The only tavern in Su Family Village was less of a tavern and more just the main room of Limping Wang’s house at the east end of the village.

Two greasy square tables, a few long benches, and a wine jar half a person tall in the corner, emitting the distinctive sour smell of cheap, watered-down wine.

In the past, this place only saw a bit of life during the slack farming seasons or festival times.

But these past few days, as soon as dusk fell, Limping Wang’s main room was packed.

“Limping Wang, another bowl!” A man with a flushed face slammed his coarse porcelain bowl heavily on the table.

“Coming right up!” Limping Wang’s legs weren’t agile, but his face was beaming with joy, his movements scooping the wine noticeably more deft than usual.

The man was Zhao Eryong, someone who usually would sniff a bowl of rice soup for ages before drinking it. Yet these past few days, he’d had wine with every meal, a barely containable smugness radiating from the corners of his eyes and brows.

Sitting opposite him was Su Yang.

Su Yang wasn’t drinking. A small plate of stir-fried peanuts sat before him. He picked them up one by one, chewing them slowly and carefully, listening to the commotion around him.

“Brother Eryong, what exactly are you guys tinkering with in that workshop?” A man thin as a monkey sidled up, a smile plastered on his face. “Look at you, glowing with health, struck it rich, huh?”

Zhao Eryong let out a boozy belch, glancing at him sideways. “The Village Chief said, don’t ask what you shouldn’t.”

“Hey, we’re just curious,” the monkey-thin man rubbed his hands together. “We’re all from the same village. If there’s good fortune, bring your brothers along too.”

“Right, right. We see you guys leaving before dawn and coming back after dark every day, all secretive-like,” someone immediately chimed in from the side.

“Look at Su Yang, and Zhao Dazhuang’s family, and a few others. They’ve been seeing meat in their pots every meal these days. My wife has been grumbling about it for days.”

Sour remarks, mixed with undisguised jealousy, spread through the small main room.

Su Yang put a peanut into his mouth, chewing it with a loud crunch, remaining silent the whole time.

He remembered Third Son’s advice: “Second Brother, keep your mouth shut and your mind steady. The more others ask, the less you should say.”

Zhao Eryong, buoyed by the crowd’s flattery, was just about to brag a little when he suddenly caught sight of Su Yang’s calm face. The words on the tip of his tongue were swallowed back.

He remembered Zhao Dequan’s expressionless face and the warning, “Anyone who leaks a single word gets thrown straight into the river.” A cold sweat instantly broke out on his back.

“Drink your damn wine!” Zhao Eryong shoved his bowl away, roaring gruffly. “If you want to make money, farm your land properly! Stop eyeing other people’s pots all day!”

His roar stunned the crowd. They shrank back resentfully, but the probing and unwillingness in their eyes only grew more intense.

In a corner, a figure hunched in the shadows, almost merging with the darkness.

It was the village loafer, Su Lai.

He wasn’t drinking, nor was he eating peanuts. A pair of shifty eyes were fixed intently on Zhao Eryong and Su Yang, taking in every word of everyone’s conversation.

His fingernails were caked with black grime. His eyes flickered, and a sneer no one noticed curled at the corner of his mouth.

…

When Su Ming returned from town, he happened to run into Zhao Rui at the village entrance.

Zhao Rui was still wearing that half-new, half-old scholar’s robe, holding a scroll of books. Seeing Su Ming, his gaze was somewhat complex—a trace of familiarity born from their shared brush with death, mixed with a lingering awkwardness.

“Su Ming, back?” He stopped, his tone somewhat milder than before.

Su Ming, holding the newly purchased writing materials in his arms, nodded. “Mm.”

“I heard… you’ve been helping my father with the accounts lately?” Zhao Rui’s tone held inquiry, but not the mockery of before. The experience in the broken temple that night was like an invisible thread that had briefly bound them together. Though not strong, it couldn’t be completely ignored either.

Su Ming stopped walking, looking at him calmly. “The Village Chief thinks highly of me, letting me help with the calculations.”

“Calculations?” Zhao Rui pursed his lips, seeming to want to say something, but in the end only said, “My father is a man of many rules. You… be careful.” The words actually carried a hint of goodwill.

Su Ming gave a slight nod. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Zhao Rui seemed to have completed some sort of task, letting out a relieved sigh. He couldn’t help but lower his voice and ask, “That… the workshop business, is it really that important? My mother says the atmosphere at home has been very tense these past few days.”

Su Ming’s gaze swept over Zhao Rui’s curious face, his tone still flat. “We just do as the Village Chief instructs. The rest is not for us to ask about.”

Looking at Su Ming’s utterly unyielding demeanor, and remembering his abnormal calm that night, that indescribable feeling rose in Zhao Rui’s heart again. He waved a hand. “Fine, I was just asking casually. You… take care.” With that, he turned and walked away, scroll in hand.

Su Ming watched his retreating back for a moment, then hugged his things and headed home.

Lin Yu: “Relationship subtly improved, downgraded from ‘actively picking fights’ to ‘probing inquiries,’ consistent with interpersonal changes after shared traumatic experiences. Disciple handled it appropriately. Continue maintaining the ‘harmless and useless’ persona.”

With the first “huge sum” of money he earned himself, Su Ming bought a bag of fine rice for the family, a new tobacco pipe for his father, two feet of cotton cloth for his mother to make new clothes, and a new pair of straw sandals for each of his two older brothers.

He spent almost all the remaining money on writing materials.

Paper, ink, brushes, and a full jar of clear oil that could keep the lamp lit until dawn.

That night, in the Su family’s earthen house, that small oil lamp burned brighter than ever before.

Su Shan puffed on his new tobacco pipe, *ba-da ba-da*. Amidst the swirling smoke, he looked at his youngest son studying earnestly under the lamp. A hint of pride flickered in his muddled eyes.

Mrs. Su Chen sat to the side, stitching shoe soles. The smile on her lips never faded.

Late into the night.

Su Ming blew out the oil lamp and lay on the bed, but his mind sank into that ancient ring.

In the courtyard, the chirping of insects rose and fell, like a symphony of summer night.

“Master.”

“Hm.” Lin Yu’s voice carried a touch of laziness. “Disciple, your cultivation of the Aura Concealment Art must not be neglected. You have only initially grasped the gathering of Yang Energy. You are still far from the true meaning of ‘concealment.'”

Following the instruction, Su Ming began circulating the *Aura Concealment Art* in his mind.

That familiar “warmth” surfaced again. This time, guiding it felt much smoother than before. The warm “mist” slowly contracted inward, condensing without dispersing, clinging to the surface of his body like an invisible, form-fitting garment.

“Good.” Lin Yu’s voice held a trace of satisfaction. “The Aura Concealment Art is the foundation, your guarantee for survival. But just knowing how to hide is not enough. True concealment is not becoming an unmoving rock, but becoming a drop of water that can blend into any stream.”

“Then what should this disciple do?”

“Starting today, this master will teach you the method of refining the spirit.” Lin Yu’s voice grew serious.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep