Chapter 20

The scent was pungent and overwhelming.

Li Yan nearly staggered from the assault of smells—tobacco from the old ferryman, perfume from a woman’s powder, sweat, fish, and the rot of the dock’s wooden planks.

He understood now: his Divine Olfaction had surged again.

Since his life-or-death clash with the Cold Altar Rampage Soldiers, this was the third time his ability had erupted in such a short span.

Beyond the ordinary stinks, he now detected countless peculiar odors. A damp, clinging chill lingered hundreds of meters upstream—left by some malevolent force, unyielding to the river’s cleansing.

On the Canal Brotherhood’s barge, figures burned incense, tied Sacred Red Cloth to the bow, scattered Spirit Money, and poured livestock blood, their rituals radiating a fierce energy.

But most terrifying was distant Xianyang City itself.

It loomed like a beast on the plains, exuding an ancient, desolate aura. The Incense-Hallowed Energy within its walls dwarfed even the Li Village Earth Shrine by dozens of times.

Is this the true world…?

Li Yan’s heart pounded. Since awakening his Divine Olfaction last year, he’d never ventured beyond Li Village Fortress, not even to Lan Tian County. Now, standing at Xianyang’s threshold, he grasped the stark contrast.

No wonder Wang Guaifu and the others hid in that remote village. In Chang’an, they’d be exposed instantly, hunted by their enemies.

Suddenly, darkness swallowed his vision.

Dizziness crashed over him as his heightened sense vanished. He gripped a willow tree, steadying himself with labored breaths.

His face tightened. He’d known these Divine Abilities came at a cost. Wang Guaifu hadn’t warned him—perhaps she’d never imagined his power would erupt so violently, so often.

Worse still, his ability was spiraling out of control.

Any loss of control meant disaster. He had to fix this.

“Boat’s here—!”

The ferryman’s shout broke his thoughts.

Thankfully, his Divine Olfaction had dimmed. Though his head throbbed and sweat slicked his back, Li Yan trudged toward the boat.

The vessel was modest—seven or eight meters long, open to the sky. After paying his fare, he found a spot to sit.

River breezes carried snippets of chatter:

“Old Wang, why not harvest your wheat before heading in?”

“The Lingyou Wheat Reapers are coming this year. I must pray for clear skies at the temple first, then rush back…”

“Your sons must help you?”

“Don’t mention it! My second and third sons ran off to Jinmen—says the factories pay better. They won’t return even for New Year. I’ve little land left anyway. The eldest stays, the others chase their fortunes…”

Li Yan had heard such tales in the village.

The Great Xuan Dynasty, a century old, stood at its zenith. Yet beneath the prosperity, unrest brewed—land barons swallowed estates, refugees swelled, and rebellions flared a decade prior.

But the empire had opened its ports, trade booming in coastal cities that absorbed the displaced. Even the court simmered with factional strife.

Li Yan cared little for politics. His own crisis demanded answers.

Crossing the Wei River steadied his mind. His Divine Olfaction flickered back, though weakened—now roughly as sharp as before his duel with the Blind Third Elder Wolf.

He pushed aside thoughts of his power, lowered his straw hat, and entered the city.

Once the First Qin Dynasty’s capital, Xianyang’s ancient grandeur—“imperial pavilions stretching endlessly, blotting out sun and sky”—had faded through wars and rebuilds. Yet its heart still thrummed with life.

Unlike Chang’an’s chessboard layout, Xianyang sprawled chaotically. From the southern gate, Li Yan stepped into a labyrinth of markets and workshops, their clamor relentless.

Merchants hawked wares beneath fluttering banners. Mules and pedestrians jostled. Even beggars thronged the streets.

A group surrounded a merchant, their pleas sharp as blades:

“Master, bless us—may your profits swell a thousandfold!”

“Madam, grant alms—may your sons cradle sons!”

Li Yan glanced, then moved on.

The Jianghu’s Beggar Sect split into East and West.

The Eastern Way begged softly—Sing Resonators, Literary and Martial Chants, Temple Devotees, Wandering Lakes—all roamed freely, trading stories for coins.

The Western Way ruled fixed territories, led by beggar kings who taxed daily takings. Eastern Way travelers paid dues to operate here—else they’d be corpses by nightfall.

Some Western Way kings were “false beggars,” their rags a charade. By day, they begged; by night, they feasted in pleasure houses. Worse, they trafficked in flesh and slaves, allied with the city’s darkest trades.

True to form, when the merchant refused coins, the beggars spat curses:

“No coins, no joy—buy your coffin instead!”

“No gifts, no grace—see if your grandson weeps!”

The merchant lunged, but too late—his money pouch vanished.

Eastern Way beggars thrived here too. Li Yan passed a blind elder reciting tales, his voice rasping with age:

“Glory fades like morning dew, riches slip like sand…”

“Who here becomes immortal?”

“Who attains the Dao?”

…

“Excuse me—does Master Wang Daoxuan operate here?”

At a small shop, Li Yan addressed the clerk.

Near Xianyang’s City God Temple, the street sold incense, paper offerings, coffins, and fortune-telling. The shop Li Yan entered overflowed with wares—common joss sticks to thick ceremonial ones, red and white candles, dragon-and-phoenix tapers, and Spirit Money.

The Incense-Hallowed Energy here choked him, so he’d avoided the temple, following Sha Lifei’s address instead.

“Wang Daoxuan?”

The shopkeeper, a cross-eyed fat man, blinked, then chuckled. “You mean Wang Laonian? He sold the shop to me—debts, you know. Now he works from home.”

Wang… Laonian?!

Li Yan stiffened, fury rising.

Sha Lifei, unreliable as ever.

Even if Wang Daoxuan was a hack—taking any job from divination to monster hunting—this “Mystic Gate” practitioner had crumbled faster than expected.

Debt-ridden, shopless…

“Daoxuan” was likely another of Sha Lifei’s grandiose stage names.

Li Yan’s power teetered, his frustration mounting.

The shopkeeper, sensing his mood, leaned closer. “Need a fortune? A funeral? I’ll connect you—cheaper than wandering.”

“Thanks. I’ll manage.”

Polite, but firm.

He’d seen enough of these types—ruthless to rivals, merciless to customers.

The shop’s wares reeked of amateurism—no scent of true worship on the deities.

Seeing Li Yan’s disinterest, the man’s smile faded.

Li Yan feigned anger. “I’ve a debt with Wang Laonian. Tell me where he lives.”

The shopkeeper’s eyes gleamed. He gestured down an alley. “Three hundred meters in—that’s Asking Dao Pavilion.”

…

The alley opened to old residences—modest, narrow, built from ancient Qin bricks.

Three hundred paces on, a weathered sign hung above a gate:

Asking Dao Pavilion

Plain jujube wood, poorly lacquered—yet the calligraphy, bold and ancient, hinted at hidden depth.

Li Yan’s irritation eased.

He inhaled.

The courtyard beyond held… strange scents.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter end