Chapter Sixty: The Storyteller

Running wildly down the slope, Xu Cheng's pursuer—a rolling snowball—grew ever larger behind him. After a moment, he finally realized what was happening, gathered his strength, and darted aside to clear a path for himself.

Clapping his chest, he muttered, “All I did was hit Yan Mengdie with a little snowball! And now she’s come up with a monstrosity like that to flatten me!”

He still hadn’t realized that Yan Mengdie herself was inside the massive snowball.

The giant ball tumbled all the way down the mountain, finally crashing into a tree at the base. With a muffled “bang,” the packed snow cracked open, revealing Yan Mengdie within.

Xu Cheng, who had just been grumbling about her, stared in disbelief as a figure emerged from the snowball. Upon closer inspection, it was indeed Yan Mengdie—the very person he’d been complaining about.

His words caught in his throat and, unable to help himself, he burst out laughing.

“Why didn’t you catch me? Hmph!”

Yan Mengdie stood up, swinging her arms—thicker than Xu Cheng’s thighs—in broad circles before folding them defiantly across her chest.

The corner of Xu Cheng’s mouth twitched. Was this… the legendary act of a girl pouting?

He stepped closer and said, “I thought you’d just tossed a snowball my way! Who would’ve guessed you were in it?”

“I’m angry now! Hug me—tightly!”

She rested her hands on her hips, head tilted back as she gazed off into the sky.

What could Xu Cheng do? He wasn’t even as big as both of her hands put together. Resigned, he wrapped his arms around one of hers, doing his best to comfort the huffy fairy in front of him.

Seeing this, a trace of delight flickered across Yan Mengdie’s face, and she said, “Let’s go. Into the town!”

They descended the mountain, soon arriving at another small settlement, Goldenwater Town.

Their footsteps left a trail behind them as they entered. Most of the townsfolk were busy taking shelter from the heavy snow, so there were few people on the streets. Xu Cheng, bearing a massive coffin on his back; the towering Yan Mengdie; and their companions—Chrysanthemum, Cen Ningyue, and Niu Dazhuang—clad in thin garments, were for once not the most conspicuous sight in town.

Whether it was the lingering impression from the last time the old man of the Fox Clan from Tushan passed through, or for some other reason, Xu Cheng felt a sudden urge to enter a teahouse when they passed one.

No sooner had the idea occurred than his feet seemed to carry him of their own accord, and the five of them entered the teahouse.

This time, the storyteller was a young man. As they entered, bringing a gust of wind and snow, the patrons frowned and looked back. But when they saw the imposing figure of Yan Mengdie, any urge to complain vanished; none dared provoke someone who might barrel into them like that, so they bowed their heads and wrapped themselves more tightly in their clothes.

“Last time, we spoke of the Lady of the Autumn Moon, a beauty parted in sorrow. As dead branches fall in the old city and new orchids fill the long street, the battlefield has yet to see auspicious snow, yet General Wu Wenhou has already taken another concubine.

…

Pardon me, dear audience, whether you’re just passing through, stopping for a bite, or here to listen to my tales—don’t forget to put on another layer.”

They listened through to the end; unlike their previous visit, this time no one barged in midway to assassinate the storyteller.

The young man onstage took a sip of tea and fanned himself; though it was freezing outside, the warmth from the brazier had brought sweat to his brow.

Finally, folding his fan, he placed it in his palm and announced, “Honored guests, have you not had your fill? Yet my story is at an end! If you wish, I can sing a song for you.”

“Excellent! Little Tang, sing for us! I’ve never heard a storyteller sing before,” one patron called out, rising to his feet.

“In that case, I shall oblige! I only ask for a little more tea money for my efforts.”

The storyteller bowed with his fan in both hands, then began to sing:

Parting Drunk at the Pass
Broken are the ties of several lifetimes
How vexing, this lamplight stings my eyes
Three lifetimes sighed,
Autumn leaves are ever fleeting
I fill my cup with bitter wine alone
What year was it—
One man, one horse, crossing the pass
With no success, the horse turned south
What year, among thousands—
A beauty as companion
How laughable, today I stand alone
On the ancient road, green graves shrouded in mist
May I ask, what year is it tonight?
Would you join me in dreams to Wild Goose Gate?
To seek justice in the halls of the nether palace
Blame my reckless words, my wild heart
Did you not see me stride across the jade balustrade?
…

To their surprise, the storyteller sang remarkably well; the melody flowed, his folding fan keeping a steady rhythm.

