From here to Hangzhou, the scenery is splendid.

Three days later, at the Guobei County dock, several boats were moored on the river. Among them, one was particularly large, its hull sunk deep into the water, capable of holding more than a hundred people, with sailors bustling about on deck.

A small group had come to see Yi Fan off. Near the boarding plank, Yi Fan cupped his hands in farewell. “The wind on the river is fierce; there’s no need to go any further. Please, return now.”

“Brother Yi, the New Year is almost upon us. Why rush to Hangzhou? Waiting for spring would not be too late,” Chen Yi tried to dissuade him, shaking his head.

Yi Fan smiled. “For those who cultivate the Way, every place is home as long as there is food to eat. Besides, I am entrusted with an errand to deliver something to Hangzhou, so I mustn’t delay.”

Hearing this, Chen Yi didn’t press further. While they spoke, a sailor called for boarding. They exchanged farewells, and as soon as Yi Fan set foot on the deck, someone guided him to a cabin.

...

A cold wind swept the river, and the banks were stripped of color, silent and devoid of villages. After five or six days of this bleak monotony, some passengers, unable to withstand the tedium, began organizing diversions: storytellers, players of the erhu, and scholars who stood on the deck composing poetry, their voices rising in lively conversation whenever they found kindred spirits.

Yi Fan stood at the prow, letting the cold wind tug at his robes. Though the scenery was sparse, winter had its own flavor. His bearing soon caught the attention of a group of well-dressed young scholars.

“I am Song Liuming,” one greeted him respectfully. “Well met, Master Daoist.”

Yi Fan returned the courtesy, noting the scholar’s square cap. “Are you, sir, on your way to Hangzhou for the examinations?”

“Indeed, Master Daoist, you have guessed correctly.” Song Liuming was momentarily surprised, then laughed at himself—his attire made it obvious.

They found much to talk about. Seated together in the cabin, a page brought wine and dishes—the wine was a fine Shaoxing vintage, the food exquisite.

“Such fine wine, Sir Song, you are too generous,” Yi Fan said.

“You are too modest, Master Daoist. This journey to Hangzhou is a lonely one. Your company is far more enjoyable than those cold, impoverished poets outside.”

They exchanged glances and laughed, raising their cups in a cheerful toast.

The next morning, a page brought breakfast. “My young master drank too much last night and is still asleep.”

With nothing else to do, Yi Fan produced a slender book—a secret manual of spells that Yan Chixia had gifted him before departing, but which Yi Fan had never had time to study.

On the cover were three ancient characters: “Thunder Palm,” a secret technique of thunder magic. The text was brief, yet cryptic. For Yi Fan, however, so long as he memorized the cultivation method, the system would handle the rest.

After half an hour of study, a trace of unfamiliar power stirred within him. Soon, the system prompted him:

“Divine Abilities: Minor Exorcism Talisman (Level 1), Thunder Palm (Unranked) (Upgrade available?)”
“Realm: Clear Heart Sutra (Second Stage of Enlightenment)”
“Refinement: 86”

He confirmed the upgrade, and at once a profound understanding surged within. It seemed as if, with a wave of his hand, he could unleash immense force. Glancing at the tranquil river outside, he raised his palm and struck.

A thunderous boom erupted, sending water shooting a fathom high, startling many aboard.

“How strange—thunder in broad daylight!” people murmured.

Satisfied, Yi Fan noted that Thunder Palm had advanced to the first level. With this, his offensive abilities were greatly enhanced.

Over half a month later, the boat docked at a small town. As passengers disembarked, innkeepers called out, laborers offered rides, and the place was bustling.

“Brother Yi, won’t you come into town?”

“No, the day is still young. I’d rather keep moving and not waste time here.”

They parted ways—Song Liuming and his page heading off, Yi Fan, with his bundle, striking out on his own.

By evening, the sky darkened without warning, thick clouds rolling in and rain beginning to fall. Not daring to get soaked, Yi Fan spotted a glow ahead and hurried over, discovering a dilapidated temple. Unperturbed, he pushed the door open and entered.

Inside, he saw a mixed group: seven or eight people, old and young, men and women, divided into two factions. One group, dressed as martial artists with weapons at their sides, watched him closely. The other consisted only of an old man and a child, both in rags and looking fearful, their eyes following Yi Fan.

“Forgive the intrusion. It’s raining outside, and the roads are treacherous at night. I am but a humble Daoist seeking shelter—please, do not take offense.”

Wanting no trouble, Yi Fan explained himself, then walked over to the old man and child, smiling. “Sir, it is a cold night. May I share your fire to keep warm?”

“You are welcome, Master Daoist. Warm yourself by the fire,” the old man replied, clutching the child and shifting aside to offer a spot on the straw. “The nights are cold; I hope you don’t mind the humble bedding.”

“Thank you, sir.” Yi Fan took some provisions from his bundle and offered them. “I’ve borrowed your straw for warmth; please accept some coarse food in return.”

The old man waved his hands, refusing, but the child gazed longingly at the food, biting his finger. With a sigh, the old man relented. “Thank you, Master Daoist.”

He accepted the offering, and after some hesitation, said, “The night is long and cold—perhaps I could tell a story to pass the time?”

Yi Fan, sensing the old man’s reluctance to accept charity, did not press him, and smiled. “So you’re a storyteller? Then tonight need not be lonely after all.”

“In this world today, nothing is more talked about than what happened half a year ago: His Majesty the Emperor fell from his horse and has since been bedridden, throwing the court and the land into chaos—a storm of blood and intrigue.”

Rapping a stone as his table, the old man continued, “The Emperor has no heirs, but among the princes...”

Suddenly, one of the martial artists stood up and snorted. “Old man, too much talk can be dangerous as too much food. Mind your tongue.”

“Second Brother, why bother with a mere wandering storyteller? They know nothing of the real truth—just idle speculation.”

Their words and tone made the old man nervous, and he dared not continue, fearing trouble.

“You, Daoist—do you know how to catch demons and exorcise evil?” one warrior asked, cocking his head. All eyes turned to Yi Fan.

Yi Fan only smiled, refusing to answer, which left the warrior disappointed. “Another charlatan, putting on airs.”

The ruined temple lapsed into silence, broken only by wind and rain rattling the broken door. Soon, some people drifted off to sleep. Seeing the child shivering, Yi Fan took a thick garment from his bundle and covered the old man and boy.

At dawn, the rain had stopped and the martial artists departed early, leaving only Yi Fan and the old man with the child. They were in no rush, and sat down to chat.

“Sir, where are you headed?”

“My grandson and I are wanderers, making our way as we can. We’re heading to Hangzhou to try our luck.”

Yi Fan smiled. “I too am bound for Hangzhou—why not travel together? The road will be less lonely.”

Hangzhou was more than two hundred miles away, at least a five-day journey on foot. But the three were in no hurry, stopping to rest as needed, and their journey was a pleasant one.