The Masked Cultivator 03

Jiang Rou and the others were stunned as the straw-cloaked man and the two youths wielding long staffs argued over who should go first.

"We were here first!"

"Bullshit!"

"Look at your shabby appearance—do you even have money?"

"Who do you think you're looking down on, kid?"

Suddenly, a loud laugh interrupted them, followed by a figure soaring through the air with exceptional lightness skill.

"I never thought the demon Fang Zhiyi would dare reveal his whereabouts so openly. I’ve come to claim your life!"

The people at the entrance turned to see the old man landing.

"It’s the ‘Gentleman’s Sword’ He Wugui!" someone recognized him.

"What do we do? Did we come all this way for nothing today?" Jin Yidao whispered, gripping his newly purchased blade.

Jiang Rou shook her head. "Let’s wait and see." For some reason, she secretly hoped Fang Zhiyi would defeat He Wugui.

Fang Zhiyi stepped outside, and He Wugui laughed. "So it really is you! I thought it might be an imposter, but it seems your reckoning has come. Let’s go!"

Fang Zhiyi, however, pointed at the wooden sign by the door. "Ten taels per person." Then he glanced at the others outside. "You cut in line—fifty taels."

He Wugui froze, his face darkening. "Are you mocking me?"

"Mocking you? What’s the point?" Fang Zhiyi said expressionlessly. "These are the rules here. Isn’t the martial world all about rules?"

"Rules? The only rule in the martial world is that the strong decide!" He Wugui lunged forward with blinding speed.

Just as his sword was about to pierce Fang Zhiyi, the demon smiled—but then his expression twisted into shock. The sensation from his blade didn’t feel like striking flesh.

Before anyone could react, Fang Zhiyi had already appeared behind He Wugui.

He Wugui immediately planted his sword into the ground to pivot and thrust backward. Fang Zhiyi deflected the blade with a sideways chop, while his other hand seized He Wugui’s elbow and twisted slightly. A crisp snap echoed, followed by He Wugui’s agonized scream.

Everything happened too fast for the untrained eye to follow. Only Old Lan’s eyes gleamed with astonishment—the Left Envoy had reached yet another level!

Watching He Wugui clutch his broken arm and howl, Fang Zhiyi cheerfully extended his hand. "Fifty taels." Then he added, "Banknotes." He knew no one carried fifty taels of silver on them.

"Demon, kill me if you must, but don’t humiliate me!" He Wugui snarled through gritted teeth, his right arm now numb.

Fang Zhiyi sighed. "Not paying is troublesome. Do you have family with money?"

At the mention of his family, He Wugui sneered. "Threatening my loved ones? Typical demonic sect behavior! I, He Wugui, walk alone—no friends, no family!"

Fang Zhiyi clicked his tongue. "Then you’ll work off the debt." He beckoned Old Lan, who stepped forward and sealed He Wugui’s meridians before dragging him into the courtyard. Though unsure of the Left Envoy’s intentions, Old Lan knew it was best to follow orders.

Fang Zhiyi then turned to the crowd at the door. "Well, who’s next?"

His earlier display had cowed them all. None had expected Fang Zhiyi to cripple the famed "Gentleman’s Sword" in a single move!

"Perhaps… you should go first?" The previously quarrelsome groups now deferred politely.

"No, no, our skills are meager. You seem far more capable—after you."

"We’ll go!"

The crowd turned to see Jiang Rou and her two companions step forward.

Fang Zhiyi raised an eyebrow. "Back again? Pay up."

Thirty taels of silver later, the challenge began. Fang Zhiyi defended casually while muttering critiques. This time, the trio didn’t attack as fiercely—partly because they now understood Fang Zhiyi’s caliber, and partly because their true goal was to identify their martial shortcomings.

After all, receiving guidance from a master like Fang Zhiyi was nearly impossible elsewhere!

When their time ended, the two earlier groups resumed squabbling until the trio with bamboo hats won by offering five extra taels.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Fang Zhiyi stretched lazily while watching the crowd disperse, chatting among themselves.

"Time to cook!"

With He Wugui’s meridians sealed, Fang Zhiyi had no fear of rebellion. He simply reset the man’s dislocated joints.

"No money? Then you’ll work for me. The kitchen needs hands."

He Wugui glared hatefully, but Fang Zhiyi paid no mind, murmuring cooking steps as he began stir-frying. The aroma of spices soon filled the kitchen, and He Wugui’s stomach betrayed him with a loud growl.

Fang Zhiyi glanced back. "What are you standing around for? Bowls!"

"You think I’d—" He Wugui’s protest died as Fang Zhiyi sprinkled white crystals into the wok. "Poison? You’d kill me with poison?"

Fang Zhiyi looked at him like he was an idiot. "If I wanted you dead, would I need poison? That’s salt. My refined salt!"

He Wugui skeptically dabbed a finger and tasted it. His eyes widened. "How is this…"

"Bowls! I’m hungry even if you’re not!"

Dinner that night seated four. Mei Ruoxue studied the old man across the table curiously. He Wugui had never eaten such delicious food—though reason told him the demon must have tampered with it, his mouth refused to stop.

To his surprise, Fang Zhiyi never killed him, only assigning menial tasks like chopping wood and tending fires—even teaching him to cook.

When Fang Zhiyi tossed medicinal leaves into the wok, He Wugui gasped. "That herb is potent! You’re putting it in food?"

Fang Zhiyi explained, "After fermentation in pharmacies, it becomes medicine. Right now, it’s just a spice. You wouldn’t understand, but remember—add this first, count to ten, then the chili peppers."

"Aren’t you afraid I’ll poison you?" He Wugui smirked.

"You’re called ‘Gentleman’s Sword.’ Would a gentleman stoop to poisoning?"

Watching Fang Zhiyi walk away, He Wugui felt the first flicker of doubt about the demon’s reputation. These past few days of simple labor had given his wandering soul an unfamiliar sense of peace.

What am I thinking? Bah! "Damn it—it’s burning!" He scrambled to salvage the dish.

The challengers now returned regularly, lining up to pay silver and spar with Fang Zhiyi as if it were routine. They even offered pointers to newcomers arriving to "slay the demon."

Leaning against the doorway while snacking on wild berries Mei Ruoxue picked, He Wugui scoffed. "How laughable—a demonic sect Left Envoy’s doorstep, bustling like this."

"Grandpa He, try this one! It’s sweeter!" Mei Ruoxue scampered over with more fruit.

He Wugui’s face softened. "Ah, I’ve still got some, but thank you."

Such a kind child… Pity she’s Fang Zhiyi’s adopted daughter.

Just as Fang Zhiyi collected the day’s silver and prepared to close, a sharp whistle cut the air—a shadow lunged at him, blade gleaming cold.