Chapter Two: Entering the Yang Family Courtyard by Night

Although in recent years his world had shrunk to just a few nearby streets, he nonetheless possessed a certain understanding of his country. The nation of Floating Clouds was bounded by the sea to the east, endless wilds to the north, and neighboring states to the west and south, their borders ever troubled by war. The land was vast, and regions beyond the three major nations remained a mystery to ordinary folk.

Cultivation permeated this world, shaping its economy, which was chiefly agrarian—the sort one might imagine in the Han dynasty of ancient China. The law was far weaker, however. Cultivation resources were paramount, spawning endless conflicts that drove cultivators to band together, giving rise to sects, clans, and families.

Whenever chaos reigned, these factions fought for supremacy, and the victorious would become the ruling royal house, governing the country, holding the largest territory, defending against external threats, mediating internal disputes, and offering the people protection. Of course, their true aim was always greater stability and wealth, enjoying the tribute and taxes paid by all human forces within their domain.

Over centuries, new problems would sow discord among the classes, leading to collapse and the birth of new nations, a cycle repeated endlessly, as if cursed.

The city-states of Floating Clouds all had their own armies for protection; within their walls, life was relatively safe and stable. Yet the land was so immense that beyond the city-states, the armies could not reach—beasts prowled, bandits roamed, and cultivators engaged in fierce private battles, killing as casually as if pulling weeds.

To Yang Cheng’s mind, ceaseless strife had stunted both material and spiritual progress; after all, cultivators revered strength above all. Still, he believed that if one could cultivate peacefully, none would willingly risk their lives in violent struggles—given the choice, who would not prefer to pursue cultivation in comfort rather than live as an ascetic? Thus, he saw vast opportunity here. In his previous life, he was just an ordinary person, with no technical skills to speak of, so he could only rely on common sense and practical knowledge.

He harbored no grand ambitions; as long as his safety was assured and no one could humiliate him at will, that was enough. The future, he would face as it came.

Yang Cheng’s home, Wuzhou City, was considered a small city—but that depended on comparison. By the standards of his former world, it would be a super metropolis, though lacking complex urban systems. In essence, it was a vast region with a population in the hundreds of millions.

Within the city-state lay mountains and rivers, bustling districts and wild outskirts. The city-state was so expansive that for ordinary folk, traveling from south to north would require ten days on foot, though cultivators moved much faster. Most relied on carriages or swifter riding beasts.

Due to the city-state’s immense size, walls could not be built; instead, strategic gates were chosen, heavily guarded against beast attacks. The enormous population made it ideal for commerce. Whether commoners, powerful cultivators, or family factions, all traded for their needs, giving rise to countless shops. From daily necessities to the spirit herbs, treasures, weapons, armor, smithing, and pill-making controlled by great families, every imaginable item could be found. How to integrate resources and employ familiar marketing methods was Yang Cheng’s key to changing his situation.

As he pondered all this, a sudden rush of footsteps and shouts echoed from outside.

“Catch him! Hurry!”
“Don’t let him escape!”

The distant tumult grew louder.

“Master, are you still awake?” It was Old Yang, the servant, knocking at the door. He had heard the commotion and hurried up to check whether the gate was securely closed.

Old Yang had served the Yang family since childhood, nameless and surname-less, the latter bestowed by his masters. Loyal and dependable, he stayed even after the old master died and the family fell into decline, while others left to seek their fortunes.

He was already in his sixties, expecting only a few more years. Five years ago, when Yang Cheng began cultivating, he shared the family’s sole cultivation technique with Old Yang, hoping a local companion might help resolve his doubts. To Yang Cheng’s embarrassment, the old man progressed faster than he did, a testament to his own lack of talent.

Old Yang was delighted; servants like him could never obtain a cultivation manual in their lifetime, and it was not merely a matter of price—often even the masters could not acquire one, for sects, clans, and families guarded their techniques closely. Yang Cheng’s family had gained theirs only by chance, treasured it dearly, but before it was used, chaos claimed both parents, leaving a weak young master whom Old Yang raised.

He could hardly believe the young master would share the technique, allowing them to cultivate together for several years. It had restored Old Yang’s failing body to the vigor of a thirty-year-old—he reckoned he might live decades more.

Having lived most of his life, he never expected such fortune so close to the grave; his gratitude was boundless, certain he had followed the right master. Yet the young master’s aptitude was so poor, even weaker than his own—such a pity for one so young.

A faint thud sounded in the courtyard, as if something heavy had fallen from the wall.

