Chapter 35: Before the Journey to Mount Mourning

Chapter 35: Before the Journey to Mount Mourning

Little Hui Niang stood in front of Zhang Sanlu, her tiny frame blocking his way. The anger among the villagers began to waver at this sight. Hui Niang’s blunt honesty and her brave innocence moved them, stirring self-reflection about their own actions and the accusations they had flung at Zhang Sanlu. In the presence of this small girl, even their emotions seemed to be swayed.

At that moment, the village headman, who had been watching coldly from the side, suddenly stepped forward and said, “Immortal Master, if what you said just now is true, then you must indeed be a man of great ability. But with the Grand Shaman now standing by and doing nothing, what will the villagers here do if disaster strikes again in the future? Alas—”

Beside him, the elder with a white beard, tears welling in his eyes and voice choked with emotion, added, “It seems there is truly no hope for Guo Wang’s wife this time. Poor Hui Niang and her younger brother, so young and already motherless—how will they survive, alas—” Tears traced the deep wrinkles on his face, each drop voicing the helplessness and despair of the villagers.

An older woman began to sob, “If these children lose their mother, what will become of them? They’re so little, this is the time they need their mother the most.”

Hui Niang pressed herself tightly against Zhang Sanlu, her small arms still outstretched to shield him, yet Zhang Sanlu could feel her frail body trembling. She did not plead for help; instead, she turned and hugged his leg, her shoulders quivering as silent tears slid down her cheeks, dampening both her own face and the hem of his trousers. At this moment, Hui Niang was utterly lost and sorrowful. Her tears fell like heavy raindrops on Zhang Sanlu’s heart, stirring up ripples within him.

A deep ache surged from Zhang Sanlu’s chest. His gaze, gentle yet complicated, rested on Hui Niang’s fragile figure. He reached out and gently stroked her hair.

“Hui Niang, don’t cry. I’ll help you bring your mother back!” Zhang Sanlu’s voice was hoarse and low.

Her tears and desperate embrace filled Zhang Sanlu with an overwhelming sense of responsibility he had never known before.

——

At the break of dawn, the village headman, Elder Li, Elder San, and the other elders had already arranged for lodging and meals. Zhang Sanlu and Zheng Ji were settled in the largest house in the village, and a rare carriage had been prepared for them—a sight seldom seen in this rural place. The carriage was sturdy, built of solid timber and coated with a protective layer of tung oil that gave off a faint woody fragrance. Its wheels were broad. A strong horse, its mane fluttering in the morning breeze, stood hitched to the shaft, its steady hooves thudding and nostrils flaring from time to time, exuding strength and stability.

A canopy of tightly woven waterproof cloth had been set up over the carriage, shielding its occupants from sun and rain, practical yet imbuing a sense of homely comfort. The carriage floor was layered thick with straw, topped with several handwoven blankets. Though it lacked the luxury of carriages from the great cities, it was crafted with care and built to last.

The coachman was an experienced middle-aged man, a battered straw hat on his head and a faded blue shirt on his back. Around the carriage, a crowd of curious children and villagers had gathered.

After the long night’s upheaval, Zhang Sanlu was famished. With only a few words of courtesy, the headman and elders quickly led everyone to the eating area.

There was no dedicated inn in the village, but a bonfire had been lit in the central clearing. All sorts of wild game were roasting over the flames, sending out mouthwatering aromas. There were no chairs; everyone simply sat on the ground. Along with the roasted meat, various dishes were brought in from every direction of the village. Clearly, the headman and elders had coordinated everything in advance, with many households contributing to the feast. The importance of this matter to the village was unmistakable.

The fare here was not as refined as what Zhang Sanlu had tasted in another world, nor did it boast a plethora of seasonings, but it was all-natural, the true flavor of the mountains. Sometimes the meat was a little tough, sometimes a touch underdone, but always fresh and wild. There were also mushrooms freshly gathered from the hills, stewed together with pheasant—delicious beyond compare.

Accompanying Zhang Sanlu and Zheng Ji, besides the headman Guo Quanyou and the three elders, were Guo Wang, another old man, and several robust villagers—ten in all, who would go with Zhang Sanlu into the mountains. The rest served as helpers. Zhang Sanlu understood: these ten men were his companions on this journey, and should misfortune befall them, this feast would be their “farewell wine.”

For the villagers, such a spread of fine meat and wine was a rare treat. Though they lived near Mount Mourning with its plentiful game, few dared venture deep into the forest to hunt. Most prey they captured was sold at market rather than enjoyed at home.

Headman Guo Quanyou skimmed the foam from a clay bowl of liquor with a reed, then raised it to Zhang Sanlu. “Daoist Master, your skills are profound and you have chosen to act out of righteousness, entering the mountains to sweep away evil and protect the people of these lands. When you return, you will be richly rewarded. This bowl of wine, though not as fine as the golden goblets of the city, bears the heartfelt gratitude of our entire village. Please drink it all, to bolster your spirit.” He handed the bowl to Zhang Sanlu, the lines on his face deepening in the firelight as he smiled.

The elders and villagers around them all raised their bowls, offering their respects to Zhang Sanlu. The firelight danced on their gentle, smiling faces; compared to last night’s expressions of anger and hostility, these smiles were almost unrecognizable. The previous night, their eyes had burned with fury, as if they would tear him apart. Now, their faces radiated only gratitude and goodwill, as though they had changed entirely.

Zhang Sanlu accepted the bowl with little ceremony, but did not drink. Instead, he set it on the table and grabbed a roasted leg—of uncertain origin—to gnaw on. The smiles on the faces of the headman and villagers froze.

But an old man quickly interjected, “The Daoist Master, being a cultivator of deep attainment, naturally has no fondness for wine, ha ha ha…” Hearing this, the headman’s sullen face eased a little.

Yet before he finished speaking, Zhang Sanlu set down the meat, lifted the bowl, and drained the wine in one gulp. Everyone stared, especially the old man who had just spoken, his face turning from green to white, a look of anger flashing across it—though cowed by Zhang Sanlu’s reputation, he dared not say a word.

Zhang Sanlu noted all these reactions with a cold sneer in his heart, but had no desire to engage in their hollow courtesies. He ate and drank as he pleased, occasionally passing morsels of meat to Hui Niang and the children watching from afar.

Seeing his fierce looks and eccentric ways, the villagers dared not provoke him further and turned instead to toast Zheng Ji, who, unable to refuse, drank several bowls. Only Guo Wang and the other villagers set to enter the mountains with them were genuinely simple and honest—neither offering toasts nor holding back as they ate, enjoying the meal even more heartily than Zhang Sanlu himself.