79: The Old Donkey

The next morning, as dawn broke and the air was laced with a chill, Yi Fan tightened Chen Ni’er’s cloak around her shoulders. He glanced at her slightly reddened eyes and smiled softly, patting her gently on the head. “Once you reach Shushan, remember to be obedient. Don’t be mischievous—cultivate well. Perhaps, one day, our paths will cross again.”

Chen Ni’er pressed her lips together, knelt down, and bowed her head to him several times. She was then lifted onto a horse by Zhuge Liuyun, who laughed heartily. “Brother Yi, until we meet again!”

Liu Yu and Chen Lan shared a horse and followed close behind. In just a moment, they vanished into the distance.

Yi Fan stood unmoving for a long time. Only after the sun had fully risen did he turn back. Gazing at the now silent temple, a strange melancholy crept over him.

In this life, who can escape the pain of parting?

He shook his head, exhaled slowly, and, too dispirited for the morning rites, entered the secret chamber. There, he took out the secret manual Zhuge Liuyun had given him the previous day. Its cover bore the words “Dharma Eye.” Upon reading, he saw that it was a rare manual for piercing illusions. If mastered, nothing false or deceptive could escape one’s sight—regardless of how myriad the transformations, all would be laid bare.

The manual included annotations from a predecessor, likely a great cultivator from Shushan, who had recorded some of his own experiences within. One note mentioned that, with great fortune, one might even develop new supernatural abilities, forging a unique power of their own.

Regrettably, only the first half of the manual remained; the latter part was nowhere to be found—not even at Shushan. Zhuge Liuyun could not possibly be concealing it, which explained why the Shushan Sword Sect so readily allowed him to share it.

Such secret arts were plentiful at Shushan and not particularly prized, especially since this one was incomplete. Even if successfully cultivated, it would amount to no more than another technique, with little hope for further advancement—a poor bargain for the extensive time required.

The predecessor mentioned within had managed to cultivate a pair of Dharma Eyes and, through personal insight, had even deduced a unique supernatural power, though details of this were not recorded.

Still, even so, such a manual was not something an ordinary cultivator could hope to obtain. Even most sects would keep it under lock and key, never sharing it lightly—let alone gifting it to someone.

Of course, it could hardly be called a gift. Nearly a hundred “Lesser Evil-Banishing Talismans” had been exchanged, a considerable fortune that Yi Fan himself had painstakingly accumulated over time, now parted with in one fell swoop.

Yet he considered it worthwhile. Talismans could be remade, but a rare manual like this was a priceless encounter.

...

Yi Fan stood on a desolate road, glancing back. A few miles ahead lay the boundary of Guobei County. Another parting—who knew when he would return?

A few days earlier, he had locked the temple gate and placed more than a dozen talismans inside and out—some to banish evil, ensuring no monsters could enter; others to instill fear in living creatures within a certain range, compelling them to leave as though confronted by a mortal foe—these last he had learned from a fragmented manual of lesser talismans.

This was all to protect the temple during his absence, to prevent it from being seized. At the very least, it would keep common folk at bay. If cultivators forced their way in, there was nothing to be done for now—he would settle accounts upon his return.

With all in order, he had shouldered his pack and set out with Yan Gui. There was no rush for Jiangxi; he decided to travel slowly, treating the journey as a form of cultivation.

The rivers were unnavigable, drought having left them dry in places. With the world in chaos, most boatmen dared not take passengers without official authorization; all travel required permits from the local magistrate.

The docks of Guobei County had long since been abandoned, leaving him with no choice but to travel on foot.

Half a month later, a tall and a short figure approached the outskirts of a village—the taller with a Daoist knot and billowing sleeves, the shorter wearing a conical hat, hunched and listless under a heavy bundle.

It was Yi Fan and Yan Gui.

Before they could enter, the villagers had already spotted them, peeking warily from behind eaves. When Yi Fan looked their way, they shrank back, keeping their distance.

Soon, more than ten men, armed with sticks and led by an elderly man, hurried toward them.

Yi Fan was unsurprised. Though the region was relatively peaceful, bandits sometimes roamed in disguise, and a moment’s carelessness could spell disaster.

As they drew near, Yi Fan greeted them with a bow. “Peace to you all, gentlemen.”

The elderly leader eyed Yi Fan warily for a long moment before speaking. “Daoist, where have you come from, and where are you going? Why have you come to our village?”

Two questions in succession. Yi Fan replied, “I have been cultivating in Guobei County and am traveling through these parts. My throat is parched, and the hour grows late. I hoped I might find shelter here for the night—would that be possible?”

The elder, noting Yi Fan’s unthreatening demeanor and Daoist garb, found it hard to refuse. After a moment’s hesitation, he pointed off into the distance. “There’s an abandoned temple just outside the village. You may rest there, but do not enter the village itself, or we’ll show no mercy.”

One must guard against others, but never seek to harm.

Yi Fan took no offense; he was not a stickler for such things and understood their caution. Having a roof to keep out the wind and rain was preferable to sleeping in the wilds. He smiled. “Thank you, elder, for your kindness.”

“Go on, then. Don’t come into the village.”

The elder repeated his warning, waved his hand, and led the villagers away.

The ruined temple was not far from the village—a small, dilapidated structure with a crooked idol, clutter everywhere, and a leaky roof riddled with holes.

It truly was a ruin. Yi Fan cleared a clean spot, had Yan Gui set down their packs, then sent him to fetch water and gather firewood for the night.

As dusk fell, Yi Fan noticed villagers lurking nearby, watching him warily, fearful he might be a bandit waiting to sneak into the village under cover of darkness.

He paid them no mind, lit a campfire, and ate his dry rations with cold water.

The next morning, having finished his morning rites and prepared to move on, he was startled by a commotion outside. Stepping out, he saw four or five villagers in pursuit of an old donkey, tethered with a rope.

The donkey was aged, gaunt from hunger, and moved with difficulty. Soon it was surrounded and forced to the ground.

“Hold it down—don’t let it get away again! We’ll slaughter it today and have a decent meal!”

They were preparing to kill the donkey, which, having slipped its tether, had led them on a chase to this spot.

Yi Fan realized the situation. Hearing the donkey’s pitiful braying, he hesitated, then stepped forward. “Gentlemen, please wait.”

“What is it, Daoist?” The villagers, surprised, looked up at him.

Yi Fan approached and glanced at the donkey pinned to the ground. “May I ask why you wish to kill this donkey?”

“Why not? It’s old, can’t turn the mill anymore, just eats up grain for nothing. If we butcher it, at least we get some fresh meat,” one villager replied impatiently.

Yi Fan nodded, then took a small pouch from his waist and withdrew three taels of silver. “Here are three taels—may I purchase this old donkey from you?”