Chapter Eight: A Formal Visit

One day later, Runan, Drum-Beating Mountain.

In the mountain ravine, bamboo groves spread everywhere. Skilled artisans had crafted a pavilion from bamboo. Although it was clearly midday, not a single ray of sunlight pierced through, revealing the pavilion’s intricate construction. Yet, in the dead of winter, the entire bamboo forest exuded a ghostly chill, a pervasive coldness that made the scene eerily somber.

“Tap~”

Zhang Chengyi stood with his hands behind his back, dressed in a thin, plain-colored long robe. He landed lightly, exuding an air of effortless confidence. Fortunately, his internal martial arts were unmatched, constantly activated to shield him from heat and cold. Otherwise, an ordinary person dressed so lightly in this weather would have long been ill.

[Found the bamboo pavilion. Continuing up the mountain path, I’ll find the Deaf-and-Dumb Valley.]

He had just left Shaolin and initially planned to stir up some excitement in the martial world. After all, forging a sword for ten months, ten days, and ten hours called for someone to witness his strength.

But fate had him too close to Wuyazi.

The Deaf-and-Dumb Valley in Drum-Beating Mountain, Runan, was a clear address. Just as he chose Shaolin for its proximity, seeking Wuyazi was also about being close.

In the novel, Xuannan and his group were captured south of Luoyang in Liudeng Town by Ding Chunqiu, then taken by sedan chair to Drum-Beating Mountain—a journey of eight or nine days. In reality, it was about three hundred kilometers.

Zhang Chengyi’s path was even shorter. His footwork was formidable; from a high point, with a tap, he could soar hundreds of meters. At full speed, sonic booms might crack the clouds—an awe-inspiring sight.

Though air density at low altitude helped, his speed was undoubtedly supersonic. Others worried such haste would drain internal energy, but he was indifferent. He could maintain full energy at will.

Two hundred kilometers in less than half an hour—just a casual stroll after a hearty meal.

He had descended the mountain yesterday, even changing from his original white robe to this long robe, eating well and resting. After waiting half a day without the Penglai Sect seeking vengeance as promised by the Funiu Sect’s escorts, he set out this morning.

Uncertain of the exact spot, he wandered around Runan and only found the bamboo pavilion and mountain path described in the novel by noon. No easy feat.

Entering the bamboo forest and following the path upward, Zhang Chengyi tapped the ground twice before hearing a sharp crack behind him. Turning, he vaguely saw firecrackers exploding thrice near the bamboo pavilion above.

Likely, disciples of the Deaf-and-Dumb Sect were signaling.

He saw himself as no troublemaker and ignored them, pressing onward until he reached the valley’s mouth at the path’s end.

---

Two or three dozen villagers in simple attire guarded the valley entrance with long weapons, poised as if ready to face enemies.

From afar, the valley was planted with pine trees—surely the Deaf-and-Dumb Valley.

Zhang Chengyi felt assured. Raising a palm, he struck the ground, creating a large pit as a warning. Ignoring the wary villagers, he spoke:

“Senior Wuyazi, I am Zhang Chengyi. I have long admired your name. Passing through your land and hearing of your seclusion, I have come to pay respects.” His voice, enhanced by internal energy, poured into the valley, echoing repeatedly before fading.

Only then did he realize a concern—

What if this wasn’t the Deaf-and-Dumb Valley but a similar place? How embarrassing that would be.

Fortunately, his worry proved unfounded. After about thirty seconds, a short, slender old man floated lightly out of the valley. Though he seemed to walk, his speed was swift, revealing an exquisite, elegant lightness skill far superior to Zhang Chengyi’s own “Strength Makes Miracles.”

The old man was short and gaunt, his face sharp, a sign he must have been handsome in youth. Upon emerging, he bowed slightly and, with a hoarse voice, said, “I am Su Xinghe. I was unaware of your arrival. Forgive my poor hospitality.”

Zhang Chengyi smiled faintly, then raised a palm to the bamboo forest at his side. A surging wave of palm force crushed the bamboo with a thunderous blast, and he said, “Mr. Su, I have come to visit Senior Wuyazi.”

He disliked playing the fool to deceive others—true strength must be shown first to earn respect.

Like the saying goes: clothes make the man. If you’re shabbily dressed, don’t blame others for underestimating you.

Su Xinghe’s expression shifted. His energy cultivation was indeed impressive; facing such a formidable opponent, he calmly replied, “I am the master of this Deaf-and-Dumb Valley and have never heard of any Wuyazi here.”

“Xiaoyao Sect, Wuyazi, Ding Chunqiu—Sir, I hope you don’t force my hand,” Zhang Chengyi said with a smile, dropping three names in quick succession.

Su Xinghe was about to feign ignorance further but suddenly changed expression, showing a trace of sorrow and trembling lips. “Please, follow me.”

With a wave of his hand, the deaf and mute villagers dispersed from the valley entrance.

[This must be a supreme secret sound-transmission skill. A pity…]

Zhang Chengyi followed Su Xinghe into the Deaf-and-Dumb Valley, lamenting his own low chance of mastering such techniques.

---

Martial arts are not learned on a whim. The higher the skill, the more foundational knowledge it requires, along with various complex insights. As a modern transmigrant, Zhang Chengyi had reached his limit following internal energy manuals mechanically, understanding how but not why.

Hence, why seek help inventing new martial skills?

Of course, he doubted martial arts alone could transcend this world, but trying never hurts. Pursuing this goal was never wrong.

And with ample time, giving it a chance was wise.

Lost in thought, the two passed through the pine forest and arrived before three wooden huts—unusual in that they had no doors or windows.

“Please, come inside for a chat,” an old, low voice penetrated the huts.

“Excuse me.” Ignoring the sorrowful and resentful Su Xinghe, Zhang Chengyi tapped the ground and drifted forward like smoke. Pushing with his hand, the hut’s wooden walls crumbled like paper. With a casual grab, he crushed most of the paneling into fragments.

The interior was empty. He stepped in, focusing on the breathing and heartbeat coming from behind the left wall, then flicked his fingers.

“Shh! Crack!”

The wall shattered, revealing a middle-aged man suspended in midair. His face was handsome and refined, eyes bright, a well-maintained short black beard shining with oiliness. Handsome to the point of striking presence.

[Truly a master of posing.]

Zhang Chengyi mused. The man was fully paralyzed yet hung from black cords, using internal energy to mimic sitting. The black wall behind concealed the cords, making the illusion seamless. Who would believe this wasn’t deliberate?

A paralyzed man managing such a dashing appearance—clearly for show.

No wonder the Xiaoyao Sect was so obsessed with appearances.