Chapter Sixty-Eight: Returning to Familiar Grounds

The first light of dawn crept gently across the city as the curfew ended. The patrol soldiers of Hongyang City, still yawning, opened the gates, and the morning market commenced as usual, bustling with vendors and townsfolk. Hawkers called out their wares, people chatted as they strolled, and the pale yellow recruitment notices posted on the bulletin board remained as prominent as ever. Everything seemed unchanged.

Xu Boqing wandered through the streets, watching the passing crowds, recalling his own circumstances a year ago—penniless, forced to tell fortunes at borrowed stalls just to fill his stomach. It felt as if those days had only just passed. Perhaps it was the nostalgia of revisiting familiar places, but time seemed to have slipped by so swiftly, too swiftly.

Spying a steamed bun shop by the roadside, he sat at a table and smiled, “Boss, bring me twenty fresh meat buns. I’ll eat here.”

“Twenty?” The shopkeeper, busy with the morning rush, didn’t even turn his head as he cautioned, “Sir, our buns are thin-skinned and generously filled. Most folks are full after three or five. Are you sure you want twenty?”

“I’m sure. Twenty it is.” Xu Boqing rose to fetch a bowl of spicy soup and some pickled vegetables, added a splash of chili oil, and, returning to his seat, took a sip. The familiar flavor awakened his appetite—it was just as he remembered.

“Sir, your twenty buns are ready!” The proprietor brought over two steaming baskets, setting them on the table and plating the buns.

“To tell you the truth, I’ve been selling buns here for thirty years, and it’s rare to see someone who can devour twenty in one sitting. Last time I witnessed such a feat was about a year ago.”

“Oh?” Xu Boqing smiled at this and asked, “Do you remember what that person looked like?”

“I can’t recall clearly, but I swear it was a young man, probably younger than you. The way he ate—even I was a bit scared.”

“Ah… ha ha ha ha.” Xu Boqing chuckled, a teasing tone in his voice. “Perhaps your buns are just too fragrant, the soup too tempting, or maybe the young man was simply starving.”

“Ha ha ha…” The shopkeeper, noting Xu Boqing’s refined attire and bearing, would have liked to chat more, but was soon distracted by customers outside. As he turned to tend to them, he said, “Sir, take your time. If you finish all twenty here, your meal’s on the house.”

“Alright, you go about your business.” Xu Boqing waved him off and began to tackle the two baskets of buns, accompanied by pickles.

It was still the same taste…

When he’d finished, he saw the proprietor still busy up front. With a playful tone, Xu Boqing called out, “Boss, all twenty of your big buns are now inside me.”

The shopkeeper glanced back, saw the empty baskets, and laughed heartily. “Go on, sir, this meal’s on me.”

“Your generosity is unmatched.” Xu Boqing clasped his hands in thanks, and as he walked out, casually flicked a small piece of silver into the shopkeeper’s pocket.

Circling the morning market as memory guided him, he paused when he spotted a fortune-telling stall in a corner. His brows arched in surprise. The banner behind the stall bore phrases—“Ask the Master for Divine Insight,” “Foretell the Mysteries of Heaven”—the very words he’d written when borrowing Liu Laogen’s stall for funds a year ago.

Liu Laogen now sat at the stall, stroking his goatee with one hand and, under the pretense of palm reading, caressing a respectable lady’s hand with the other, taking full advantage. He paid no mind whatsoever to the “junior brother” sought so desperately by Miss Wang a year ago, who now stood nearby, observing.

Xu Boqing shook his head. Seeing Liu Laogen thriving, apparently unharmed by the loss of his signboard, he abandoned any thought of striking up a conversation.

Suddenly, he halted—he had spotted the very benefactor surnamed Niu whom he’d met while fortune-telling. Yet Niu Ben was greatly changed since last year…

Xu Boqing frowned. In his recollection, “Master Niu” was a gambler with callused hands, but neither his family nor his spirit had ever seemed lacking. Now, he still fingered a string of coins, wore a wealth talisman at his belt, and dressed well, indicating he was still well-off. Yet strangely, his brow was dark, his complexion waxy, his steps weak and unsteady, and even his eyes had grown clouded, as if he had aged ten years. An odd aura clung to him.

A waxy complexion and weak gait might suggest illness, but the dark brow hinted at imminent death, and the strange aura demanded explanation.

Xu Boqing pondered, unable to make sense of it. When he saw Niu Ben approach Liu Laogen’s stall, his gaze sharpened. The figures before him seemed to blur, as if the colors of a painted scroll had faded, revealing strange phenomena.

Through the observing power of the “Celestial Eye,” he could clearly see faint, shimmering threads winding around Niu Ben, and most bizarre of all, Niu Ben’s vital energy had dissipated; his internal organs resembled those of an ancient, withered man, nearly exhausted.

Just then, Liu Laogen finished with the lady and, seeing Niu Ben approach yawning, greeted him with a jovial, “What wind brings Master Niu here today?”

“Cut it out,” Niu Ben grumbled, rubbing his back as he sat on a stool. He asked as usual, “Old Liu, you really don’t have a junior brother?”

Liu Laogen cursed inwardly. Since a thief had impersonated his junior brother at the stall last year, Niu Ben had returned again and again, seeking clues. No matter how he explained, the man refused to believe him.

With a bitter face, Liu Laogen said, “Master Niu, I swear I’m not lying. That Daoist wasn’t my junior brother. I’ve never even had a master—how could I have a junior?”

“What a pity, what a pity…” Niu Ben clicked his tongue, repeating the phrase.

A year ago, after his fortune was told, he had taken his winnings to the gambling den. At first, he lost more than he won and grew angry, nearly smashing the fortune-teller’s stall. But by evening, fate seemed to turn, and he began winning, neither more nor less than exactly double his money.

He was overjoyed—not so much for the money, but because the young Daoist’s prediction had been so accurate. No, not a Daoist—a God of Wealth, surely!

He’d wanted to invite this “God of Wealth” home, thinking he’d never lose again. But when he returned, Liu Laogen insisted he had no junior brother, nor knew any young Daoist. The “God of Wealth” had appeared and vanished as if by magic, leaving Niu Ben haunted to this day.

He sighed and prepared to leave, but suddenly paused, as though struck by a thought, and asked, “Old Liu, you’re a fortune-teller—do you know why my back’s been hurting?”

“Back pain?” Liu Laogen was taken aback, quickly scrutinized Niu Ben’s face, and, whatever he saw, forced a professional smile, arching his brows. “Master Niu, have you been… overindulgent lately?”

“Overindulgent? Well, maybe a bit…” Niu Ben chuckled, recalling something, and settled back into his seat, wearing the knowing look of a man. “A few days ago, a batch of beauties arrived at the Silk Fragrance House—so fresh you could squeeze water from them. Not only was the wine rich and the meat savory, but their skill was exceptional. In the heat of passion, I could hardly resist stuffing both lychees in…”

He paused, seeing Liu Laogen’s awkward expression, and sneered, “You old fraud spend your days swindling and never doing anything decent. You really ought to see the world—those girls would suck the marrow from your old bones.”

…