Traveling was crucial, but the road offered the same routine every day.

Every evening, the scribe would wail from his basket, “Ah! Ah! Ah! Young master, no! Slow down! Be gentle!” without pause. The woodcutter would drop his axe, face blissful as he savored the “lovely” sounds. The traveling monk would press his palms together, murmuring “Amitabha” and muttering “Form is emptiness, emptiness is form.” And Jiang Huoer would always halt here to rest.

The only new twist? Sometimes, women on the mountain path would cover their crotches, faces flushed crimson at the shameless noise. Mothers with kids would clamp hands over little ears, shaking their heads under wide-eyed, innocent stares.

Of course, a few seasoned travelers would sigh, “When did our Great Ming grow so… open?”

After three days of this, Jiang Huoer reached the foot of Tahang Mountain, guided by road signs.

The scribe frowned. The sun still blazed high—why stop now? His nausea hadn’t even kicked in yet. “Young master?” He popped the basket lid open. “Why halt?”

“We’re here.” Jiang Huoer dismounted. But the scribe, caught off guard, tumbled straight off the horse.

“You…” Truth was, the days weren’t identical. The scribe always “surprised” him when jumping down. Day two: mid-scream, he’d choked on leftover rabbit bones from day one—Jiang Huoer had pounded his back for ages. Day three: snoring mid-wail, he’d dislocated his jaw. Today? A full-body crash landing. No wonder he looked battered.

“I’m fine, young master,” the scribe groaned.

“I never said you weren’t. This is your own fault—grip tight instead of clowning around.” The terrain grew too rough for riding, so Huor led the horse by its reins.

“Let me hold it—”

“Save it. Just walk quietly behind me.” Huor sighed. This scribe was pure comedy—a homebody turned helpless outdoors.

The mountain air turned chilly under thick trees. Soon, the scribe sneezed. Huor pulled his outer robe from the basket and draped it over him, deliberately staring upward to avoid those teary eyes.

“They say Tahang Mountain brims with spiritual energy,” Huor mused. “But this damp chill feels heavy too. No one’s around—we’re probably alone.”

“You should hunt for saltpeter now, young master.”

“Mm-hmm. That’s why I’m scouting.”

After two hours, both were exhausted.

“Rest… please?” the scribe panted.

“I’m tired too, but why that worn-out face?” His gasping looked awful.

“You… know…” the scribe wheezed, unable to finish. “I’m a homebody. Never exercised.”

“So you expect praise for lasting this long?”

“No need~~”

“You actually thought I’d praise you?” Huor sighed. “Let’s break for lunch.”

The Jiangs had packed dry rations. Bland, but Huor usually hunted game. No luck today—and firing cannons in these woods risked wildfires.

“We’ll make do with these rations and water. Save a proper meal for tonight. Reach flat ground by sunset; easier to build a fire.”

“Mm-hmm.” The scribe obeyed his young master blindly.

Huor ate fast. The scribe chewed slowly. Jiang Zicheng once joked the scribe seemed more like a Great Young Master—polished manners, dignified posture, though less rigid than royalty.

“Huh?” Huor made a strange noise after eating.

“What’s wrong?”

“A bit…”

“A bit?”

“Full.”

“Don’t tease me!” The scribe puffed his cheeks, looking utterly put-out.

“Kidding, kidding~~~” Huor loved riling him up—his grumpy face was pure joy.

Half an hour later, they pressed on. The path eased, speeding their pace.

*Thud! Thud! Thud!*

Near a distant stream—their planned campsite—a bizarre sound echoed from the mountainside.

Huor yanked the scribe into a roadside ditch, leaving the brown horse on the path. The noise spooked it. After frantic whinnies, the horse bolted.

“That traitor…” Huor muttered. He’d treated it well.

“We’re no better off scolding it,” the scribe tugged Huor’s sleeve, stopping him from chasing. “Just stay hidden.”

*Thud! Thud! Thud!*

Loud, but not heavy impacts. What could it be?

Huor scanned the slope. Something was rolling down fast.

“See what it is, young master?” The scribe clutched Huor’s sleeve tightly.

“Looks like… a person?” Huor waited nearly half an hour. Silence. He dragged the trembling scribe toward the figure sprawled on the path.

Blood soaked the man’s clothes. Mud and gore masked his face. Deep slash wounds covered him—clear signs of a brutal fight.

“Who are you?” Huor crouched, searching the man’s waist. His fingers brushed something hard.

“Got it.” He pulled out a simple waist token. But its engraving was anything but simple.

*Brocade Guard-Commander Xiao Hao*