Old Yang hurried over, shocked: “Master, someone’s climbed in!”

“Who is it?” Yang Cheng grabbed a sword and ran nervously.

“He’s unconscious, covered in blood—must be the fugitive the garrison is hunting,” Old Yang said anxiously. “Master, shall we open the gate and hand him over?”

“No, we don’t know the situation yet. If we hand him over now, he’s as good as dead.” Yang Cheng felt a pang of compassion.

“What should we do then? If they search here, we won’t be able to explain.”

“Uncle Yang, help me carry him to my room. I’ll unlock the secret passage and hide him for now.”

Yang Cheng hurried to his room, moved the low table, lifted the hemp rug, and opened the entrance to the hidden passage.

Being so cautious about his own safety, Yang Cheng had dug a small underground chamber with Old Yang two or three years prior—big enough for two small beds, stocked with food and lamp oil. If chaos ever broke out, they would have somewhere to hide; he hadn’t expected it to see use quite so soon.

Old Yang carried the bloodied man in; his features were unrecognizable, but he appeared to be a middle-aged man. There was no time to worry about that now. They laid him in the secret chamber, then hurried out. Yang Cheng lay down, feigning sleep, while Old Yang waited outside to handle the search.

“Open up! Open up!” Sure enough, soon came urgent knocking. The soldiers, unable to find their fugitive, had returned to search every house, hoping for luck.

Old Yang answered, deliberately taking slow steps, then opened the door and asked, “Gentlemen, what brings you here?”

“We’re after a murderer!”

“Did anyone come in here?” the soldiers asked impatiently.

“No, we were all resting. No one came in.”

“I’ll tell you this: that man killed our deputy commander and slaughtered a whole household. He’s a heinous criminal; if you shelter him, your entire clan will be executed.”

Yang Cheng, pretending to sleep, felt a chill run through him: this was bad. If the fugitive was truly a cold-blooded killer, he and Old Yang were no match for him. The so-called deputy commander was a Golden Core stage expert, a notable figure in all of Wuzhou.

Yang Cheng bitterly regretted his mistake. Too late now—handing the man over would only make things worse, perhaps implicating him as an accomplice. For now, he could only take things as they came.

Old Yang handled the soldiers outside; they searched the yard and all the rooms, including Yang Cheng’s, then left, cursing as they went.

Yang Cheng instructed Old Yang to clean and bandage the stranger’s wounds in the secret chamber. Everything else would wait until he awoke.

Later, Old Yang returned and closed the passage, telling Yang Cheng that the man’s injuries were grave and his breath weak; he was unlikely to regain consciousness for several days.

So be it, Yang Cheng thought. He couldn’t just throw out a living man. For now, he would focus on his own plans.

Yang Cheng mused, “Uncle Yang, our funds are running low. We need to cultivate and survive, but we can’t hold out much longer. It’s time we started earning money.”

Old Yang asked, “Master, are you planning to join the Mercenary Alliance and take missions?” He couldn’t think of any other avenue for himself and Yang Cheng—just that one. But as novices in cultivation, they were more likely to earn money only to die before spending it.

Yang Cheng waved dismissively; he was terrified of those violent missions, preferring crowds over solo combat. He liked overwhelming force, not duels. The fighting could wait until he had enough money to hire more hands. He then explained his plan to Old Yang.

Old Yang didn’t quite understand and responded with little enthusiasm, saying, “Master, we don’t have much capital for business. Your uncle has come several times, saying if we don’t repay the old master’s debt, he’ll seize our house as collateral.”

That uncle, Yang Yi, lived in the south city and never visited. He had recently come, claiming Yang Cheng’s father borrowed a hundred spirit coins from him, producing a signed IOU. Whether it was true, no one knew; now there was no evidence either way.

Yang Cheng and Old Yang were powerless against his aunt’s sharp tongue. The woman was relentless, threatening to take the house if they didn’t repay the hundred spirit coins within a month.

Yang Cheng knew well what his relatives were after—they must have taken a liking to the estate, seeing him as easy prey, using this excuse to seize it. He was angry, but violence was not an option; Yang Yi’s family was well-off, with two bodyguards at the Foundation Establishment stage. He and Old Yang stood no chance.

Yang Cheng said, “Forget it, Uncle Yang, just do as I say. It’ll work.”

The next morning, Yang Cheng instructed Old Yang to go to the nearby labor market in the south city and hire several male and female servants. Meanwhile, Yang Cheng sat with a feather pen he had made himself, writing and sketching on a sheepskin scroll.