Chapter 257: Yellow Sand Gathering

Chapter 257: Yellow Sands Bazaar

Zhao Changhe pondered for a long while, then decided to head for Yellow Sands Bazaar.

If this merchant caravan had only recently departed from their target tribe, then he might glean news of the missing squad from them—far more promising than trying to infiltrate the heavily guarded tribal encampment.

From the conversations of Cui Yuanyong and these men, he gathered that Yellow Sands Bazaar was likely a trading hub for all tribes. If there was a central point to this grassland venture, this was it. Zhao Changhe also felt his luck was strange; since he had already veered north, he might as well continue on that path—his instincts told him it was more favorable.

As for these men... Zhao Changhe’s eyes turned icy as he stared at the rear of their column. He mused that even if he accomplished nothing else on this journey beyond the pass, killing these wretches would be a great feat. Or perhaps he could gather solid evidence and hand it over to Tang Wanzhuang? He wondered what she could do with it.

After thinking for a while, he smeared some stuff on his face to cover his scars, turning himself into a sallow-faced man.

He glanced down at his horse. These past days of rushing straight to Yanmen had left no time for a proper wash; the black mane had turned gray, and the hooves, caked with dust, no longer showed their white. A natural disguise.

He deliberately waited a bit longer, letting the caravan get further ahead, before spurring his horse toward Yellow Sands Bazaar.

Alone, facing a thousand-man caravan—it was better not to try sneaking in. Not everyone would let you travel alongside them; if they decided to rob and kill you on a whim, you’d die without knowing how. Better to head straight for Yellow Sands Bazaar. Zhao Changhe didn’t believe the Demon Suppression Bureau had no agent there responsible for sending intelligence to Huangfu Yongxian.

...

Yellow Sands Bazaar lay further northwest, a great distance away. Riding alone, he galloped for two full days before catching sight of it in the distance. Zhao Changhe felt he might even have overtaken the caravan.

Those two days were torturous. Aside from the night he met the caravan, he saw not even a dog. Endless seas of grass stretched everywhere, like sailing alone on an ocean—vast at first, then lonely, oppressive enough to drive a man mad, making him want to scream.

As he traveled on, the scenery shifted slightly: green grass turned withered and yellow, then grew sparse, until it mingled with yellow sand. That was even worse; he almost missed the grass. His black steed also grew miserable, with nothing to eat, and threw quite a tantrum.

It showed how accurate Cui Yuanyong’s observation was. Zhao Changhe, though seeming a lone wanderer, was not truly accustomed to solitude. Riding alone across the grassland with no one to talk to was agonizing, while Yue Hongling and Han Wubing would likely have been indifferent.

They were the type who could get along fine without needing to speak to anyone. But Zhao Changhe couldn’t. When he finally saw signs of human habitation in the distance, he was moved nearly to tears.

It was a strange place. Deep beyond the grassland, amid the yellow sands, there was a clear spring, reminding Zhao Changhe of the Crescent Moon Spring at Mingsha Mountain. Yet this was not that location—the geography didn’t match. He wondered if such a place existed in his own world or if it was unique to this one.

In any case, despite the water source, the environment was harsh, unsuitable for tribal breeding or herding, but ideal as a temporary camp. Over time, it had evolved into a market where tribes came to trade, managed and taxed by Temür’s army. Many merchants had settled here, especially those running inns and taverns, making it a bustling place.

The market had no walls; he couldn’t see where the army was stationed, but he spotted many caravans camped outside, with people hauling goods inside.

Dusty and weary, he entered and immediately saw a wine flag fluttering nearby. Following it, he found a sign written in multiple languages: “There’s an Inn.”

Zhao Changhe felt as if he had come home. He led his horse inside.

True to martial arts expectations, the inn had a seductive, charming landlady, her collar cut low enough to reveal deep cleavage and two half-spheres that swayed as she walked, dazzling the men fresh from the grasslands and deserts.

Why call it “There’s an Inn”? Might as well call it “Dragon Gate Inn”!

Uh, it seemed to be full?

“Landlady, your mare’s milk wine has a bit of a stench, doesn’t it?” a drinker called out.

The whole hall burst into laughter: “Third Lady’s brew—of course it’s got a stench! That’s what we like; if it weren’t stinky, we wouldn’t drink it!”

