Chapter Seven

Chu Rong reached up and touched the side of his neck. Under the warmth of the hot spring's steam, the wound had begun to bleed a little again.

Chu Rong scanned the room, and his gaze landed on the medicine bottles on the writing desk.

The labels on the medicine bottles were written in traditional characters, listing names of remedies — nothing more than some hemostatic, anti-swelling, and bruise-clearing medicines. Chu Rong picked up the hemostatic bottle, pulled out the stopper, tipped out a small amount of medicinal powder, and applied it to the wound on the side of his neck.

Once the medicine was applied, Chu Rong set the bottle back on the desk.

Having rested and recovered, he felt much more relaxed all over. The thoughts that had been sluggish with exhaustion before were lively again. Chu Rong looked around the room and walked toward the bookshelf behind the writing desk.

The bookshelf had many empty slots, with a few medical texts and cultivation world biographies scattered here and there. At first glance there was nothing remarkable about it — but Chu Rong knew that behind the bookshelf, there was a small hidden compartment.

Chu Rong moved the bookshelf aside and opened the hidden compartment. The densely packed gold, silver, spirit stones, and spirit medicines piled inside nearly blinded him. There were even several cultivation techniques inside that didn't belong to the Qingyang Heavenly Sect, and of no low grade either.

All of this was what the original owner had accumulated over three years, using Cen Yan's name to run rampant and scheme. As the saying goes, the darkest place is under the lamp — the stolen goods had been hidden in the room for three years and Cen Yan had never noticed.

These were all stolen goods — the mess the original owner had left behind. Chu Rong wouldn't touch a single piece, but he wouldn't hand them over either.

If by some twist of fate he ended up back in the modern world, and Cen Yan and the others eventually found these stolen goods, how to deal with them would then be a matter between the original owner and Cen Yan.

Gu—

A sudden rumble from his stomach broke Chu Rong's train of thought.

Chu Rong moved the bookshelf back, covering the compartment again. Only then did he remember that since he'd transmigrated into the book, nearly an entire day had passed, and not a single grain of rice had gone into his stomach.

Mortals ate the five grains and could not go without a meal. Chu Rong remembered that in the original text, Cen Yan had specifically arranged a dining hall in the outer courtyard for the original owner, with meals delivered to Misty Pine Residence three times a day.

Yet he had been back in Misty Pine Residence for half a day, and not a single person had come to deliver a meal.

Recalling what had happened in the front hall earlier that day, a knowing light passed through Chu Rong's eyes. He casually tied his hair back with a hair ribbon and went straight to the outer courtyard.

The outer courtyard was in the outer peak, a fair distance from Misty Pine Residence. Chu Rong left through the inner gate. Partway there, as he passed the foot of the back mountain outside the outer gate, voices of shuffling, disorderly footsteps reached his ears.

Chu Rong's steps paused briefly. He looked toward the sound. In the back mountain forest, where light and shadow played in shifting patterns, a few outer-gate disciples were jostling someone along the path, heading deeper into the mountain.

The person being pushed along was tall and solidly built, head hung very low, shoulders hunched. His face was impossible to make out.

Chu Rong glanced over casually, paid it no mind, and continued at an unhurried pace. He arrived at the outer courtyard to find the candles still lit inside.

The outer-gate disciple in charge of delivering meals stood there with a downturned mouth, an expression of aggrieved indignation, dumping two dishes of finely prepared food into a slop bucket. As he did so, he muttered under his breath: "Eat, eat, eat — I'll let you eat! Murderer — sooner or later, heaven will strike you down with lightning!"

As expected.

Even after he had proven his innocence before everyone with the Truth Pearl, the Qingyang Heavenly Sect disciples still wouldn't believe him. In everyone's hearts, he remained a criminal.

But what of it?

No amount of evidence could outweigh the Truth Pearl. His name had been cleared, and Chu Rong didn't care in the slightest how these people viewed him.

"Ha." A single humorless laugh drifted in from the doorway.

The disciple holding the food tray froze abruptly, and spun around — to find Chu Rong standing in the doorway, arms crossed at his waist, his tall frame leaning languidly and carelessly against the door frame.

His hair, still faintly damp, fell across his shoulders. The wound on the side of his neck had stopped bleeding, tinged with a faint pink — like a petal of peach blossom branded into snow-white skin. The mask on his face bared its fang-like teeth, and behind it, a pair of shimmering peach blossom eyes watched him with a smile that wasn't quite a smile.

"Who's going to be struck down by lightning?" He raised one hand, extended a single finger, and pointed at himself. His wide sleeve slid back, baring a section of white wrist, and those fingers — immaculate white, slender, the back of the hand slightly broad, with fine, elegant knuckles, each one like a stalk of white jade — he asked: "Me?"

