At dusk the next day, several boys from neighboring homes played with mud near Wen San's house. One boy's older brother seemed to be watching over them, idly teasing the little dog at his feet, though his gaze kept drifting toward Wen San's door.
Not until he saw several people entering Wen San's house one after another, and waited a while longer, did he hurriedly run off to inform San Gouzi.
After all, San Gouzi had grown up in Little Cold Village. Though he was nowhere near the same league as bullies like Wen San and Gu Xiaoqing, to children younger than himself, he was still quite capable, and had gathered a group of boys around him.
Given time, perhaps after several years, San Gouzi would become the next Wen San or Gu Xiaoqing. Such cycles had already appeared in Little Cold Village more than once.
Upon learning the news, San Gouzi did not dare delay. He rushed to Meng Zhao's home and told him everything.
Meng Zhao was currently lounging in Crippled Li's small courtyard, holding a piece of cloth treated with special pine oil as he gently wiped down and maintained the long sword in his hand.
The sword measured three feet seven inches long. Its blade was thin and light, its material exceptionally fine, the whole sword a pale blue-green like distant indigo mountains.
The hilt was wrapped in exceedingly fine red thread. It felt slightly rough, but enhanced the wielder's grip, and felt excellent in the hand.
Even with Meng Zhao's discerning eye, he had to admit that this was a fine sword. It might not qualify as one of the divine weapons and sharp tools, but it was at least a superb, high-quality piece.
San Gouzi had paid a steep price for it, trading the