The Deaf Smith looked up and noticed that Lạc Trần seemed different from yesterday.
There was more life in the boy's eyes than ever before.
"Sick Boy, what brings you here so early today?"
"Couldn't wait. I've got something I'd like your help with."
Lạc Trần unrolled the piece of hide he'd been carrying and laid it on the table, eyes brimming with eagerness and anticipation.
The Deaf Smith frowned as he examined the crude drawing. He had no idea where to even begin.
It was too abstract. None of it made any sense.
"What is this? A branch that breathes fire? And this round thing you drew - what's that supposed to be?"
After a long while of staring without enlightenment, the old man gave up and asked straight out. The drawing showed something that resembled a stick. A long main branch, a shorter offshoot, and a flame spurting from the tip. In the center of the hide drew a round object that looked like a goat pellet.
Rubbing his hands together, Lạc Trần explained, "It's called a matchlock gun - or something like that. A weapon that harms enemies by firing a round metal pellet called a bullet."
"Like this?" the Deaf Smith said, picking his nose and flicking a booger with a snap.
Boom! A loud bang echoed as a small crater, about a palm wide and a hand deep, appeared in front of his forge.
"No," said Lạc Trần, shaking his head. "This doesn't use chi. Even an ordinary person could shoot through trees or shatter stones with it. It has the power of a low-level cultivator."
The old smith raised an eyebrow. "You dreamed this up, didn't you? No such miraculous thing could exist."
Lạc Trần scratched his head sheepishly. "It was a dream - but hear me out. It wasn't just some random dream. I think it came from the Heart of Saint."
"When that heart awakened, I started dreaming about another world called Earth. A place with no cultivators, no chi. But their civilization is no less advanced than ours. This weapon came from that world."
He wasn't just spinning tales. Ever since waking up in the village of Sickos, the dreams of Earth had stopped.
Back then, he was still haunted by betrayal, trapped in despair over his ruined cultivation. Revenge felt impossible. He had no spirit left to resist - let alone pay attention to dreams about some foreign world.
Only yesterday, after speaking with Tô Mạc Tà, had he decided to stop living like a shadow.
That conversation rekindled something in him - and brought the dreams back into focus.
If people on Earth could create weapons that gave ordinary humans power like cultivators, why couldn't someone in Linh Khư do the same?
Even if no one else could, Lạc Trần believed the Deaf Smith - the genius craftsman of the village of Sickos - could make it happen.
The old man shrugged. "Leave it here. I'll give it a try."
"Oh, and one more thing," Lạc Trần added.
"Speak."
"I want to play with fire. Could we use Duskhollow as the bullet for this weapon?"
At first, the Deaf Smith just blinked. Then he threw back his head and burst into laughter.
"Damn, kid. When you get fired up, you're downright vicious. If you start launching Duskhollow at people, even if they survive, they'll still have to pay one hell of a price."
He arched an eyebrow, clearly mimicking the lame man's signature expression. "This wouldn't be for a certain little saintess, would it?"
Lạc Trần coughed awkwardly.
The smith laughed even harder.
---the separator line considered quitting its job---
Afterward, Lạc Trần made his way to the village gates, where the Cripple and Tô Mạc Tà were already waiting.
Today, Tô Mạc Tà wore her hair in a ponytail tied with a red ribbon, and had switched to a flowing yellow robe. If yesterday she gave off a gentle and graceful air, today she radiated energy and confidence.
The cripple leaned on his cane and asked, "Ready? Or do you still have business in the village?"
"All done," said Lạc Trần. "Let's go before it gets too late."
Though both the village of Sickos and Phù Trúc Village lay along the shores of Star Fell Lake, the lake itself was vast - easily two thousand miles across.
Last time, the Cripple had grabbed him by the collar and whisked him away in a blink - less than two minutes. Back then, it had felt like they were cut off from the wind itself.
So Lạc Trần had never developed a real sense of how far the two villages were from each other.
But today, traveling with Tô Mạc Tà, he finally grasped how fast the lame man truly was.
