Chapter Thirty: The Old Beggar with White Hair

As expected, it began to rain, though the downpour was gentle and did not seep into the wooden shelter. They were already nearing Blackwater County, and none wished to brave the rain any longer, so they simply rested at the teahouse.

The proprietress was a vivacious woman, chatting warmly with everyone. As the rain pattered, she spun tale after tale, her stories as lively as a flock of dragons. For Luo Changning and Ma Xue’e, who had never left Qingyang County before, their horizons were broadened with a myriad of strange anecdotes and local customs, far more vivid than any book could describe. The two listened with rapt attention.

“Tell me more, proprietress! That scrawny rascal Gao Haitian—what other mischief and villainy has he been up to?” Ma Xue’e propped her chin in her small hand, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“Well, there was the time when Miss Honghua of the Chunxiang Courtyard was changing clothes in her room, and a drunken Gao Haitian barged in…” The proprietress’ gaze softened as she began to recount.

“And then?” Ma Xue’e’s eyes glittered, alight with anticipation.

“And then… the young lady, upon seeing him, was so frightened she smacked him with her hand and knocked him out cold!”

Laughter broke out among the group. Just as the merriment reached its peak, a ragged, disheveled old beggar burst into the teahouse, wailing loudly.

“I’m soaked to the bone!” he shouted.

He plopped down onto a bench and, with great effort, fished a copper coin from his breast and slapped it onto the table. “Quick, innkeeper, bring me a steaming bowl of old shade tea!”

The proprietress’s eyes brightened as she replied with a warm laugh, “Coming right up!”

The beggar’s face was so caked with layers of grime that his original features and complexion were impossible to discern. His long white hair hung in a filthy tangle down his back—evidently, he hadn’t bathed in ages.

Luo Changning took in the strange, brash old man with calm scrutiny. Though the beggar had just wailed about being drenched, there wasn’t a single drop of water on him—not even his bare feet or his ragged clothes were damp. He was perfectly dry, nothing at all like someone who had just come in from a downpour. This was not something an ordinary person could achieve. The old man must be a master—either a martial artist with profound internal strength or an innate fighter.

On the continent of Yaohua, beggars were organized much as they had been in Luo Changning’s previous life on the ancient Dilu continent. They formed a vast and venerable society—the Beggar Sect.

Within the sect, hierarchy was strictly maintained by the number of rice sacks each carried on their back, the highest rank bearing nine. With each rank lower, one sack fewer.

Yet this white-haired old beggar carried no rice sack at all. Either he was unaffiliated with the sect, or he was—the very highest among them.

Luo Changning couldn’t be certain which it was, and so he resolved to test the man. If this was truly the supreme one, perhaps today would be his great opportunity!

As these thoughts raced through his mind, he quickly laid his plans.

Besides Luo Changning, Ma Qingyun and Xiang Tong were also quietly observing the old beggar, all clearly sensing his extraordinary nature.

Meanwhile, Ma Xue’e and Xiang Yinglong were oblivious. One was well-fed, drowsy, her head nodding as she nearly dozed off; the other was coarse and careless, too busy grinning and sneaking glances at the girl's half-asleep, adorable face to notice anything else.

The white-haired old beggar seemed unaffected by the scrutiny, leisurely savoring his bowl of old shade tea.

“Ah, after drinking this tea, I feel completely rejuvenated!” the beggar exclaimed, smacking his lips in satisfaction.

The proprietress, swaying her sinuous waist, placed a teacup before the beggar and said with a smile, “On a cold, rainy day like this, this cup is on the house. No need for your coin.”

Afterward, she slid into the seat across from him, her face wreathed in alluring smiles.

Curiously, her short, wiry husband, aside from glancing up at the beggar’s entrance, paid no further attention, absorbed in cracking melon seeds. Not even his wife openly flirting with a filthy old beggar in front of him could rouse his interest; he seemed utterly indifferent to her blatant infidelity.

The white-haired beggar lifted his eyelids and let out a hearty laugh. “Well, then, I won’t stand on ceremony!”

