No Worries for a Thousand-Mile Journey

"Young Mister, word has it that this Fog Ghost on this stretch of road is no easy thing to deal with!" said the merchant surnamed Li, still shaken. "It's been causing trouble here for months. The Nanhua County office even invited a high monk from the temple before, and they couldn't settle it either. Now that the heavy rain's passed and the mountain fog's risen, it's just given the Fog Ghost an opening..."

"That's right, and the road's dark and slippery..."

"Maybe, Young Mister, you should wait until dawn tomorrow, and go after it on a clear day instead?"

"If you go, I, Chen, am willing to come along!"

Everyone spoke one after another, most of them trying to persuade Song You not to go.

There was concern in it, and likely also a reluctance to see Song You leave so easily, but even the latter was only human nature. Still, there was too much talk, and Song You didn't know which one to answer at once. He stared at the fire for a few more seconds, then decided not to reply to each individually, only saying to the escort surnamed Chen:

"Captain Escort ought to stay here."

That made his stance clear.

This escort surnamed Chen was a man of principle, with integrity and courage—someone like that, regardless of his actual skill, deserved a measure of respect.

But after that, Song You had no desire to say more.

Before long, the drizzle stopped.

Song You stood up directly, pulled a stick of firewood from the blaze, and under the gazes of the merchants and escorts, walked alone into the thick fog.

At this hour, the night was desolate, the cold rain just ceased, figures flickered in the mist, a chill wind rustled, even the wild grass seemed on guard—the only one who moved forward without fear was that silhouette.

The crowd felt both admiration and worry, but had no other recourse. They could only huddle by the fire, staring anxiously into the depths of the fog, unsure whether they hoped for the Young Mister's return or feared another Fog Ghost emerging from the mist.

Not long after, a flash of fire burst forth in the fog.

Then came the howl of a ghost, like a shrill wail or a fierce roar, enough to make one's scalp tingle.

"Hiss!"

The merchants broke out in goosebumps, hairs standing on end atop the bumps, their worry for that Young Mister growing even more.

Yet no one dared to go investigate.

The only one with that courage, the escort surnamed Chen, couldn't very well abandon the group and plunge into the mist.

Soon, the sound cut off abruptly.

After an unknown stretch of time, movement stirred nearby again.

Everyone craned their necks, staring unblinking into the fog, hearts in their throats.

The mist before them was so thick it seemed unbreakable, like a mountain morning in winter. Suddenly a mountain breeze blew, the fog flowing with it, and in the firelight they could almost see the tiny particles drifting. In this hazy, dreamlike scene, a figure stepped with steady pace, gradually emerging from the mist.

That person was young and handsome, clad in a simple Daoist robe, his expression as calm as ever, as if he had just done something trivial.

Only when he entered the pavilion and sat back down before the fire did he speak again:

"The night is still long, everyone, rest early."

The crowd exchanged glances. The merchant surnamed Li led the way, and the rest rose one after another, bowing deeply in unison.

The fire crackled, and the Young Mister had already closed his eyes.

The merchants, however, couldn't sleep for a while. They looked at each other, minds replaying the scene just now—the Young Mister returning through the thick fog, his figure shifting from blur to clarity, as if carrying hope with him. Some of them would probably never forget that image for the rest of their lives.

That night was neither long nor short.

The mountain wind carried the fog, the chill disturbed rest, waking several times through the night. Though they hadn't slept well, they couldn't fall back asleep either. Just as the sky began to lighten, Song You woke, and every single one of the merchants had also slept poorly, some having lain awake all night.

Morning dew was heavy, the air damp, carrying the scent of earth and grass—just as suitable for cultivation as dusk.

Though Song You was awake, he continued to sit cross-legged with eyes closed.

In his ears, he could hear the sounds around him.

Dewdrops bent the wild grass, sliding down the curve to drip and shatter on the bluestone. Squirrels moved in the ancient cypress, and birds had risen early in the woods.

The escort surnamed Chen was speaking softly to the merchant surnamed Li, saying that his junior brother was a fine hand at escorting caravans—skilled in martial arts, bold in fight and kill—but it was his first time seeing ghosts and monsters, and a moment of fear had led to poor performance. He hoped the merchant surnamed Li wouldn't hold it against him.

