They moved at a blistering pace, sweeping past the wooden bridge like a flash of lightning. With only a fleeting glance, none of them could look too closely.
Hardly anyone noticed that beneath the hull, He Lingchuan had crouched and pulled himself in, curling right into the shadow cast by the bridge!
He hid beneath the spans, not daring to take a breath, terrified that a single rising bubble might draw unwanted attention.
Only after a dozen or so breaths did he cautiously poke his head above the water. Glancing left and right, he drove his spear firmly into the canal bank, leveraged his weight, and vaulted onto dry ground.
The cavalry had already galloped into the distance, leaving only receding silhouettes.
A pair of five- or six-year-old children by the canal stared at him in wide-eyed curiosity, though their mother beside them pulled them back in alarm, her face full of suspicion.
*The locals here are none too friendly, are they?*
He Lingchuan wiped the water from his face and darted behind two large haystacks.
Ahead lay a cluster of storehouses, followed by houses of varying heights. Fortunately, the area was deserted. He Lingchuan looked down at his soaked garments, well aware that his style and fabric would scream "outsider" to any local.
His only choice was to find a change of clothes.
He cast his eyes about, and a grin finally tugged at his lips.
Not far away, in the open yard before a farmhouse, laundry hung out to dry.
He crept over quietly, taking care not to disturb the woman cooking in the kitchen, and snatched a few pieces of men's clothing. Then, he slipped into a shadowed corner out of the sun to change.
Though all was quiet around him, he still checked his surroundings carefully before peeling off his sodden clothes.
No one.
He quickly wriggled out of his wet trousers and pulled on the fresh ones.
Just as he was tying the waistband, a sharp whistle pierced the air from the side.
Startled, He Lingchuan snapped his head up, only to see a flash of white streak past—swift as light, sudden as lightning, far too fast for the naked eye to track.
And far too fast to dodge.
With a soft *thwip*, an arrow struck him squarely in the throat, piercing clean through from front to back until the arrowhead thudded into the wooden wall behind him.
What did it feel like to have an arrow punch through your throat?
He Lingchuan wanted to curse, but no sound would come. There was only an agonizing, soul-crushing pain.
Before his eyes, the white fletching at the tail of the shaft still trembled faintly. His gaze drifted past it toward the haystacks, where something seemed to stir.
He strained to see, but his vision had already blurred into darkness.
With a strangled cry, He Lingchuan clamped his hands over his neck and sat bolt upright.
All around him were familiar furnishings: the window lattice, the low table, the vase—all from his own room.
A lark perched on a branch outside the window took fright at his sudden shout, fluttering away with a frantic flap of wings and leaving behind a single drifting feather.
He Lingchuan stared fixedly at that feather, thinking of the white fletching that had pierced his throat.
He ran a hand over his neck. It was completely fine, without so much as a scratch, yet his body was drenched in cold sweat, looking as though he had just crawled out of the canal all over again.
"Scared the hell out of your granddaddy!" He was still alive; it had only been a nightmare.
A figure flashed outside the door, and Uncle Hao slipped inside. "Young Master, what happened?"
"Nothing." He Lingchuan rubbed his face listlessly. "A nightmare."
"Still Hulu Mountain?"
"How could it be?" After the wild venture in Panlong City, his predecessor's memories of being ambushed on Hulu Mountain were as distant and hazy as a past life. He had nearly forgotten them entirely.
He Lingchuan waved Uncle Hao away, hauled himself out of bed, and downed a cup of cold tea.
Dusk had not yet fallen; he had slept for less than two hours at most.
Ever since returning from the desert, he had slept like a baby. What had brought this on today?
Glancing toward the head of his bed, his eyes naturally fell upon the broken saber.
"Could you be the one causing trouble?" It was the only new variable in the room. It was hard not to suspect it.
He Lingchuan took the weapon down and slowly drew it from its scabbard.
The ambient temperature seemed to plunge by a couple of degrees, yet He Lingchuan felt no chill. If anything, holding the blade felt even more natural in his hand than before.
He pondered the nightmare. Setting aside the locals who treated every outsider like a bitter enemy, the Chipa Plateau was actually a marvelous place, full of lush waterways and pastoral charm.
Its crisscrossing canals, varied terrain, and what seemed to be distant mines made it easy to see how Panlong City had held out for so many years surrounded by mighty adversaries. Its physical environment had undoubtedly been a deciding factor.
During his last foray into the Dafang Pot's mystic realm, he had barely stepped foot inside Panlong City before nearly losing his life, leaving him no opportunity to venture beyond the mighty pass and witness the Chipa Plateau of old.
This dream had made up for that regret.
Deep down, he believed that the Chipa Plateau he had seen in the dream was an accurate recreation of history.
The guards' answers indicated that the time he had entered was after General Red's rise—in other words, during the latter, despairing period of Panlong City's history.
The Xiluo Kingdom had briefly reestablished contact with Panlong City, but it was too feeble to withstand the pressure of the allied armies and had soon abandoned the city once more.
Zhong Shengguang was only human. After serving faithfully for twelve years only to be betrayed like that, he had nearly broken down, which drove him into the embrace of the god Mitian.
From that point on, General Red appeared.
This period of Panlong City's history was its most mysterious. Even after scouring historical records from numerous kingdoms, Sun Fuping had failed to turn up a complete account, as though some unseen force had forcefully erased it from the annals of time.
He Lingchuan was curious about it too, but recalling the uncanny, graceful, and ruthless nature of that shot, goosebumps broke out across his skin once more.
Counting this instance, he was a man who had died twice.
Though such an experience was undeniably rare and precious, anyone in their right mind would recoil from it.
Both arrow strikes had almost certainly come from the same person. Where on earth was that archer hiding? He Lingchuan had managed to evade even the ferocious Gale Army, so how could this person follow him like a shadow?
He remembered the shrill, urgent whistle, the trousers he hadn't finished tying, and the black dragon's parting words before it vanished, explicitly giving him this broken saber.
There had been a distinct sense of entrustment in that gesture.
The saber's previous master was Zhong Shengguang. What kind of connection did he want this weapon to forge with He Lingchuan?
The youth stroked the blade in silence, confronted with a new dilemma:
Should he keep hanging it by the head of his bed in the future?
He gave his head a shake and realized the nightmare hadn't left him with a splitting headache. On the contrary, he felt brimming with vigor and wonderfully relaxed, showing none of the exhaustion one would expect after such an ordeal.
To be fair, aside from the sudden death at the end, the adventure in the dream had been quite intriguing.
Most importantly, he could wake up from it.
If there were no lasting harm done, what the hell was he afraid of?
He Lingchuan rested his hand against the blade and said, "Let's make a deal. Don't give me a nightmare every single day, and I'll keep hanging you by my bed. How about it?"
The saber lay quiet, naturally offering no response.
So He Lingchuan hung it back where it belonged.
***
Before night fell, Xiangsi Tower was already bustling with life.
The restaurant had been open for three years, doing roaring business in Blackwater City and achieving the rare feat of pleasing both locals and travelers alike. Rumor had it that the boss behind the scenes was a retired official from the imperial heartland, whose hometown recipes had proven a massive hit out on the frontier.
Xiangsi Tower was famous for its duck.
Yes, duck—pure, ordinary waterfowl that swam in the river.
The master chefs specially hired from Longhua City specialized in duck preparation. Whether it was wine-cured, roasted, braised, baked in salt, stewed, pan-fried, preserved, or charred, there was no method beyond their repertoire. Moreover, they selected ducks of varying fatness and age to suit each cooking technique, taking the phrase "picking the fat and choosing the lean" to a whole new culinary level.
Chapter 82