last tasted something good. Experiencing it through this borrowed body was quite satisfying.

The desire for good food was truly important to a person.

“Ah!” Su Xinghe stopped the carriage, set out the dismount stool, and pulled back the curtain. “Master Zhang, we’ve arrived.”

His small gestures were a genuine display of affection even toward a blind man. Zhang Chengyi bowed slightly, climbed out steadily, and looked around curiously.

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Su Xinghe felt no particular reaction. Just because his master didn’t use it didn’t mean he wasn’t prepared. Respectfully, he said, “Master Zhang, please enter and sit. Leave everything else to me.”

He beckoned a waiter at the door, whispered a few words, and had him escort Zhang Chengyi inside while he personally took the carriage to the rear yard for parking.

Pushing aside the inn’s curtain, a wave of warmth greeted them. The bustling main hall buzzed with chatter and calls, the mingled scents of wine, sweat, and charcoal filling the air.

The waiter, noticing his companion holding his breath, smiled broadly and quickened his pace toward the stairway. “This way, sir, second floor, please.”

Zhang Chengyi nodded, casually tossing two coins from his pouch, and ascended the stairs.

The second floor was quieter but not empty—about eighteen or nineteen burly men occupied several tables at the center, eating and drinking heartily. Near them, a woman in her early twenties cradled a pipa, singing melodiously.

When someone ascended the stairs—an unmistakable internal martial arts expert—several of the burly men took notice. An elder, large and broad-shouldered with a gray beard reaching his chest, whispered something to a nearby man. Instantly, the group shifted from relaxed to ready to draw their swords at a moment’s notice.

Zhang Chengyi chose a seat by the side. Though it was February and somewhat cold, the inn’s stove blazed warmly. He removed his crane cloak and leisurely listened to the music, tapping his fingers on the table in rhythm.

Before long, the waiter brought a plate of quickly served braised beef and a jar of yellow wine.

Su Xinghe then came upstairs, standing behind his master’s chair, eyes fixed intently on the robust elder across the room.

Zhang Chengyi picked up a piece of beef, chewing thoughtfully. “Invite them to sit and eat with us. That’s an order.”

Su Xinghe hesitated, then whispered, “To let Master Zhang know, those men in the middle should be from the Qin family village in Yunzhou. The white-bearded elder is Yao Bodang, the village chief, a first-rate martial artist.”

“Enough. They’re just passersby. Are we really afraid they’d make a move?” Zhang Chengyi tapped the plate lightly with his chopsticks, smiling. “Have them sit and eat.”

“Yes.”

Su Xinghe responded, clearly uneasy, sitting stiffly across from him and hesitating to pick up his chopsticks.