The drinker laughed: “This jar of mine is especially stinky.”

The landlady wasn’t angry; she smiled sweetly: “I pissed in the brew, yes, that one’s yours.”

The crowd roared: “Why reward him? What about us?”

The landlady’s eyes sparkled: “I’ll give you my foot-washing water instead.”

The earlier drinker said: “I reckon this wine isn’t human piss but horse piss. How about the landlady adds some of her own juice to make up for it?”

The crowd, which had been joking, suddenly fell silent, staring at the man as if he were a miracle.

Everyone was just kidding—were you serious?

Harassing Third Lady in Yellow Sands Bazaar?

Zhao Changhe looked at that table of drinkers: four burly men with thick, curly beards, high noses, deep eyes, and unsteady Chinese accents—likely visitors from the Western Regions.

Third Lady’s smile didn’t waver: “Oh, if I have no juice, what will you do, guest? Not pay?”

The man said: “If the landlady gives some juice, then there’s money, plenty of it!”

“Then I’ll give it to you.” Third Lady swayed her willow waist over, sidled up to the big man, picked up the cup on the table, and made as if to feed him.

The man’s face showed smugness, then froze.

“Crack.” The cup shattered, a shard flying out to pierce his throat, killing him instantly.

His three companions only then reacted, rising and drawing their blades, but before they could, shards scattered, precisely slashing each throat.

In an instant, the entire table of drinkers lay dead.

The landlady, as if nothing had happened, still smiled: “Someone, take their things, throw the bodies out to feed the dogs.”

A few waiters swiftly came to clean up. The other drinkers glanced over, then looked away, as if this bloody murder were no more than killing a few dogs.

Zhao Changhe recalled Cui Yuanyong’s words: “The chaos here far exceeds Sword Lake City.” Indeed, it did. Sword Lake City, after all, operated under some civilized order, but this place was pure anarchy. Perhaps the various factions had some mutual restraint, but an outsider daring to spout nonsense here would die without knowing how.

Those four Hu guests had let lust cloud their judgment. A seductive landlady who could show her face in such a place without being toyed with like a ragdoll either had extraordinary strength herself or backed a formidable power. Only a fool would truly provoke her.

Zhao Changhe guessed this woman was at least on the Human Roll, maybe even the Earth Roll, but he couldn’t immediately match her to any name on the Chaos Chronicle called Third Lady. He also sensed she was from the Central Plains—could a Central Plains person thrive here? In times of war, what did Temür think?

Someone else, seemingly unafraid of death, continued: “Third Lady, you’ve been dangling us for years. Aren’t you afraid of getting old and faded? When will you get real?”

“When you ascend to heaven,” Third Lady laughed again, unbothered by the usual teasing.

“Ascend to heaven”—she might mean death, or that only Heaven Roll experts were worthy of her. She answered casually, her gaze already falling on Zhao Changhe at the door. This sallow-faced man had been standing there, leading his horse, watching the show for a while.

She swayed her slender waist, smiling seductively: “We had no seats, so I couldn’t serve you—my apologies. But now a spot’s opened up. Would the young master like to come in for a few drinks? I have hot mare’s milk wine.”

Zhao Changhe smiled back: “But I don’t drink stinky stuff.”

Third Lady blinked: “Pure? Osmanthus wine from Jiangnan, perhaps?”

“Yes.” Zhao Changhe handed the reins to a waiter: “Third Lady, do you have lodging, or just food?”

“Yes, does the guest want to stay?”

“Of course. I have a feeling Third Lady’s place is especially safe.”

Third Lady laughed at once: “The guest has good eyes.”

She then looked Zhao Changhe up and down again, seeming puzzled as to why a lone traveler would appear here, with no visible goods.

She glanced at the broadsword on his back, unable to place it. In these parts, such weapons—curved sabers and heavy single blades—were common, seen everywhere.

As Zhao Changhe sat down, Third Lady personally brought him wine, casually remarking: “Not only lodging, but also a gambling den. Would the guest like to try a few rounds?”

Zhao Changhe was studying the menu; at her words, his heart stirred, and he asked: “Your gambling den... do you win?”

“What a thing to say.” Third Lady’s expression didn’t change; she grinned: “Who goes to a gambling den to lose?”