Chapter Two: Performing a Rhythmic Narrative for the People of Another World

Zhang Ning glanced at the purse in his hand, then at the Fragrant Pavilion restaurant. Ultimately, his racial instincts won out, and he decided that in uncertain circumstances, it's best to save money first. The restaurant could wait; he'd start with a couple of meat buns.

His eyes flickered as he trailed behind an older woman, following her straight to the marketplace. Producing a few coins, Zhang Ning first observed the behavior of those around him and gauged the general prices before buying a few buns. Afterward, he wandered through the bustling market.

He resolved to sort through his thoughts: First of all, something was off about this world. That giantess made it clear this was a world of fantasy—a realm with its own energy systems, science, history, and culture utterly distinct from his own. And yet, Chinese seemed to hold a special status here. The guards at the city gate had begun by speaking Chinese—not merely because it was common, but almost as an act of respect... Could it be that he had arrived in a world where all the mystic codes, runes, and profound knowledge were written in Chinese?

If so, he might gain wealth and status by teaching Chinese, perhaps even fabricating a mysterious and powerful master to back his claims! And then...

Zhang Ning grew excited, unable to resist bouncing up and down on the spot. But then he paused, his expression tightening. No, something wasn’t right! Looking at the ground—this wasn’t just any road, it was definitely made of concrete! That implied an input of civilization, not exactly what he had imagined... Could it be that some predecessor, a powerful transmigrant, had come before him?

As he chewed his bun, Zhang Ning’s face shifted through a range of expressions, his thoughts galloping wildly, and he began to pace unconsciously—a habit he’d picked up back on Bluewater Star. Suddenly, he froze before a small stall. That familiar method of stringing together wooden slats! Wasn’t that the tool used for performing rhythmic storytelling?

City of Ten Thousand Parasols

City Lord’s Manor

The City Lord was a refined man in his thirties, who had long since left mundane affairs to his subordinates to focus solely on martial cultivation. At this moment, however, he was listening intently to his advisor. When the advisor finished, the City Lord said, “So it’s a new direct disciple. Very well, have him come see me.”

That was already a considerable honor. After all, the City Lord was a martial emperor, a supreme expert. To be stationed at the most remote border city of the Great Freedom Demon Sect was itself a mark of high status. To treat a potential new direct disciple of the sect with such regard showed extraordinary importance. Yet his advisor, without hesitation, pressed further: “I must request that you, City Lord, go to meet the disciple yourself!”

Meanwhile, Zhang Ning had calmed himself for the third time, and with a smile, bought the pair of little instruments with his change, deciding to put on a rhythmic storytelling performance. He thought, the status of Chinese in this world should become clear from this—just see who gathers around, and what attitude they show, then plan his path of peaceful farming accordingly!

Yes, Zhang Ning had already decided that for safety, no matter what happened in this foreign world, he would pursue the path of peaceful cultivation.

In the center of the marketplace stood a boy of seven or eight, dressed in black, his hair bound with a small wooden stick. His eyes were like black grapes, his face brimming with joy and confidence, the very picture of adorable grace. The bamboo clappers beat rhythmically in his hands: “As the bamboo clappers strike, let’s not boast of anything else, but sing the praises of the great buns of Ten Thousand Parasols Demon City!...”

Indeed, Zhang Ning had seen that name at the city gate earlier. His words flowed effortlessly—after all, rhythmic storytelling from Tianjin was renowned for brevity and humor, and Zhang Ning captured the spirit of it perfectly. The townsfolk around him looked on with adoration and awe, as though witnessing something novel and impressive. Whether they understood or not, the performance itself seemed extraordinary.

Zhang Ning surveyed the scene with delight. To be recognized by others always brought happiness. As he heard the notification in his mind—Attention Value +1, +1—he thought: For now, I’ll stick with storytelling, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll make up a stage play or drama. First, I’ll use these attention points to buy something from the system’s shop, gear up, and then activate the livestream system!

Singing as he fantasized about a bright future, Zhang Ning drew a crowd—not just ordinary citizens, but young noblemen in fine clothes, and powerfully auras that marked them as experts. They squeezed through the throng, edging ever closer to him. Remarkably, these elites mingled with the common folk, eyeing each other with hostility, as if preparing to compete for something.

Noting this with a sidelong glance, Zhang Ning nodded inwardly and switched to a new story—Wu Song slaying the tiger. He wanted to probe whether this world had magical beasts, and whether people here truly understood all of Chinese. “As the bamboo clappers strike, let’s not speak of anything else, but praise the tiger-slaying hero, Wu Song, brother Wu!”

Wang Qingping was among the front-row audience, one of the demon cultivators. A typical rogue of the demonic path, he had achieved early fame for his talent and ruthless nature, reaching the rank of Martial Master by cultivating a basic manual he’d found at the bottom of a cliff.

Eight hundred years ago, eleven supreme beings had together performed a great act of merit, making public a cultivation method that, in theory, could elevate anyone to the rank of Martial Saint. It enabled even those without background or sect to leap over the dragon gate. Yet, it still required tremendous will and luck. Those who achieved sainthood instantly were few, and doubts about the method lingered.

Though Wang Qingping respected those great figures, he did not believe a method suitable for the masses would suit him. So, he came to seek his fortune near the Great Freedom Demon Sect, one of the sacred sites of the demonic path. The more he saw, the more he was impressed. Ten Thousand Parasols City, governed by the Demon Emperor, the greatest disciple of the Myriad Phenomena Demon Lord, was prosperous and dazzling. Even places ruled by righteous sects or holy lands could not claim to have not a single beggar!

Just as he was being dazzled by the city’s splendor, he heard Zhang Ning’s performance. At first, he thought it was yet another clumsy imitation by an admirer of the Demon Emperor’s invention—the rhythmic storytelling—but the more he listened, the more authentic it sounded. He looked over, and his heart skipped a beat.

A child of eight, already speaking Chinese—impossible, unless he was a direct disciple of the Great Freedom Demon Sect! Ever since the Demon Emperor invented this language for sect communication, all the great powers had spent centuries frantically trying to master it. The difficulty of Chinese was universally acknowledged!

Even someone as well-traveled as Wang Qingping, now a Martial Master, could barely manage a hundred everyday phrases, and only speech—reading was out of the question. Yet here was a child performing a whole storytelling routine... No, this young man must have grown up immersed in Chinese, which meant he was a direct disciple of status as lofty as the clouds—and perhaps even more...