The disciple's eyes involuntarily caught on that hand. His heart gave a heavy lurch, blood surged up hot through his veins and straight to his head — and in that instant, he forgot even to breathe.

"What is... Chu... Chu Gongzi doing at the outer courtyard?" the disciple asked, his face flushing red. He hunched his shoulders, tugged at the hem of his robes twice, pulling them forward, and his words came out stumbling and broken.

Though he personally believed Chu Rong was the true culprit, the Sect Master had already declared Chu Rong innocent. Chu Rong's status remained the same as before — the fiancé of Elder Brother Cen. He was not someone a lowly outer-gate errand disciple like himself had any business running his mouth about.

The disciple didn't dare respond to Chu Rong's words and could only try to change the subject.

But the moment the words left his mouth, he could have slapped himself twice.

Chu Rong lowered his hand and folded his arms back around his waist. A half-dried strand of dark hair drifted down across the mask, the tone of his voice curving upward in question: "What do you think?"

"I..." the disciple darted a glance toward the slop bucket, his face draining to a ghastly white. His mouth opened and closed for a long moment without producing a single syllable.

The disciple's forehead broke into a cold sweat. He scrambled hastily toward the inner hall: "I — I'll go get Gongzi a meal right away."

"No need." Chu Rong's stomach was completely empty, and he had no patience to spare for waiting: "Do you have any steamed buns? Pack me two."

"S-steamed buns?" The disciple was taken aback. How could Chu Gongzi want something as coarse as what the outer-gate disciples ate?

Back when he was studying, Chu Rong had worked part-time jobs and scrimped on every expense, with steamed buns as his main food. For him, food had no rank — filling his stomach was what mattered most.

Chu Rong had no desire to waste more words explaining, and the thin lips behind the mask barely parted as he said flatly: "Do you have any?"

"Yes — yes." The disciple nodded again and again in a flurry, hurriedly unfolded a clean sheet of oil paper, and packed two steamed buns for Chu Rong.

Chu Rong took the steamed buns, turned, and walked away. After two steps, he stopped, not turning his head: "What happened today — I don't want to see it a second time."

Chu Rong had resolved to behave himself going forward — but that didn't mean he was going to endure being casually mistreated. If tomorrow the disciple was still this negligent and took his private grudges out on his duties, he wouldn't mind using a few methods of his own.

The disciple didn't have the nerve to offend Chu Rong. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, bowed with an ingratiating smile: "Yes, Chu Gongzi, rest assured — there will absolutely not be a next time."

Chu Rong took his steamed buns and made his way back the same way he had come.

As he passed the foot of the back mountain, he glanced to the side. The few outer-gate disciples who had gone into the mountain were now making their way back down, talking and laughing among themselves. Trailing at the very back was a tall, limping figure.

The man was dressed in coarse linen, with thick brows and large eyes, his expression blank. His skin was rough and dark. From a closer distance, Chu Rong could see that the corners of his mouth and his arms were covered in wounds, and one of his legs had a long gash cut across it, blood seeping steadily through.

Everything about him screamed outer-gate errand disciple.

In the cultivation world, strength was supreme. Being recognized for one's potential and accepted into a sect was only the first step. If one subsequently failed to draw qi into the body, one would be relegated to the outer gate as an errand worker. Errand workers occupied the very bottom rung of the sect, and were frequently mistreated in private.

The Qingyang Heavenly Sect was comprised mostly of outer-gate disciples, and this situation was especially pronounced there. Otherwise, how could a mere mortal like the original owner have stirred up trouble within a cultivation sect for three full years?

Chu Rong scanned through the plot in his mind and quickly matched the man to a name: outer-gate disciple Yun Zhi, one of the protagonist shou's followers.

Not one of the main gongs — he didn't have many scenes — but he admired Cen Yan greatly.

In the original text, Cen Yan happened upon Yun Zhi being bullied, stepped in to rescue him, and arranged for him to stay close by under his protection. Yun Zhi was deeply grateful, and from then on devoted himself to Cen Yan with absolute loyalty, following his every word without question.

Chu Rong had no intention of meddling in the plot, and no interest in sticking his nose into other people's business. He gave a disinterested glance and looked away.

Returning to Misty Pine Residence, Cen Yan was already back, standing upright at the gate. Hearing the footsteps, he raised his head toward the entrance — and his breath caught for just an instant.

The next moment, he caught himself, and turned his head away swiftly, as though looking at something filthy. He asked in a cool tone: "Where did you go?"

A precisely tailored black sword-practice outfit, the same-colored belt cinching it at the waist, accentuating the young man's lean waistline. Pale, elegant features, expressionless yet still captivating.