Tô Mạc Tà ran with all her might - legs pumping, chi surging - and it still took half an hour to reach the village. Her footwork wasn't her strong suit, but her cultivation was solid. As one of Floral Valley's brightest, she wasn't someone regular people could measure against.
The trio arrived in Phù Trúc and bought a bamboo bed.
Just as they were about to leave, the village chief called out, "You three, today's our Soul-Calling Ritual. After that, we'll host the Heavenly Lantern Festival. Since fate has brought you here, why not stay for the festivities?"
Before Lạc Trần could respond, the lame man chuckled. "We'd be honored."
"You're guests from afar, no need for formality," the chief replied with a smile.
Tô Mạc Tà's face didn't change, but under her sleeve, she gave Lạc Trần's robe a subtle tug. He gently patted the back of her hand in response.
Her signal was clear: Something's wrong with this village.
His reply: I've noticed.
They used to communicate like this often back at Godfell Ridge, pulling tricks and playing mind games with those so-called prodigies.
The Cripple announced he was going off to chase girls.
"Go do your lovey-dovey chatting," he said, vanishing in a blur.
Left behind, Tô Mạc Tà and Lạc Trần wandered the village streets.
Phù Trúc had a large fish pond fenced off with bamboo rails. From each cardinal direction - north, south, east, and west - a bamboo bridge led to a pavilion at the pond's center. Four carved posts marked each bridge entrance, each etched with an image of a sacred beast: vermilion bird to the south, black tortoise to the north, white tiger to the west, and azure dragon to the east.
Since his dream of giants and the Heart of Saint, Lạc Trần had developed an instinctive distaste for these four beasts.
Hand in hand, the two strolled.
As they walked, Lạc Trần wrote messages into her palm, one letter at a time.
He told her about the beggar's fate, the shrine at the heart of Star Fell Lake, and the strange events at Bích Thủy River.
By the pond, a group of middle-aged women used long bamboo nets to scoop up plump, silver-scaled fish - not the usual "Fish Wives" one would haul at the Star Fell Lake.
Then, middle-aged men stepped in to scale, gut, and clean them on the spot. Fresh blood dripped into the water, painting the pond's edge a foul crimson. They worked fast, chopping fish into chunks and tossing them into bamboo tubs.
Lạc Trần approached one woman and asked, "These fish are really fat, huh?"
"Mm. We've been raising them for a whole year. You two staying for the festival?"
Though she tried to sound casual, there was a subtle unease buried in her voice - too faint for the average ear, but noticeable to the keen.
Feigning ignorance, Lạc Trần replied, "Yes. The village chief invited us. It seemed like a good opportunity to see something new. We'll probably be in your care later."
She smiled. "Then you're in luck. These fish are for the Soul-Calling banquet. After the ritual, we'll feast, and then the Heavenly Lantern Festival begins."
"Sounds like we're in for a treat," Lạc Trần said, smiling back.
They slowly made their way elsewhere, leaving the pond behind.
Now it was Tô Mạc Tà's turn to write in his palm, her skin felt cool and soft as her finger danced across his hand - ticklish, but oddly pleasant.
She wrote: They're looking at us like we're already dead.
Their eyes keep flicking between us and the pond.
I think the fish, our lives, and the Soul-Summoning Ritual are all connected.
Reading her sharp deductions, Lạc Trần could only click his tongue in admiration. Her mind was terrifyingly sharp.
He had reached similar conclusions - but that was after spending over a month in the Dry Sea, carefully researching Star Fell Lake. Tô Mạc Tà had none of that background, yet she'd deduced nearly the same thing on the spot.
But she didn't think she was impressive.
To her, the once-naïve Lạc Trần had finally grown up.
Yes - within the cloudspike sect, he was only seen as a vessel for the Heart of Saint. But that also meant no one competed with him. His place in the sect was unshakable.
Floral Valley wasn't like that.
Tô Mạc Tà had spent years perched precariously on the saintess's throne, constantly navigating inner and outer strife. Lies and deceit were old companions.
A group of villagers hiding away in the Dry Sea? What did they think they were doing, playing politics with her?