Chapter 89: The Mountain Fox (Part One)

Once inside the city, the old mule slowed its pace, ambling gently along the street. Most shops on either side had shuttered their doors, and few pedestrians lingered. Occasionally, a carriage would trundle past, vanishing around the corner.

After searching for an inn, a waiter hurried forward to greet them. “Master Taoist, are you here for a meal or to stay the night?”

“Feed my mule well, with the best fodder you have. You won’t lose out on payment,” Yi Fan replied, tossing the reins to the waiter. “Also, open a superior room for me and bring some food.”

“Certainly, please wait a moment.” Hearing this, the waiter grew even more enthusiastic, tethered the mule to the hitching post, and led Yi Fan and Yan Gui inside.

The inn was modest; a single oil lamp cast a dusky glow across the interior. At the counter sat a man, mouth agape and drooling, lost in deep, sweet sleep.

Following the waiter to their room, Yi Fan found the environment satisfactory. Chairs were provided, and there was no unpleasant odor. He placed his luggage on the table, and before long, warm food arrived—not freshly made, but palatable enough.

The next morning, after completing his daily practice, Yi Fan descended for breakfast. The waiter greeted him again. “Master Taoist, is the room to your liking?”

Yi Fan understood this was a subtle request for payment. He promptly took out his purse and handed over two taels of silver. “I’ll stay for three days; keep the change. Just take good care of my old mule—don’t let it suffer.”

Two taels were generous; even with the finest fodder, there would be plenty left over. The waiter’s face lit up as he accepted the silver. “Rest assured, Master Taoist. Your mule will want for nothing.”

Just then, a commotion sounded outside. Diners hurriedly settled their bills and rushed out. Seeing Yi Fan’s confusion, the waiter explained, “It must be the magistrate holding court. Those folks are off to watch the spectacle.”

He sighed. “Some poor soul has gone to the yamen. Unless you pay handsomely, you won’t escape without losing several layers of skin.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“You must be new to Changyu County, Master Taoist. You don’t know the ways here. Our county magistrate is a notorious corrupt official. Whenever someone beats the drum to air grievances, it matters little who’s right or wrong—as long as you pay enough, you’ll be judged victorious. Folks say, ‘Better seek gods and spirits than the magistrate.’”

Yi Fan nodded. He had seen such things before. In this increasingly chaotic world, corrupt officials were as common as cattle. Often, wandering heroes would slay them in anger, and if the unrest grew, public resentment would boil over into rebellion.

The waiter glanced outside. “Still, our magistrate doesn’t dare go too far, for fear of attracting the attention of a certain immortal—then he’d surely suffer.”

Immortal? Yi Fan was intrigued. “Brother, which immortal do you mean?”

“Well, that’s a long story. Four or five years ago, a heroic figure emerged in Changyu County, robbing the rich to aid the poor. At first, people thought him merely a wandering swordsman. But when he provoked the local gentry, the yamen and the clans joined forces, nearly a hundred men, setting a trap to capture him. In the end, they failed—even his shadow was nowhere to be found.

Just as everyone believed the hero had fled or hidden himself, the magistrate encountered something strange. Three nights in a row, someone flogged him with a whip at night, though no one was ever seen. He was beaten half to death each time, until finally the torment ceased.”

Here, the waiter could not hide his glee.

Yi Fan laughed as well; clearly this was the work of a cultivator. He asked, “And afterward?”

“Afterward? The magistrate recovered and hired a sorcerer, but nothing came of it. Instead, he was whipped again. That’s when he realized he’d angered an immortal. From then on, whenever someone was robbed, the yamen wouldn’t intervene. The wealthy lived in constant fear, but even the county’s public order improved.”

With few guests in the inn, the waiter grew animated, recounting every curious tale he knew. Behind the counter, the innkeeper’s face had turned green, unnoticed by all.

Unable to bear seeing the waiter punished, Yi Fan interrupted him, bringing the stories to a halt. The waiter swallowed his words, glanced back, sensed something amiss, and ducked swiftly into the kitchen.

After breakfast, Yi Fan left Yan Gui to watch over their luggage—he had no desire to go out—while Yi Fan himself stepped into the street. Everywhere, people discussed the yamen’s affairs. Curious, he made his way there, eager to observe which fellow cultivator had so boldly punished evil and upheld justice, hoping to make their acquaintance.

Arriving at the yamen, he found several circles of spectators crowded outside, craning their necks with excitement, not a trace of fear—more like watching a play than a court proceeding.

With a subtle shake, Yi Fan gently edged through the crowd until he reached the front. Inside, a young scholar stood below, beside him a burly man knelt, crying and protesting loudly. On the dais, the magistrate propped his chin on his hand, eyes half-closed, wandering in thought.

Beside him, the clerk was alert and sharp, occasionally interjecting.

After listening for a while, Yi Fan grasped the situation. The two men before the court were brothers. The scholar was the younger. In better times, the family supported his studies, and he earned the rank of scholar, but for years he failed to advance further. Now, with the world in turmoil, his prospects seemed ever dimmer.

A few years prior, their father passed. The elder brother proposed dividing the family estate, inviting the village elders to oversee a fair division. Both received equal shares of land, but the scholar, never having worked nor tended fields, was at a loss.

His brother offered to manage the scholar’s fields, promising a yearly portion of grain. The scholar, wishing to avoid trouble, agreed.

All was well until the brother began to deliver less grain each year, eventually offering only stale and rotten rice to dismiss the scholar.

Not foolish, the scholar confronted him, but the brother was prepared, proposing to return the land. Upon inspection, the scholar found his share had shrunk, boundary markers moved, and the best wet fields reassigned to his brother, leaving him only dry, poor land.

The scholar refused to accept this and sought the elders, demanding a re-drawing of boundaries, which the brother opposed. Their dispute escalated, culminating in today’s appearance before the magistrate.

For the common folk, land is life. Without it, what fear have they of corrupt officials? Thus, the brothers faced off in court, each arguing fiercely: the elder brother played the brute, the scholar reasoned, leaving listeners bewildered.

Even the clerk grew impatient, glancing at the magistrate, who had drifted off. With a mild cough, he addressed the brothers. “The magistrate understands your dispute. It’s simple enough: pay the fee, and the verdict will follow. Right or wrong—it’s up to the magistrate’s judgment.”