Chapter 1: The Storyteller

“On the brink of becoming an Emperor, reaching the pinnacle of transcendence, wielding the ultimate imperial weapon across the Boundary Sea to strike down an unprecedented foe!”

Upon hearing these words, everyone around gasped in astonishment. They crowded closer, eagerly shouting:

“And then? What happened next?”

“What kind of monstrous prodigy could be so terrifying?”

“Hurry, tell us quickly, please!”

...

The man, encircled deep within the crowd, continued deliberately and unhurriedly:

“Above the Boundary Sea, a colossal creature with azure scales burst forth from the water, its body stretching tens of thousands of feet, eyes blazing like the midday sun! Its dorsal fin was as sharp as a blade, slicing through the clouds, facing off against the peak Emperor from afar! One could imagine that, in mere moments, these two supreme beings would clash in a cataclysmic battle that would shake heaven and earth!”

The crowd grew more restless, each eager to hear more.

Shouts and prompts echoed from all sides, and a wealthy onlooker, untying his money pouch from his waist, casually scattered a handful of copper coins, shouting:

“Thrilling! Thrilling! Speak on quickly! No shortage of rewards from this gentleman here!”

The clinking of the coins on the ground, combined with the increasingly stirring tale, heightened the crowd’s excitement.

The storyteller, who had remained unseen amid the throng, intentionally prolonged his voice. Only when the crowd grew truly impatient did he smile and continue.

...

As the sun dipped westward, the storytelling gradually reached its conclusion.

“The Boundary Sea had long since calmed; that supreme battle seemed nothing more than fleeting smoke and mirrors, a dream of Zhuangzi. Only the imperial weapon’s mournful whinnies lingered, circling above, reluctant to depart. The figure who once swept across the Eight Desolaces had ultimately sunk alongside that azure-scaled giant into the abyss!”

Those hearing the final words let out a long, smoky breath, then sighed with regret:

“Such a pity; such a man acted impulsively.”

“If not for that prodigy exploiting the advantage of the Boundary Sea, how could one wielding the ultimate imperial weapon perish at the hands of a mere beast?”

“Exactly, just taking advantage of terrain to bully others!”

...

Though everyone knew it was just a story, the crowd couldn’t help but argue animatedly.

This only proved the story’s brilliance and the storyteller’s skill.

A good tale and a gifted narrator were inseparable.

Amid the dispersing crowd, the storyteller’s figure finally emerged.

Unlike the tavern hosts, this man appeared remarkably young.

His hair was cropped short—some wondered if he had recently left the monastic life.

But none of that mattered. On this secluded mountain path, he was not only the sole storyteller but also the best they had ever encountered.

Most tavern hosts were arrogant, clutching their fees tightly—one could not speak without paying a cent.

This young gentleman was different; even those without money were welcome to gather and listen.

Of course, a few copper coins, a sesame cake, and a pot of cold tea were always appreciated!

Most importantly, unlike the tired, oft-repeated tales of the older hosts, this young man told novel stories unfamiliar to these weary mountain travelers.

Thus, passersby enjoyed his stories and respectfully called him “young sir.”

Yet, as with all crowds, there were dissenters.

Outside the circle, a group of caravan men sneered disdainfully:

“After all that, isn’t it just a reckless fisherman dragged to his drowning death by a big fish at the lake’s bottom?”

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Those words immediately drew sharp rebukes:

“How dare you speak so?”

“You disdain young sir’s tales? Have you paid him anything? Without a single coin, where do you get off saying such things?”

“You have many men, does that make us fewer?”

...

Clearly unprepared for such staunch defense, the man found himself cornered.

Still, to save face, he stiffly replied:

“I just arrived, so naturally, I haven’t given any reward yet.”

Immediately, someone jeered:

“Don’t listen to his nonsense. I saw him come too, with his neck craned forward, listening intently!”

This only added fuel to the fire, prompting laughter from the crowd.

“So he’s just a broke mouthy nobody! And he dares claim he’s part of the caravan? More like the sycophant gang! Ha ha ha!”

This insult not only targeted the man but also his caravan behind him.

Though not one of the famous major caravans, their pride was evident, especially among the many young men.

Several of them nearly lost their temper and were ready to start a fight.

Seeing this, the young storyteller picked up the last copper coin that had fallen and stepped into the crowd, saying:

“Friends, friends, please calm down. We’re all here to make a living; there’s no need to lose civility. I know you mean well and that this gentleman simply finds my story unsatisfactory.”

“If that’s the case, sir, why not tell us what you’d prefer to hear?”

Seeing someone offer a way out, the caravan men, outnumbering the others, eased their stance.

“I just want to hear something different.”

Different? What could be more different?

Simply put, the man would say something offhand, the storyteller would praise it, and the man would offer more reward. Everyone would go home happy.

The storyteller would gain some coin, the audience would enjoy the tale, and his face would remain intact.

How perfect!

But to his surprise, the young man pondered briefly before asking:

“Different, you say? Then tell me, sir, what do you think is the greatest fear for those who travel the mountain paths with caravans?”

Greatest fear?

What else could there be?

Still, hesitating, the man answered:

“Obviously, it’s having fewer people in the caravan.”

Those who traveled together were mostly acquainted, often from the same village or clan—so-called countrymen.

If disaster struck and the group lost members, it would be unbearable to face their families upon returning.

He thought his answer was correct, but the young storyteller shook his head:

“No, guess again.”

Guess again?

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What else could there be?

Could anything be more frightening than losing members?

Was this man just looking to provoke?

Thinking this, the man frowned slightly and said:

“I won’t guess. Tell me, then—what else could it be?”

The young storyteller looked at them meaningfully and said:

“More frightening than losing a person is gaining an extra one.”

At this, the crowd was stunned for a moment, then burst into laughter:

“What’s so scary about an extra person? It’s common to pick up a hitchhiker or two along the way!”

“Yeah, yeah, unless it’s bandits, but it’s peaceful times now—where are the bandits?”

Amid the laughter, the young storyteller shook his head:

“Well, if you know who it is, there’s nothing to fear. But I mean when no one realizes there’s an extra person!”

The laughter and teasing died instantly.

Though the sun still cast light, its warmth had faded, enhancing the unique chill of the mountain air.

After a long pause, the crowd awkwardly muttered:

“Sir, what you say—how could there be an extra person no one notices? Well… uh, it’s getting late, we should set off!”

Feeling a chill down their spines, they glanced at the sun, then back down the path, hastily packing to leave.

Seeing them prepare to depart, the young storyteller bowed slightly and said:

“Just so you know, I’ll likely be here for the next few days. Stop by if you pass this way.”

He smiled again:

“So I can beg a bite or two from you!”

The crowd echoed warmly:

“Of course, of course.”

“Don’t worry, we’d be more afraid if you weren’t here!”

...

Outside the crowd, the caravan men preparing to leave were strangely uneasy.

Not fewer people, but an extra one?

They all knew it was a story, a storyteller’s fanciful device to swindle foolish listeners.

Yet, no matter the explanation, they couldn’t help but glance at their companions.

Eleven men and eight horses.

Was that right?

Shaking their heads, the caravan finally set off while the sun still hung in the sky.

In the fading sunlight, the caravan’s twelve men and seven horses cast a long, stretched shadow along the mountain trail.