Chapter Forty-Two: The People in the Temple

This temple was ancient and dilapidated. At the very top stood a clay statue—a figure of an old man holding a staff shaped like a serpent, resembling a mountain god.

Qingyuan sat cross-legged, his gaze sweeping across the scene.

There were many people here, most likely merchants attempting to cross the mountains and travel between the two kingdoms.

Several groups gathered—some in clusters, some alone.

In the eastern corner sat a burly man, his head bowed in silence. He had not moved at all. A knife rested in his hand. Sheathed and set atop a stone, the scabbard faintly revealed a crack at the point where it touched the rock.

“That man is a formidable warrior,” came a gentle voice from beside him.

Qingyuan turned his head to see a delicate young maiden. A young man stood by her side; it was clear they traveled together, not with the others in the temple.

Noticing Qingyuan’s glance, the maiden blushed, a touch of shyness in her manner.

The young man, who seemed honest and simple, edged over as well. He scratched his head and asked with an awkward smile, “Sir… do you have… any food?”

At this, the maiden’s cheeks flushed even deeper.

Clearly, the two had no provisions, but the others in the temple did not appear friendly, so they dared not approach and could only endure their hunger. Seeing Qingyuan arrive—with his refined appearance and gentle demeanor—they mustered their courage to come closer.

Qingyuan nodded and said, “Gu Cang, give them all our food.”

The maiden hastily waved her hands. “No… just a little is enough for us…”

“The road ahead is still long, isn’t it?” Qingyuan replied. “Without food, how will you continue?”

The maiden lowered her head, silent. The honest young man scratched his head, looking ashamed. “But what about you, sir?”

Qingyuan gestured to Gu Cang. “My companion here is quite skilled—he’s more than capable of hunting.”

At this, the two did not refuse. They truly lacked the skills to find food in the depths of the wild mountains; even surviving the journey through these beast-haunted woods would be no easy feat.

Gu Cang was pleased to be called “brother” and handed over all their provisions.

After the pair had their fill, Qingyuan asked, “What brings you both into these wild mountains?”

The maiden’s expression darkened, and she lowered her gaze.

The honest young man slapped his forehead and answered with a bashful smile, “Our home is on the border—there’s been constant war, and the place is so poor there’s nothing to eat. My father wanted to sell my sister to a brothel, but I couldn’t bear to see her suffer, so I brought her here. I heard we have a relative on the Shu side.”

Qingyuan glanced at the maiden in silence.

Her eyes were rimmed red, but she forced a smile. “Many girls I grew up with have already been sold by their families—just for a little grain.”

Qingyuan sighed softly.

The chaos of the world was born of the decisions and ambitions of emperors and generals, of those in power.

Yet it was always the soldiers who died and the common folk who suffered.

He said nothing; such grand tides were beyond his ability to change—at least, for now. Perhaps one day he could, but not today.

Qingyuan shifted the conversation. “You mentioned that man is a formidable warrior?”

He lowered his voice a little—martial artists usually had keen hearing, and though the temple was small, it was a gesture of courtesy to avoid offense.

At his words, the siblings both looked alarmed.

The young man said, “Earlier, a merchant caravan tried to enter the temple and wanted to drive us out. That hero didn’t move, but his scabbard fell—there was a thunderous sound, and everyone saw a crack form in the stone below. The caravan was so frightened they fled.”

Qingyuan understood. The war between Shu and Southern Liang had severed their communication, yet some still braved these wilds, bringing rare goods across the border to sell at high prices.

Because the mountains were dangerous, few traveled alone; most formed small groups, sometimes a dozen strong, to watch out for one another—thus, merchant caravans.

There were many such stories of men making their fortunes this way, though both Shu and Southern Liang forbade it on pain of death. Still, the temptation of profit drew many to risk their lives.

The path Qingyuan had taken was one forged by such people.

There were many such trails—narrow, perilous, and plagued by wild beasts. Only a handful could traverse them; armies could not.

“In fact, everyone else here is from a small merchant caravan,” the young man whispered. “They have their own guards and guides—they know how to survive in these mountains. I paid to travel with one, but they thought we were a burden and abandoned us halfway. Now, I’d like to follow one of the other groups, but I fear they won’t let us.”

Qingyuan regarded the siblings in silence.

Every path through these mountains was won at the cost of lives and became a road to fortune. It was unlikely anyone would lead these two to safety.

Besides, they had no skill to protect themselves. Even with a path, wild beasts abounded; survival was uncertain. Without a path, death was certain.

“Sir,” the maiden ventured timidly, “are you heading to Shu?”

Qingyuan shook his head. “I come from Shu—I am bound for Southern Liang.”

The siblings exchanged a glance, disappointment in their eyes. They had hoped to travel with this refined young man for protection, but their destinations diverged.

Qingyuan’s gaze lingered on them. They understood how to seek help, how to leverage what they could—they were not foolish. He considered telling them the way he had come, but the poisonous mists and sheer cliffs would surely bar their way.

The siblings were clearly dejected, anxiety in their eyes. If no one in the temple would take them, they could neither go back nor forward—what were they to do?

Qingyuan could not possibly escort them, so he let the matter drop, turning his attention to the swordsman in the corner.

The man sat mute and motionless, his sheath resting on the stone, statue-like in his stillness.

“Strange…”

Qingyuan sensed something amiss.

Suddenly, a scream rang out from outside.

“What happened?”

“Oh no, that was Old Xie’s voice!”

“He just went to the latrine.”

Everyone rushed out.

The honest young man, curious, hurried after them.

A moment later, he shrieked, stumbling backward and falling, scrambling inside with a face as white as a sheet.

Qingyuan glanced at the swordsman—still unmoving.

Without paying it further mind, Qingyuan gripped his iron staff and strode outside.

Those who had just run out now stood, pale with terror, some frightened, some angry, some retreating, some pushing forward.

Standing in the doorway, by the moonlight, Qingyuan saw a man hanging from a locust tree to the right.

His face was drained of all color, his tongue grotesquely extended.

A vine was coiled tightly around his neck, suspending him from the branch.

A wooden spike jutted from his chest and abdomen.

But there was no blood on the tip.

Qingyuan’s eyes narrowed, his expression shifting.

The corpse’s chest and abdomen were hollow—his internal organs had vanished.