Truly worthy of being the protagonist shou. No wonder the original owner had fallen for him.

Chu Rong raised one hand slightly, his long sleeve flowing like water, and held up for Cen Yan to see the oil-paper-wrapped steamed buns in his hand. He replied in a tone that was neither warm nor cold: "Went out to find something to eat."

Unlike the original owner, who would rush over to fawn the moment he caught sight of Cen Yan.

Cen Yan shot him a surprised sideways look, glanced at the oil paper parcel, said nothing more, and turned to go inside his room.

Watching the door close in his face — as though shutting out some flood or wild beast — Chu Rong's lips parted slightly, and he let out a faint snort. He took his steamed buns back to his room.

The steamed buns had gone completely cold, but were thankfully still soft. Chu Rong ate them down, filling his empty stomach with something simple, then climbed onto the couch to rest.

The couch felt soft to the touch but proved somewhat hard once he lay down. Compared to the thick, plush mattress he had grown used to in the apartment, the difference was more than just a little.

Chu Rong couldn't get comfortable. He tossed and turned all night without being able to sleep, and it wasn't until the early hours of the morning, when he was truly too exhausted to stay awake, that he finally managed to drift off.

Chu Rong was woken by a knock at the door.

A thin light was just beginning to filter through the clouds in the east, seeping through the gaps between the branches all around and casting itself down, lending an even more remote and tranquil air to an already quiet Misty Pine Residence.

The outer-courtyard disciple responsible for delivering meals stood outside the door, holding a steaming breakfast tray: "Chu Gongzi, time for breakfast."

Two steamed buns weren't exactly filling, and after an entire night, Chu Rong's stomach was hollow again. He weighed sleep against food for a moment, then kneaded the bridge of his nose and reached back to put on the mask: "Come in."

The disciple answered respectfully, pushed open the door with both hands, and carried the meal inside.

Chu Rong propped himself up on one arm from the wooden couch, his hair already dry, falling softly all around him. His sheer white gauze robe moved with him, brushing over the backs of his jade-pale feet as he rose.

Slender ankles. The soles of his feet tinged with a faint, soft pink. The meal-delivery disciple was just an errand worker who had never read much, and didn't know how to put it into words — he only felt that Chu Rong's feet looked as though they were carved from fine jade, and he couldn't help but want to kneel before him and cup them carefully in both hands, not letting those feet touch a single speck of dust.

The tips of the disciple's ears flushed hot red. His throat went dry, and he swallowed involuntarily, twice.

In the original text, there was little description connected to the original owner. This particular meal-delivery disciple never appeared again after the incident at the front hall.

Having slept poorly, Chu Rong's temples throbbed with a dull ache. He treated this disciple as nothing more than an NPC, didn't even glance at him, and waved a wrist in dismissal: "Set the meal down and go. Bring lunch a little later."

Chu Rong had always kept others out of the room while he ate. The disciple didn't think anything of it. His eyes slid involuntarily down one more time to Chu Rong's feet, then he bowed slightly and retreated, pulling the door shut as he went.

As he lowered his hand from the door handle, a faint trace of orchid fragrance suddenly drifted to the tip of his nose. The disciple looked down and sniffed, and found that the scent was coming from his own clothing.

He came every day to deliver meals to Chu Rong, so he certainly knew this was the scent that clung to Chu Rong. He had only been inside for such a short while, yet the scent had already transferred to his robes.

The disciple's throat bobbed. His breathing grew rapid, gradually turning heavy.

Just then, a pleasant voice sounded behind him: "Shi Ming?"

Shi Ming snapped out of his daze and turned around.

Cen Yan was dressed in robes as white as snow, standing a few steps away. His handsome brows were lightly furrowed, his expression faintly puzzled: "What's the matter with you?"

Why was he just standing there without moving?

"C-Cen — Cen Shixiong." Shi Ming's face immediately flushed scarlet. He hunched his shoulders awkwardly, tugged hastily at the hem of his robe, and said in a rush: "N-nothing's the matter. Cen Shixiong, there are still things to do in the outer courtyard — I'll go ahead and get back to it."

Shi Ming bowed quickly in greeting, then fled in a flustered hurry.

That expression was hardly the face of someone with nothing the matter.

Cen Yan turned his head and looked toward the neighboring room with its tightly closed door. Thinking of the evidence he had gathered, he strode with large steps to Chu Rong's room and shoved the door open with force. His pale face was blanketed in frost, cold enough to freeze anyone solid: "What did you do to Shi Ming?"

Chu Rong stood tall by the table, his hand suspended in midair, just in the process of reaching up to remove his mask for his meal.