A wave of applause swept through the room.

When the audience had had their fill, they finally left, leaving generous tips behind. The wind and snow outside had not abated; patrons who had sweated inside now found the beads on their foreheads freezing into icicles as soon as they stepped out.

The storyteller brewed himself a cup of tea and was about to drink when he noticed that Xu Cheng and his companions had not left.

He asked, “Would you like me to sing another song for you?”

“That’s not it. Do you happen to know a member of the Tushan Clan from Springtime Town?” Xu Cheng asked hurriedly.

Rather than answer, the storyteller scrutinized Xu Cheng and his group.

After a long moment, he finally said, “Let’s discuss this in the back courtyard.”

He led the way, with Xu Cheng and the others following close behind.

“It seems you’re the ones who rescued Old Tushan! Come out, old fox—we have guests!” the storyteller shouted toward the backyard.

A voice answered with a yawn, “Who’s here? Is your ancestor visiting? Really now…”

An old man emerged from inside; it was none other than the storyteller from Springtime Town.

“Ahem! Oh—it’s my saviors! Little Tang, go brew a pot of good tea!” The old man of the Tushan Clan recognized Xu Cheng immediately.

“Hey, Tushan Ba, you old rascal! Always exposing your identity and leaving me to clean up after you—now you dare order me around?” The young storyteller, whose surname was Tang, bristled with indignation. So the old storyteller’s name was Tushan Ba.

“All right, all right, Master Tang Gume, please be so kind as to brew us some good tea,” Tushan Ba said in a placating tone, then turned to Xu Cheng and the others. “Come, take a seat while I change my clothes.”

They followed his directions into a tea room, furnished with fine chairs and several censers burning sandalwood.

It wasn’t long before Tushan Ba returned, the fragrance of sandalwood thickening the air.

“Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Tushan Ba, and the young man is Tang Gume. Thank you all for saving my life,” he said, bowing with genuine gratitude.

While he spoke, Tang Gume prepared the tea with practiced elegance—rinsing the pot, pouring the water, measuring the leaves—a true demonstration of the art of tea.

“No need for thanks. Cultivators should aid one another,” Xu Cheng replied with a hearty laugh.

“Indeed! It’s said that northerners love their wine—after a few drinks, each one thinks himself a grand master, the greatest in the world, and says all sorts of foolish things! We southerners, on the other hand, prefer tea. The more we drink, the more bitter life seems; then we look at our humble dwellings and want nothing more than to make money through business. As the saying goes: ‘Three cups of wine for the world’s red dust, a pot of tea for a thousand-year enterprise.’ So you must try this tea!”

As he spoke, Tushan Ba sounded more like a streetwise merchant than a legendary fox immortal cultivating the Dao.

But each person walks their own path of cultivation; Xu Cheng held his tongue, sipping the tea slowly—and found in it a subtle, indescribable flavor.

It was indeed excellent tea: at first, a trace of bitterness, like the hardships of half a lifetime; then, a lingering sweetness, like the blessings of the years to come.

He owed this appreciation to the miraculous power of his Minor Five Elements Fortune Technique, which made his body more attuned to human sensations; otherwise, he would have tasted nothing at all, and drinking tea would be no different from drinking plain water.

“Old Ba, why don’t you cultivate in the mountains?” Xu Cheng finally asked, unable to suppress his curiosity.

“Haven’t you heard that before a demon cultivates the Dao, he must first learn to be human—abandoning the false for the true to walk the immortal path?” Tushan Ba replied matter-of-factly.

“No, I haven’t!” Xu Cheng admitted, a little stunned. He truly hadn’t heard of it; the old Daoist Lingxu had been too lazy to teach him, and Liao had tried to cram knowledge into him but was too lively and scattered in his reading to mention how demons cultivated.