Chapter 110: Fish Soup (Part One)

The scattered silver coins remained on the ground, but the person had long since departed. Yi Fan merely glanced at them, then turned to pack his belongings. Mounting his old donkey, he left the dilapidated temple behind. As for those coins—whoever found them could have them; it was no concern of his.

Buddhism speaks of cause and effect, Taoism of fate and destiny. If one took the silver but failed to fulfill their duty, for a cultivator, it meant an unfinished bond and unresolved karma, inevitably dragging them into a vortex of troubles.

For those who cultivate, wherever they go becomes their path of practice.

Xunyang County, spanning over a hundred miles, was the largest county in the region—a prosperous land of fish and rice, alive with smoke rising from countless hearths. Rivers crisscrossed the land, and great lakes were scattered throughout, among which the famed Poyang Lake lay within its borders.

After a day’s journey, Yi Fan finally reached Poyang Lake. Though the vast waters were not yet in sight, a cool breeze brushed past him, carrying a faint dampness in the air that invigorated his spirit.

Without urging, the old donkey licked its lips, scenting the moisture, then hurried forward. Soon, the horizon opened wide, revealing the vast lake before him. Mist rose from its surface, merging with the clouds above—white and blue—stretching as far as the eye could see, like an endless sea.

What a vast expanse of water.

After Yi Fan dismounted, the old donkey ran playfully to the lake’s edge to drink, yet it showed a hint of reluctance, a mild fear of water—especially such an immense lake resembling the ocean.

It was just noon; the sun was gentle for this season, and the soft breeze made for a pleasant atmosphere. Along the shore, numerous boats were moored—some broken and abandoned on the bank, others stranded nearby, and many still afloat on the water. Wide fishing nets, several yards across, were handled by fishermen with ease, spreading open like magic before being cast into the lake.

The liveliest activity was at the shore. Amid the broken vessels, fishmongers bustled about with their helpers, voices rising in calls and laughter, a scene of busy commerce.

“Honorable Daoist, are you here to cruise the lake or to explore the mountains?”

A diminutive man approached, his face stretched into a servile smile. Before Yi Fan could respond, he introduced himself: “I am but a humble man, the overseer of this lakeshore. If you wish to sail the lake, I can arrange a fine boat for you; if you prefer to trek the mountains, I shall ensure your satisfaction as well.”

Yi Fan scrutinized his eyes and smiled, “From your tone, it sounds like there’s some secret to both lake sailing and mountain trekking.”

The small man clapped his hands eagerly. “A discerning Daoist like yourself must be a stranger here. There are indeed many tricks to this place. Why not give it a try?”

He then named his prices: “Ten taels of silver for a lake cruise, five for mountain travel—fair and square, no cheating, I guarantee your satisfaction.”

“Do I look like a wealthy man to you?” Yi Fan flicked his sleeve dismissively. Though his Daoist robe had been washed countless times, it was worn but clean and neat—hardly the attire of a rich man. This mistake in judgment darkened the man’s face.

The little man’s expression soured as he took a closer look. Apart from a servant wearing a straw hat, the Daoist appeared to own nothing but an old donkey.

He understood the principle of not flaunting wealth, yet in these times, even the most modest people spared no expense on their basic needs.

Irritated, the man said no more and turned away.

Yi Fan shook his head. These local ruffians, though polite in speech, would bring endless trouble if they ever smelled money.

Where people gather, there is a world of conflicts—not only among skilled heroes but more so among local gangs vying for power and settling scores.

As a stranger in these parts, Yi Fan knew better than to invite trouble. Though fearless, he chose not to provoke, focusing solely on finding the cultivators of Mount Shu and delivering his message.

Poyang Lake, vast and rich in spiritual energy, was surely home to some practitioners.

Night fell, and the lake grew windy. Fishermen had long since pulled their boats ashore; some returned to their villages, but most stayed aboard their vessels. Several boats moored side by side formed small clusters, like families huddled together.

“Daoist, the wind grows strong at night; beware of catching a chill. If you don’t mind, why not take shelter aboard?”

An old man approached, smiling with a few missing teeth. “I’ve seen you here all afternoon. Not sure if you’re waiting for someone or searching for someone. The night’s darkening—the ones meant to come have come, and those who haven’t, it seems, won’t.”

“Thank you kindly,” Yi Fan replied.

He followed the old man to a nearby boat connected to two others by ropes, the other end tied to a wooden post on the shore, ensuring they wouldn’t drift away during the night.

A fire burned at the bow, where an elderly woman was cooking fish soup. Seeing a guest, she quickly rose. “Daoist, the lake’s chill is biting tonight. Take off your shoes before stepping aboard, lest your feet get wet and suffer later.”

Yi Fan was not particular. He left his donkey and the reluctant spirit beast by the shore, removed his shoes, and stepped into the lake water before boarding the boat with the old man.

The fish soup smelled fragrant—its preparation requiring care, for an overly salty or bland broth would spoil the taste. Though the old woman had no other seasonings, the aroma from the clay pot was rich and inviting.

“Here, Daoist, have a taste,” she said, handing him a bowl filled with great care.

Yi Fan blew gently on the soup, then sipped it lightly. His eyes brightened as he praised, “Your skill is remarkable, madam. The fish soup is fresh without being greasy, smooth on the palate—delicious.”

The woman’s face lit with joy. Watching him drink every drop, she hurried to refill the bowl. “There’s plenty more; we fisher folk may have little else, but fish are never in short supply.”

“I won’t refuse, then,” Yi Fan replied.

After several bowls, warmth spread through his body, dispelling much of the night’s chill. Suddenly, he looked up at the old man. “Sir, I sense you wish to speak but hesitate. Is there something you wish to tell this humble Daoist?”

The old man and woman exchanged glances, hesitant. Finally, the man sighed, “Daoist, you are a man of ability—it is no surprise you saw through it.”

They had a son, married a few years ago. Though their life was modest, it was happy. But that happiness did not last. At some unknown time, a band of lake pirates gathered on Poyang Lake, plundering and pillaging without mercy. Initially, soldiers tried to suppress them, but the bandits were cunning—when danger loomed, they vanished like smoke.

Poyang Lake stretches for thousands, even tens of thousands, of square kilometers, surrounded by mountains. Some districts were off-limits to outsiders. When the bandits fled, the authorities were powerless.

Over time, the government lost interest; unless there was rebellion or attacks on official offices, killing a few common folk was not worth the effort.

This brought hardship to the fishermen nearby. The fortunate paid bribes for protection, but many resisted—like the old couple’s son.

Since youth, he was brave and just, skilled in underwater fighting, gathering young men to oppose the local ruffians. Their efforts earned them a formidable reputation.

One night, however, a large band of pirates ambushed them. In the chaos, the couple fell into the lake, awakening alone without others nearby.

Days passed with no sign of their son. They wished to seek news but knew no one and feared losing their boat amid the disorderly times.

“So you wait day after day, inviting passersby aboard and offering fish soup in exchange for help finding your son?” Yi Fan asked.

The old man nodded, and Yi Fan now grasped the situation clearly.