Chapter Three: Bowing Before the Master

Su Huaqing straightened the costly robe draped over his shoulders, inwardly vexed. As the young master of the Su family—one of the great demonic clans whose main arts were divination and calculation—he had always known that to command respect, he must maintain an air of inscrutable profundity, leaving others hesitant to disregard him. Yet now he found himself begrudging his own inability to muster a warm, hearty smile.

What if he left a poor impression on His Highness at this crucial moment?

Yes, he was nearly certain this was a prince!

He glanced around at the others: the veiled hostility with which they looked at him, the wolfish desire in their gazes as they watched the man reciting the rhythmic verses—he understood at once. They were all rivals, and a sense of superiority swelled within him. They might not be able to win over or befriend this figure of authority, for not everyone was willing to stake the same bargaining chips as he.

Su Huaqing was well aware that the others believed this youth to be a newly accepted disciple of some elder or branch master from the Grand Freedom Demon Sect. But he, having meticulously studied every scrap of intelligence, recognized that when the Myriad Forms Demon Lord had taken on his first disciple years ago, the disciple had been of just such an age—and had shared this same penchant for mingling among the common people, with hair and eyes as black as crow’s feathers…

The more Su Huaqing pondered, the more excited he became, to the point that his legs grew unsteady. At that moment, in the quieting hall, a soft, detached laugh—gentle as drifting clouds yet so out of place—rang out. Without thinking, he turned his head, then immediately fell to his knees with a thud.

Wang Qingping, meanwhile, had been considering how best to approach the mysterious figure after the storyteller finished his tale—he didn’t want to interrupt. But when he heard that cool, indifferent laughter, his brow furrowed; he turned to look, and saw someone who looked exactly like the portrait of the Myriad Forms Demon Lord… Thud.

Zhang Ning, eyes closed in the thrill of his performance, heard first a clear, ringing laugh, then the sound of knees hitting the ground all around him. Something dawned on him as he looked down; before him stretched a corridor of bowed heads and kneeling bodies, opening a straight path to his feet.

A pair of black boots was now approaching him with measured steps. An indescribable sensation made him hold his breath; even the air seemed to thicken in that instant. He slowly lifted his gaze and saw a tall, straight figure cloaked in black. Further up—a pair of eyes, gentle and friendly, and yet as aloof as the heavens themselves.

Zhang Ning knew he would never forget those eyes for as long as he lived.

When everyone’s attention was fixed on this person, waiting with bated breath, the newcomer suddenly swooped in, wrapped both arms around Zhang Ning with the practiced ease of a matron who had raised three children, and carried him straight out through the crowd. Those kneeling did not so much as raise their heads.

It took Zhang Ning a full minute to process what had happened. Then, at the top of his lungs, he began to writhe and struggle frantically, his mind occupied by a single, desperate thought: Was there human trafficking even in another world? How could he be so unlucky?

Though the youth carrying him appeared to be in his twenties, handsome and imposing as a god—clearly a boss-level figure—Zhang Ning had no expectation of rescue from the surrounding crowd. Still, he decided to put up a token fight: “Help! I’m being kidnapped! Is there no justice? Heaven, have you no eyes?!”

His shrill cries were enough to chill the blood of all who heard.

The young man paid no heed to Zhang Ning’s struggles; his steps did not falter, and a faint smile played at his lips. “My eldest disciple reacted just as you do, back in the day.” Upon hearing this, Su Huaqing—still kneeling in the crowd—wore an expression of remorse, as though he had missed out on a flash sale.

“What the hell! So you’re a serial kidnapper!” Zhang Ning was nearly beside himself with rage. He hesitated for a fraction of a second—he couldn’t bring himself to poke fingers up the young man’s nose (he didn’t dare go for the eyes)—so, steeling himself, he yanked at the youth’s hair with all his might. To his astonishment, even that proved futile; the strands were unyielding as iron.

For a moment, Zhang Ning was stunned; but his fighting spirit soon returned. He activated his system—after all, the marketplace function was still working!

As soon as he opened the marketplace, his vision darkened and he cursed inwardly. Only 301 Noteworthiness Points! The only available skill was “Basic Appraisal.” As for the provisions and water he could exchange for with his meager points… well. He couldn’t exactly bludgeon this boss-level figure to death with a flatbread, could he?

Hmph, the first person to appear always seems the most formidable, but by the end of the story, they’re the unluckiest—that’s one of the fundamental rules of transmigration! Zhang Ning muttered grimly to himself.

In this perilous moment, Zhang Ning was determined not to let himself be carried off to some hideout. He immediately exchanged for “Basic Appraisal.”

“Basic Appraisal”: Allows the user to investigate any information about beings or objects of Martial Emperor rank or below in this world, within range…

Without reading the details, Zhang Ning flung “Basic Appraisal” at the young man. The youth stopped in his tracks and glanced at Zhang Ning, at which point every hair on Zhang Ning’s body stood on end. Something was wrong… Surely the system couldn’t be detected, even by someone he couldn’t defeat, right? Ha… ha… ha… Yet the system panel displayed:

Name: Chu Hanyu
Age: ???
Cultivation: ???
Race: ???
Martial Arts: ???
Background: ???

Zhang Ning’s mouth formed a perfect O. Before his anger at the useless system’s “revelation” of just a name could subside, the youth tapped his brow, right between the eyes, with a single finger. The system gave a static crackle and displayed: “Basic Appraisal forcibly disabled… Estimated recovery time: 12 hours.”

Zhang Ning swallowed hard, staring at the youth’s chest, not daring to move.

Half an hour later—

Fragrant Pavilion.

There was truly a reason Zhang Ning had followed his nose all the way to this restaurant—it was beyond compare! Every tiny detail in the décor exuded an air of deep refinement. Yet Zhang Ning was in no mood to appreciate any of it. He stared at the table, laden with dishes whose scents were so enticing and unfamiliar that his mouth watered uncontrollably. Already, his fear and anger at having been “abducted” had all but vanished.

If he wasn’t mistaken, the dish nearest him was surely Poached Cabbage in Supreme Broth—an imperial delicacy that ordinary folk might never taste in a lifetime! It was said that when prepared with utmost care, this dish could be worth hundreds of thousands!

Across the table, the young man slowly wiped his slender, pale hands with a handkerchief—a gesture that, under normal circumstances, would have been terrifying. But Zhang Ning paid no heed; he had no idea this was a habitual act for members of the Grand Freedom Demon Sect after wiping out an entire enemy clan. The youth spoke, “You and my eldest disciple come from the same place. Since that’s the case, I have questions for you… Hm. Eat first, then we’ll talk.”

Zhang Ning heard only the last sentence, and immediately began to devour the food with reckless abandon, making all manner of uncouth noises.

At the same time, the Lord of Ten-Thousand Umbrellas Demon City, Tang Dao, arrived at this restaurant he knew so well. As a place that catered only to the distinguished, he naturally had a permanent table, even a private floor. Yet at this moment, he felt utterly out of place. The proprietor, who usually greeted him with obsequious flattery, was nowhere to be seen. The perpetual bustle and clamor encircling the establishment had vanished without a trace. In this bustling quarter, one could hear nothing but the chirring of cicadas—a detail that made Tang Dao, a Martial Emperor in his own right, feel the urge to wipe sweat from his brow.