Then he heard the merchant surnamed Li whispering with the other merchants, discussing pooling money to thank Song You, yet torn over how much to give—wanting to be generous but also to count every coin.

Mud, flowers, grass, dew, worldly affairs, human hearts—all were cultivation.

When he opened his eyes again, the merchants had already rekindled the fire, boiled water in a small pot, and respectfully brought a bowl to Song You.

Song You didn't refuse.

Back when he was at the Daoist temple, going down the mountain to solve problems for nearby villagers, they had treated him with the same respect. And he had understood a truth many years ago—

Sometimes accepting others' goodwill is actually a form of magnanimity, let alone gratitude.

"Hoo..."

The mountain morning was cold and clear. He blew a breath across the bowl, and a layer of white mist rippled along its rim. The flatbread was terribly dry, needing water to wash it down, and after a night in the mountains, a bowl of hot water was a comfort in itself.

One sip warmed him from throat to lungs.

Merchants were talkative. Over breakfast, a few exchanges gave Song You more insight into them.

He already knew they were tea merchants from Yizhou, and that Yizhou was a key node in the tea-horse trade. Now he learned from their words that in recent years, though the court's guiding price for tea purchases across the regions hadn't changed, locally it dropped year by year. Thus many tea merchants were forced into corners—some chose to transport their tea to Yidu and sell it to the Tea and Horse Agency, while others took the risk of selling it in Yidu to brokers who collected tea for the western kingdoms.

As for which kind they were, they didn't say, and Song You didn't ask.

These merchants wanted to invite Song You to travel with them to Yidu, likely to repay him for saving their lives the night before. But Song You had always traveled as he pleased—stopping wherever he wanted, leaving whenever he wished. If he were forced to team up with them, it would be a burden on them as well as himself. So he refused outright, only telling them to be careful on the road and not to spend the night in the wilderness again.

After drinking water and eating dry rations, it was time to part ways.

Interestingly, the escort surnamed Chen, after eating, took his junior apprentice into the woods to gather some less damp firewood, chopped it into pieces, and placed it in the corner of the pavilion. This replenished what they had burned the night before; perhaps after a couple of days of airing, it would dry out.

Song You watched from the side, lost in thought.

Then the merchant surnamed Li took out a small money pouch and respectfully handed it to him, calling it a token of gratitude.

It was less about respect and more about propriety.

In this world, demons and ghosts were not uncommon, and there were many people in the folk who captured demons and exorcised spirits. Some temples and shrines also offered such services—it was not a rare profession. So paying for it was only natural.

A straightforward person does not fuss over trivialities.

Seeing Song You take the money pouch and tuck it into his robes, the merchant surnamed Li and the others behind him breathed a sigh of relief.

"Our Wu Shan Tea Merchant has a shop in Yidu, in the western city. Just ask for the Wu Shan Tea Shop. If you ever need anything there, sir—whether it's a guide or some errand—please feel free to come find us."

"Take care."

Song You's tone was gentle yet indifferent.

"Farewell, sir."

"Farewell, sir..."

The merchants loaded their goods and hurried off.

They had traveled less yesterday, so today they had to make up for it.

For a moment, the pavilion was left with only Song You again.

It was then that the sun came out, suddenly illuminating the blue of the sky. Light slanted down from beneath the clouds, as if it had shape—strands and threads of it. At first, it touched his face without warmth, but soon it became pleasantly hot.

It seemed like another fine day.

"Yidu..."

Song You looked up at the sky, murmured softly to himself, then shouldered his pack and set off again.

No need to worry about a thousand-mile road; the wind will come on its own.

Along the path, ancient cypress trees looked as if they had been washed in water, with droplets hanging from their branches, crystal clear, occasionally dripping down. Morning mist still lingered, gathering in clusters in the hollows of the hills from afar, while up close it blurred the Cuiyun Corridor, making the ancient road stretch endlessly out of sight—all gradually dissipating in the morning light.

There would be no more Fog Ghosts on this stretch of the road.