"This, this, this... What is this..." Uncle Zhong rubbed his hand against his collar again and again before cautiously accepting the silver.
"I borrowed it, I'll pay it back later." He Fangchuan stood up, leaning on a thick branch that Uncle Zhong had found. Although his wounds were protected by the golden medicine, he was still weak and gasped after every few steps. Uncle Zhong quickly supported him and shook the bulging bag on his back, revealing a half-burned account book.
"Uncle Zhong, why are you still carrying this?" He Fangchuan glanced at the account book, its edges curled like black butterflies. "The He Mansion is gone, what's the use of this account book?"
"It's useful! Madam said that every single thing in the He family's accounts must be correct. Inside is the baby tooth you lost when you were five years old. Madam wrapped it in red cloth and kept it in a box." Uncle Zhong tightened the bag against his shoulder.
Lin Ziqi suddenly remembered his grandmother, who always kept his fallen baby teeth in a tin box, saying, "Baby teeth protect the house." He couldn't help but smile. "Okay, carry them if you like. Just be careful not to drop them."
The two of them limped slowly towards the town. Daybreak was just breaking. Morning dew wet the grass, dripping onto He Fangchuan's tattered cloth shoes, leaving a cool sensation.
"Young Master, do you think that's Yinyan?" Zhongbo suddenly pointed toward the village in the distance.
He Fangchuan squinted and saw, as expected, a column of blue-gray smoke rising slowly from the rooftops, mingling with the faint crowing of roosters and the chatter of people. He took a deep breath. The air smelled of earth and burning matches, with a faint aroma of food, much better than the musty odor of the dilapidated temple.
As they stepped onto the bluestone pavement at the town's entrance, they could smell the warm steam from the bun shop on the street, mingling with the aroma of meat. He Fangchuan's stomach rumbled loudly, and just as Zhongbo was about to take the remaining half of a wheat cake from his bag, he was stopped.
"Save it and go to the inn for something hot."
The sign of the "Yue Lai Inn" on the corner of the street crackled in the wind. The shopkeeper with a long mustache dozed on the counter, his abacus creaking under the weight. He looked up at the sound of footsteps, and seeing He Fangchuan's tattered clothes and shoes and Zhongbo's heavy bag, his eyes turned contemptuous.
"Stay in the hotel? Or beg for food? Let me be clear, I don't take beggars—"
Before he could finish his words, he choked back at the silver He Fangchuan pulled out. The shopkeeper's mustache instantly curled into a crescent, and he quickly put the silver on the counter. "Please come in, sir. We have a nice room! I'll have the kitchen make some chicken soup!"
The wooden planks creaked as he ascended the stairs. He Fangchuan climbed the stairs, holding onto the railing. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a figure in gray crouching at the corner of the stairs. He was casually polishing a rusty sword with a rag. A black cloth wrapped around his wrist, a crooked tattoo of the character "尘" (dust) revealed when the wind lifted the edge of the cloth. Could it be pursuers from Xixiu Que?!
He Fangchuan's steps abruptly stopped, and he instinctively shrank behind Zhongbo, letting his tousled hair obscure half his face and tucking his bandaged arm into his shirt.
The original owner, He Fangchuan, was a renowned gentleman with a handsome face, always dressed in fine clothes. But now, his face was scarred by countless scratches from branches, his lips were chapped and peeling, and his coarse clothes were stained with the stinking mud of the ruined temple. He looked like a poor scholar who had been robbed.
The man suddenly looked up, his gaze like an icy needle, piercing his face back and forth. He Fangchuan saw an iron token hanging from the man's waist, a portrait painted in cinnabar on it... The man had delicate features and a mole under his forehead, much more handsome than he actually was, though the original owner of the mole hadn't had one.
"Clang!"
The crisp sound of a wine jar breaking downstairs interrupted He Fangchuan's thoughts. He crouched down through the window of the second-floor corridor and peeked down. He saw the man grabbing the shopkeeper by the collar, holding a familiar wine gourd—tied with a red string, and with a small hole in the mouth. Couldn't that be Qin Feng's?