The proprietress, chin in hand, fluttered her lashes suggestively and asked, “May I ask, sir, where do you come from? With such an air of immortality, are you perhaps a celestial being come down to earth?”

“I’m a beggar, so naturally I come from a beggar’s den! You, young as you are and so shrewd-looking—how could you be so muddleheaded?” The old beggar leaned back, clutching his chest dramatically, his expression as though he were speaking to a madwoman.

“Madam, there are no immortals in this world. And even if there were, they wouldn’t be perched above the clouds!”

Madam…

Everyone fell silent: for a white-haired old man to call a woman just past thirty “madam” with such ease…

In Yaohua, thirty was still considered youthful, with boundless prospects ahead—especially for martial artists. Even at fifty, with talent and diligence, it was far from too late to begin training.

Let alone with all sorts of miraculous elixirs—those that could restore youth, retain beauty, or even revive the dead.

“Who are you calling madam!” the proprietress roared, startling everyone present.

She patted her chest—so much for being the warm, attentive, seductive wife!

The old beggar rolled his eyes. “Whoever answers is the madam. My own skin is as smooth as a child’s—am I not younger than you? Tsk, look—there’s not a wrinkle on my face, unlike you, whose crow’s feet show the moment you smile!”

The proprietress thought: with that muddy face of yours, you’d never see wrinkles anyway—they’re all hidden…

Wait—could I really be getting wrinkles from poor sleep lately? Am I aging before I’ve even won over that blockhead?

She stole a glance at her husband, still engrossed in his seeds, her heart aching with sourness and emptiness.

She was about to retort when the beggar’s hand thrust before her left her speechless.

The skin was white and smooth, delicate as porcelain, gleaming with a cold luster… Not a trace of age or wrinkle… The fingers long and supple, as tender as scallion stalks…

All this belonged to the dirty, white-haired old beggar before her?

Impossible!

She rubbed her eyes and looked again—still so fair, so flawless.

“You, you, you!” the proprietress stammered, so shocked she could hardly form a sentence.

“Heh heh, well? Isn’t my skin smoother, whiter, and more delicate than yours?” The old man squinted in smug delight. “I haven’t bathed in half a year, but these hands are washed several times a day—how could they not be tender? The only clean part of my body!”

Everyone else was speechless: not bathing for half a year is hardly something to boast about…

Yet their astonishment was understandable—for his hair and voice were unmistakably those of an old man, and he called himself “the old fellow” at every turn. With all their attention on his identity and martial prowess, and his entire appearance so filthy as to be unbearable, they had simply assumed he was old and dark-skinned.

Such is the flaw in human intuition—once a notion takes root, it colors all observation.

Suddenly, Luo Changning rose and, clasping his fists, addressed the beggar with a smile, “You are right, friend. You are not old at all—youthful, in fact. If you scrubbed away the mud, you’d surely be a dashing figure, as graceful as a jade tree.”

He used no honorifics, called him “friend,” and not “senior He Guanzhong,” plainly treating the beggar as a peer and expressing a wish to befriend him.

In truth, by age the beggar was indeed an elder—on other continents, he’d already be enjoying the joys of five generations under one roof.

The old beggar looked up at this, scrutinizing Luo Changning from head to toe, his eyes flashing with a strange, inscrutable light.

He tugged at his tangled white beard and burst into laughter. “Not bad. A promising young man with good judgment—I like you!”

“The proprietress offered you tea; now let me treat you to a beef brisket stew to warm you.”

“Haha, you’re thoughtful. I accept your kindness!” The old beggar winked mischievously. “Friend, my name is He Guanzhong!”

“Luo Changning.”

Luo Changning raised his rough clay cup, already refilled several times, and clinked it against He Guanzhong’s from afar. The two exchanged a smile and drained their cups in one go.

The old and the young—yet their spirits were in perfect harmony.

Tea can stand in for wine; friendship does not require alcohol. What matters is the sentiment, the moving moment of encounter.

Some people are destined to meet, their fates entwined, never to be severed.

Age is no barrier!

Nor is status!

One shared glance can seal a lifelong vow—

Never to betray that friendship!