The Faith and Salt

A figure stood before the window, the wooden frame obscuring their face, but the soldiers inside the inn felt a small measure of relief; at least it was the silhouette of a human.

“Open the door,” the voice outside commanded.

"Are you..." The soldier nudged the man beside him. "Who is out there?"

His companion shook their head.

“I said, open the door.”

The guards behind the door exchanged glances.

At this point, if the monster outside had managed to slaughter that strange Imperial Warrior, a wooden door and a few shields wouldn't stop it anyway.

With a series of groans and creaks, the door was pulled open, bringing in the sharp smell of tung oil.

Xiao Yan stood there, drenched.

The wooden planks of the dock behind him were stained a deep, dark color- water, or blood; it was impossible to tell.

He walked inside with a trace of exhaustion, nodding slightly to the crowd. “Apologies for the trouble, everyone.”

The fishermen lowered their makeshift weapons. They were no longer as aggressive toward Xiao Yan as before, but they had clearly lost their appetites.

They left with sour expressions.

Judging by their demeanor, the fishermen looked far more like soldiers than the actual guards did. The shaken soldiers filed out right behind the fishermen.

Xiao Yan had just absorbed the tracer's spiritual energy and was now feeling very hungry. "Is my crucian carp soup ready?"

The innkeeper glanced at his wife, who called out toward the back kitchen once more.

“Coming!” The attendant emerged limping, holding the basin.

He then sat down, facing the steaming soup, and thanked the attendant.

“And the wine.”

“Right away!”

A pot of yellow wine, warmed to the perfect temperature, was set before him.

Xiao Yan took a deep breath of the aroma; he hadn't eaten a hot meal in days.

Looking down at the milky-white fish soup, he decided to think of nothing else and simply enjoy the hot meal before him.

He took a sip of the soup first. It was scalding hot, but exceptionally savory.

Using a wooden spoon, he drank it mouthful by mouthful, swallowing down the thoroughly simmered tofu along with it.

For no reason, he recalled the firm voice of Mujangga, the most supreme Superintendent of the Northern realm and the bureau, before he left the capital:

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"Don't forget, Western missionaries are a greater enemy than monsters now.”

Mujangga wore heavy brigandine, but his shaved head and long Manchurian braid gave him away.

He was not Han Chinese but a Manchurian horseman from beyond the wall.

The python embroidered across his surcoat was unnaturally exotic.

Ordinary generals were granted pythons with only four claws.

His had seven.

Even princes would hesitate before such embroidery.

He raised his cupped hands above his head, the jade thumb ring on his left hand particularly eye-catching.

"His Majesty wants a calm lake." Mujangga's stare did not waver. "Do not disappoint us."

Xiao Yan felt a chill run down his spine.

He did not care about His Majesty's calm lake. He only wanted to kill those monsters.

Finally, it was time for the crucian carp. He carefully picked apart the flesh with his chopsticks, chewing and swallowing slowly.

“A small side dish of soy sauce, please.”

“Coming right up!”

Only then did the new group enter.

One with thick eyebrows spat on the floor the moment he saw Xiao Yan.

Xiao Yan drank directly from the wine pot, quietly observing this rough fellow who made no effort to hide his contempt.

The man ignored him and sneered toward the counter, “No wonder it’s a total mess out there. We’ve got a freak in our midst.”

“Don’t go looking for trouble; you still owe me a great deal,” the innkeeper said.

“I—” The man forced an air of indifference. “I’ll just put it on my tab.”

"On your tab." The innkeeper repeated, taking out his ledger. "How many times have you put things on your tab?"

"I'll pay you back!"

"Look at yourself, what will you pay with?" Though the innkeeper berated him, he still made a mark in the ledger.

"I'll pay back—" the man mumbled.

This group sat at the spot where the merchant had been sitting and cursed loudly.

“They’re drawing the damn lots again this year. Who knows which house’s girl is getting dragged off this time… Thieving bastards.”

“Sanniang's man strung himself up last year over this very thing… Proper wicked… why’s it always us poor folk getting bled dry?”

"Ain't it all down to the clan chief?"

"Can't the old wretch just throw some other meat to the River Lord—"

"Curse that River Lord! A pack of bloody leeches!” the rough fellow interrupted, spitting out his curses.

"Hush up, you idiot! What if the thing hears you?"

“Hear me? With what, that overgrown rat? Gorging its fat belly on the blood and meat of us poor bastards. If it had any real stones, it’d go feed on the gentry and the big mansions instead—”

The goateed villager slapped the rough fellow's leg and shot him a sharp look. He jerked his chin toward the door, warning him to leave the gentry out of it.

With a helpless sigh, the burly man fell silent.

No sooner had the attendant set down the wine than the villagers divided it among themselves in the blink of an eye.

The door hinges groaned as another group pushed inside. The inn was getting crowded.

Leading them was a bare-chested man with a tattooed dragon stretching over his shoulder.

The dragon's tail transformed into a knotted rope at his collarbone, densely inscribed with various names.

In his cowhide sheath was not a knife, but a sharp-edged iron ruler with four characters etched onto its face.

Xiao Yan squinted his right eye to read them:

He squinted: 孝悌忠信. The four pillars of Confucian morality, etched onto a debt collector's iron ruler.

The man held a heavy strand of Buddhist prayer beads in one hand and clutched a thick register in the other.

Xiao Yan recognized the book instantly: it was a population ledger.

Could this fellow be a government runner?

Behind him filed a pack of thugs with scarred faces, bristling with iron clubs and daggers.

Copper rings pierced their noses, and sharpened fish bones were thrust through their ears, the black scabs on their unhealed wounds blending into their weathered skin.

The attendant froze with his copper kettle, wine dripping from its spout.

"Innkeeper," the bare-chested man said, wiping his mouth. "Today's the day."

At the same moment, one of the pockmarked, skinny men snatched the abacus from the counter.

Grinning at the innkeeper, he said, “You promised us last time, if this business doesn't go through, we'll take your woman instead. We each get a turn with her. Not too much to ask, is it?”

“That…that’s not true,” the innkeeper replied.

Quickly squeezing out a smile, the innkeeper's wife stepped forward to block her husband. “Oh my, we thought it was tomorrow…”

The bare-chested man raised his hand and struck her across the face, sending her crashing directly to the floor.

Several villagers bolted to their feet.

The room went still.