"Tell me! Where did that green-robed man go?" The gray-robed man's roar shook the window paper.
"Master, spare me! That young man drank three jars of wine here earlier, and then said he was going to the dilapidated temple west of the city..."
What? A dilapidated temple west of the city? Did Qin Feng deliberately leave the gourd there? But that was too obvious, fearing that Xi Xiuque wouldn't be able to find a clue. As he pondered, he caught a glimpse of a fluorescent leaf clinging to his wrist.
"Young Master, let's run!" Zhong Bo's hands trembled with fear.
He Fangchuan held his hand and suddenly tore off the bandage from his arm. Fresh scabs clung to the cloth, revealing the bleeding wound, making him look more like a robbed passerby than any disguise could have. He took a deep breath, his voice deliberately hoarse, like sandpaper grinding against wood:
"Brother, are you looking for Qin Feng? That bastard still owes me money for medicine!"
The gray-clad man whipped his head around, his rusty sword unsheathed half an inch. Sunlight reflected from the blade's edge swept across He Fangchuan's face, and he clearly saw a flicker of scrutiny in his eyes. The gaze paused on his scabby cheek, then slid across his deliberately disheveled hair, finally resting on the bleeding wound.
"Do you know him?"
"More than that," He Fangchuan coughed deliberately, taking a half step downstairs, letting the man see his trembling legs. "This morning, I ran into him at the ruined temple, trying to steal the golden wound medicine from a pharmacy. He even left this gourd as collateral." He pointed at the gourd in the gray-clothed man's hand, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the character "风" (wind) engraved on the bottom. "Isn't he the one known as 'Drunken Wind Guest' in the Jianghu?"
Though this remark was a quick witted one, the gray-clothed man's brow furrowed. He Fangchuan suddenly remembered Qin Feng's words about "Xu Xiu Que chasing him." But the gray-clothed man's preoccupation with Qin Feng made him seem to have only a vague memory of the "He family remnant." After all, the He Fangchuan on the wanted poster was still the young man in brocade robes and jade pendants. How could he be in this horrible state now?
"Where did he go?" The gray-clothed man sheathed his sword.
"Abandoned house in the south of the city," He Fangchuan said, his voice deliberately trembling. "He said, he said he was waiting for a friend in gray... and that he owed him three jars of girl's red wine."
The man in gray's eyes flickered, and he turned and walked away. He Fangchuan watched him disappear around the corner, his back already covered in cold sweat, his hands shaking as he held onto the railing. Zhong Bo hurried over to support him, his voice trembling, "Young Master, you're risking your life! That's one of Xixiuque's Wind Chasing Guards!"
"If you don't, you'll die. Is the portrait on his token a picture of me? It looks more like a copy of a young man in an opera." He Fangchuan laughed breathlessly.
Only then did the shopkeeper dare to come forward, wiping his sweat as he spoke, "Sir, you don't know, but the painters who painted the arrest warrants issued by Xiuxiu Que were the most lazy. I heard that when they painted the He family's young master, they modified the portrait from three years ago and even added a mole, saying that every noble young man should have a mole..."
He Fangchuan couldn't help but laugh. In the costume dramas Lin Ziqi had watched before his time travel, wanted notices were always ridiculously abstract. He hadn't expected the same in the martial arts world. He was laughing when the aroma of chicken soup from the kitchen wafted over, steaming hot, filling the entire hall with a cozy warmth.
"Eat quickly, and then go to bed early." He poured a bowl of soup for Zhong Bo. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a slender shadow swaying on the roof beam, carrying a familiar aroma of wine... exactly the same as the one from Qin Feng's wine gourd.
He Fangchuan paused, scooping up the soup, and looked up at the beam, but only saw sunlight filtering through. He lowered his head and continued to sip his soup, a slight smile curling his lips.
This world of martial arts is truly bustling.