Chapter 30: The Clay Figurine of Southern Hong

The spring rain had just cleared.

A gentle breeze swept down from the snowy foothills of the Great Tian Mountain, passed through Jiangyun Prefecture north of Qizhou, and continued all the way to the official road leading into Wuling City.

There were many travelers on the road—most were wanderers far from home, or merchant drifters.

A boy in plain clothes lay on his back beneath a plum tree, covering his face with an old book. He basked in the warmth of the spring sun, drifting into sleep.

Suddenly, a gust of wind stirred. A dew-speckled plum blossom fell from the tree and landed in his palm.

He shivered, inhaling sharply, then removed the book from his face and opened his eyes.

Upon leaving the mountain forest, he had arrived at a village below and learned this was the territory of Qizhou.

A thousand miles from Dongyuan Sect.

Yet Qizhou was not far from Liangzhou, where Silent Valley lay. If he went to Silent Valley, using spiritual power, he could arrive in three to five days.

But returning to Silent Valley now was far too perilous.

He might be accused of some fabricated crime by those unreasonable elders of Xuan Yuan Sect and executed on the spot…

But abandoning his cultivation and starting anew was meant to clear his name; returning to his sect by himself would seem suspicious, as though he had a guilty conscience.

After much deliberation, Song Yan decided he should first return to his sect.

His life was precious…

Now, Song Yan possessed only the first layer of Qi Refining.

He hurried along, but after three days he still hadn’t reached the borders of Feng’an Prefecture.

“If I’d known, I should have found a town and hired a carriage…”

Peering ahead, Song Yan spotted a tea house.

He had just awoken from a hazy nap and felt parched.

Since abandoning and rebuilding his cultivation, his realm had fallen back to the early stages of Qi Refining; he felt thirst, hunger, and the drowsiness of spring more keenly.

Song Yan didn’t dislike these sensations—in fact, they brought him a long-lost sense of humanity.

The tea house was sizable, two stories tall, and looked as if it could lodge guests—almost like an inn.

Inside, people drank wine and sipped tea, their conversations ranging from the southern mountains to the distant seas. Even in this world of fleeting encounters, such a lively place could still be found.

“Uncle Tong, bring tea for the guest!”

“Right away!”

The tea was a bit scalding, but the morning air was chilly, so his lips quickly adapted.

The sweet, warm tea slid down his throat and into his belly, filling Song Yan with a sense of warmth and clarity.

“Hey, Old Fang, did you get invited by the county magistrate to drink when you returned from Wuling City?”

“You little rascal, are you making fun of me?”

Old Fang feigned anger, tapping his bowl and glaring.

Song Yan drank half his tea, propped his head on his hand, and listened with interest to the travelers’ conversations nearby.

Some of their stories were so fantastical they rivaled the legends of the immortal path.

“The county magistrate held a banquet for his daughter. Anyone who could step across the Bai family’s threshold was a wealthy, powerful official—what would an old man like me go for? To eat the leftovers?”

The tea house erupted in laughter.

Old Fang’s eyes widened in mock outrage, drawing more laughter from the crowd.

“Yan Yan, where is Wuling?”

A small snake’s head poked out from his sleeve, and Song Yan quickly pressed it back.

He lowered his voice, leaning close: “It’s the town we passed a couple days ago, a bit farther east.”

He had passed near there recently, but hadn’t lingered.

“What happy event for the county magistrate?”

“Seems his daughter was chosen by a passing immortal, taken away to learn the immortal arts on a mountain…”

“What?!”

“Old Fang, you’re not fooling us, are you?”

“I… I only heard rumors. I’m just a rough old man—what do I know of truth or lies?”

Immortal…

Song Yan was startled, then remembered: Jiangyun Prefecture in Qizhou belonged to Hanging Sword Mountain, one of the six great sects of Chu.

He frowned slightly and sighed, “I’d better be on my way.”

The sky was still bright. Song Yan rose, paid for his tea, and continued north.

Following the path toward Dongyuan Sect, he soon left the official road.

The forest path was quiet, with no other travelers around. All was silent, peaceful.

Clip-clop… clip-clop…

Suddenly, the sound of hoofbeats broke the silence.

“A carriage!”

Song Yan was delighted. In the distance, three carriages approached. The first was large and steady.

At the front of the carriage, besides two coachmen, sat an old man with a sword—undoubtedly a martial fellow from the mundane world.

The two carriages behind likely carried goods.

“Sir! Sir!”

Eager to return to his sect, Song Yan called out, “Could you give me a ride?”

The old swordsman frowned, drove on a bit more, then finally stopped.

The curtains at the carriage window were lifted, and several childish faces—boys and girls—peeked out.

The sword-carrying elder sized up Song Yan, “Where are you coming from…”

“I am Song Yesheng, a native of Feng’an Prefecture, returning home to visit family. Would you…”

The old man seemed the chivalrous sort, stopping to listen already showed a generous heart.

Yet he appeared hesitant.

After a moment’s thought, he refused. “Young man, forgive me for seeming cold. I have urgent matters and dare not invite trouble.”

“It’s all right, truly.”

In these times, caution was wise—it was understandable.

“Thank you, Grandpa! Please let him ride with us!”

“Yes, there’s plenty of room!”

The children clamored, poking their heads out.

“Don’t be naughty!”

“Grandpa Xie Xing, he looks like a scholar! He can’t be a bad person…”

Three or five children chattered away, their innocence clear.

Xie Xing shook his head. These kids were so naïve.

On the road, bandits often sent harmless-looking scholars or beautiful young women, pretending to be returning for exams or fleeing enemies, to infiltrate caravans. It was a common trick.

If Xie Xing were alone, he’d help without hesitation, accustomed to the life of a wandering knight.

But he couldn’t risk the lives of the five Xie family children in the carriage.

“Sorry.”

Just as Xie Xing was about to order the caravan onward, the eldest boy among the children leapt off the carriage and grabbed Song Yan’s sleeve.

“Come on up!”

“Xie Chuan! What are you doing?!”

“Grandpa Xie Xing, just give him a ride—it’s no trouble.”

The boy grinned at Song Yan, “We’ll just take you a little way. When we reach Fufeng City, you’ll have to go on alone.”

It was unclear if he spoke to Song Yan or to the old swordsman.

“Sigh… come aboard, then.”

“Thank you! I have some silver for the fare…”

Xie Xing waved his hand, “If you’re going our way, I won’t take your money. Do you take me for a highway robber?”

“Young man, when you travel the world, don’t flash your wealth so easily.”

With just a few words, Song Yan could tell Xie Xing was a true knight.

“I’m grateful for your advice.”

Song Yan wished to chat with the children, but worried the swordsman might suspect him of probing for information, so he kept quiet.

But the children babbled on, revealing their family and background with cheerful clarity, making the old swordsman sigh repeatedly.

“We’re from Nan Hong City, heading to Jiangyun Prefecture.”

Nan Hong City?

Song Yan had heard of it—it lay south of Qiyuan Prefecture.

Famous for its clay figurines.

He often saw them at the market stalls in Shiliang Town, lifelike and vivid.

When he was young, his grandfather had bought him one, though it had since gone missing.

“Hmm? If you’re going to Jiangyun Prefecture, why take this route?”

It wasn’t impossible, just a bit roundabout.

Perhaps worried the children would speak too freely, Xie Xing answered for them.

“We have some business in Fufeng City first.”