Steamed Bun

Within the Yitian Temple, Yifan sat on the ground, but his mind was restless. It seemed as though something important had slipped his memory, so much so that he didn’t hear Chen Ni’er calling him.

At that moment, the Ghostbane leapt down from the rooftop, clutching wild fruit it had picked from somewhere. The fruit was small and unripe, but the beast devoured it happily. Tossing aside the branch, it handed the largest fruit to Chen Ni’er, pressing it into her arms.

Chen Ni’er took the fruit and patted the Ghostbane’s thigh. The creature crouched obediently, allowing her to climb onto its shoulder. Then, with a grin at Yifan, it dashed out of the temple.

In these mountains, Ghostbane and Chen Ni’er were the closest companions—beast and girl, inseparable friends.

Yifan smiled gently, watching their retreating figures. Suddenly, inspiration struck; he remembered what he had forgotten.

Last night, he had hurried to the scene but found no trace of the demoness. Yet the hall was thick with demonic energy, indicating she had only just left, or perhaps hadn’t left at all—merely hidden somewhere, using unknown means to evade his pursuit.

He had spent the night atop the hall and never left, which meant the demoness must have remained concealed, able to watch him without being seen. Her refusal to appear was clear: she didn’t want him to follow her and discover the tree demon’s lair.

The only way she could escape him was by using Ning Caichen to divert his attention, or even to facilitate her own getaway. Perhaps this was why she hadn’t killed Ning Caichen.

Of course, there might be other reasons—after all, the demoness was capricious and unpredictable. Who could fathom her true intentions?

With this realization, Yifan could no longer sit still. He exchanged a brief word with Chen Lan, slung the Demon-Slaying Sword across his back, fastened his magic pouch, and sped toward the Lanruo Temple.

Upon entering Lanruo Temple, he found the ruined hall empty; Ning Caichen was nowhere to be seen. The ashes of a fire on the ground suggested he had left some time ago, likely at dawn.

Ning Caichen had little food and almost no belongings. By foot alone, he couldn’t have easily left Guobei County. The only plausible destination was the county town.

With that thought, Yifan immediately descended the mountain, moving as swiftly as a galloping horse, using the rocks and trees for leverage. In less than half an hour, he reached the town’s outskirts.

Guobei County was unchanged—dilapidated and chaotic, with impoverished folk selling their own children everywhere. Idle ruffians roamed, knives and swords in hand, their faces fierce, as if eager to broadcast their villainy.

Entering the town, Yifan drew little attention due to his lack of baggage and his priestly attire. He wandered until near afternoon, but found no sign of Ning Caichen.

Just as he rounded a corner, he saw a crowd gathered. At the center, two men fought with blades, the flash of steel drawing cheers from onlookers, some of whom gestured and shouted advice.

Eventually, one of the men made a fatal mistake. His opponent brought down the blade, sending his large head flying and spraying blood everywhere. The crowd erupted in applause. The victor proudly bowed, took a purse from the corpse, and strode into a nearby tavern, his voice carrying from afar: “Waiter, bring me your finest wine!”

“Right away, sir,” came the reply.

...

With the spectacle over, the crowd dispersed quickly. Blood soaked the ground, and soon several men arrived to collect the corpse, dragging it into the tavern’s backyard.

Sometimes, human cruelty surpassed that of demons. Life, to these people, was worth less than a simple bun.

Yifan shook his head and turned to leave, but was stopped by a wiry man. “Priest, did you see that? The winner used one of my blades. Want to buy one? Fair price, guaranteed sharpness—cuts quick and deep, one strike and it’s over.”

Glancing to the side, Yifan saw a blacksmith’s shop not far off, blades and swords glittering in the sunlight. Inside, seven or eight burly men hammered away, their arms thick and sweat pouring off them like oil, an intimidating sight.

Yifan shook his head. “I have no shortage of blades, won’t be needing any for now.”

The wiry man shoved him hard, but found he couldn’t budge him. He dared not push further, and merely snorted, “If you’re not buying, don’t block my business. Move along.”

Yifan glanced at him, flicked his sleeve, and as he passed, sent a burst of energy into the man, who cried out and was thrown sideways, rolling several times before scrambling to his feet to stop the blacksmiths rushing out.

“He’s tough—forget it.”

...

By afternoon, Yifan finally spotted Ning Caichen at a stall. The man was writing epitaphs on a stone slab for others.

Indeed, they were epitaphs. Several elderly men waited, holding wooden boards. Ning Caichen gathered his focus, brush in hand, carefully inscribing characters onto one of the boards.

Yifan didn’t disturb him, instead watching from a corner, leaning against the wall.

After some time, Ning Caichen finished the epitaphs. The old men cautiously handed him a few black buns in thanks before hurriedly departing.

With no more business and dusk approaching, Ning Caichen packed up his basket and crossed the street to a tavern, calling out, “Waiter, bring me twenty buns!”

“You again? What do you want?”

“Didn’t you hear? I want buns—twenty, not one less. Made with the best flour, big and sweet, or I won’t take them.”

He pulled a string of copper coins from his basket, tossing it to the waiter. “Here’s the money, count if you like.”

...

The waiter didn’t bother counting, unwilling to engage with Ning Caichen, especially with the manager’s glare growing ever sharper. Cold sweat broke out on his back, so he simply brought out a sack from the kitchen. “Here are twenty-one buns—take the extra as a gift. Now go, quickly.”

Ning Caichen snorted, took the sack, pulled out a bun, and tossed it to the waiter. “A gentleman does not accept charity. Keep it, I’ll leave on my own.”

He placed the sack in his basket, covered it with a rag, lifted his head high, and strode out.

The waiter stared at the bun in his hand, watching Ning Caichen’s departing figure in a daze before muttering, “Hmph, a gentleman? Just a penniless scholar.”

Leaving the tavern, Ning Caichen noticed the sky growing dark and hurried toward the outskirts. Just outside the town, he saw someone starving on the roadside. He walked past, hesitated, then returned, unfastened his basket, and handed over a bun.

“A bun?”

The starving man struggled upright, snatched the bun, and stuffed it into his mouth. Others nearby surged forward as well.

“Hey, what are you doing? Stop fighting or I’ll get angry.”

Moments later, Ning Caichen was nearly in tears, staring at his basket, almost torn apart, now completely empty—every bun had been seized. He cursed his soft heart, regretting his generosity.

Watching the suffering townsfolk brawl over a single bun, he couldn’t bring himself to be angry. With a sigh, he carefully checked his chest; thankfully, he’d kept four or five black buns from writing epitaphs.

“What a fool.”

Suddenly, he heard voices, faint and close, as if whispering in his ear. He looked around, but saw no one. “Who’s there? Who’s speaking?”

No answer came, only a chill in his heart. Not daring to linger, he gathered his things and hurried toward Lanruo Temple.

(Chapter Three, requesting recommendations)