Chapter 71

Chapter 71

Parting always carried a tinge of reluctance.

Life in the Lumber Gang was perilous at every turn. Once they parted now, there was no guarantee that all these familiar faces would still be around when they met again.

Bian Hong harbored such thoughts—and Little Mute, who had clung to him day after day, had likely sensed them.

Born mute, he’d been bullied as a child and thus grown exceptionally adept at reading people. Sharp yet easygoing, he balanced the Deputy Headman perfectly—a quality the old chief had long noticed. Give this pair a few more years, and they’d have no trouble running the Lumber Gang—perhaps even lead it to prosperity.

So Little Mute grinned and gestured toward Bian Hong: “By the time we meet again, I might already have a whole brood of kids. Then we’ll be in-laws.”

Bian Hong sighed in exasperation. This man had absolutely no qualms about bearing another man’s child—indeed, seemed downright thrilled by the idea. Bian Hong couldn’t accept it, nor could he risk Little Mute taking the notion seriously and jeopardizing his children’s future marital prospects. He had to shut it down—firmly.

“We can’t be in-laws. I’m not meant to have children—best I can do is serve as godfather.”

Little Mute hadn’t expected that. He froze for a beat. *Not meant to have children?* Didn’t he have a partner? That Mountain Guard looked unshakably tough—was he actually infertile?

Bian Hong didn’t let him dwell. While Little Mute remained stunned, he teased, “What, not interested? Then I’ll be your godfather. Go fetch the Deputy Headman—we’ll do the kowtows, and it’s settled.”

Hearing this blatant attempt at mischief, Little Mute planted his hands on his hips, stamped his foot, and began signing furiously—likely spouting a torrent of curses. Bian Hong didn’t even glance over; he simply turned casually and strode toward Rong Feng, who stood by the riverbank deep in conversation with the old chief.

It wasn’t anything weighty—just logistics for their return journey. They’d originally planned to rent a boat and retrace their route upstream along the Fen River, but this year’s floods had made the current fiercer than ever. Traveling upstream would be grueling.

There used to be river trackers who earned their living hauling boats upstream—wading into icy water with ropes slung across their backs. But this year, even the trackers refused to risk it. The water was freezing, so they’d all joined the Lumber Gang on the rafts instead.

After much back-and-forth, Rong Feng opted for the overland route. Rarely descending Miemeng Mountain, he knew little of the terrain—so he consulted the Chief Headman. With brush in hand and a scrap of sheepskin before him, he asked questions and jotted notes, soon sketching a detailed map of mountains and rivers.

The Chief Headman watched, awestruck, as Rong Feng grasped complex geographical nuances from just a few words—and even filled in gaps the old man hadn’t yet mentioned. A pang of envy twisted in his chest.

Was this innate talent—or trained skill? How did one even cultivate such ability? His curiosity gnawed at him until he finally asked:

“If you don’t mind my asking—who was your master? How did he teach you all this?”

Rong Feng’s brush paused mid-stroke. Memories of childhood flooded back—and with them, a sudden, sharp longing for his master. He was about to marry, settle down, start a family—and hadn’t even told his master yet.

Once a Mountain Guard was summoned to court service, ties to anyone or anything from their former mountain were severed—by rule. Even his master and his martial uncle, the State Preceptor, abided by it. Who knew when they’d meet again?

The thought flashed and vanished. Rong Feng answered solemnly:

“My master was Rong Di—the thirty-fifth-generation Mountain Guard of Miemeng Mountain. I trained under him for thirteen years, then lived alone with my elderly mother in the mountains.”

The old chief’s expression grew grave. So the Mountain Guards truly passed their knowledge down, generation after generation—the flame never died.

Then Rong Feng added, “As for how he taught me…”

He paused, recalling days spent climbing trees, splashing through rivers, chasing bears and chickens bare-assed across the mountains—wild, untamed upbringing impossible to convey to this reverent elder.

“Uh… mostly by showing me, I suppose.”

Like the time his master poked a hornet’s nest—then brought it home and let young Rong Feng poke it too. The two would tear across the mountain with hornets swarming behind them, his master sprinting beside him, shouting instructions on channeling true qi into his feet for full circulation.

To ensure mastery, his master would suddenly bolt ahead—arms pumping, feet flying—leaving Rong Feng choking on dust—then whirl around and whistle at his furious apprentice.

The swarm buzzed right behind them. That day, beyond mastering true qi circulation, Rong Feng learned another lesson: when danger strikes, don’t panic—just make sure you’re faster than the person beside you.

Staring at the glistening stingers on those hornet rears, little Rong Feng thought *exactly* that…

Yet the old chief nodded earnestly, as if he truly understood. He assumed all masters taught the same way—including himself. He’d taught the boys paddling and steering from scratch. As they matured, they shadowed him relentlessly—watching him work the bow oar, middle oar, stern oar—over and over—until they mastered each stroke.

All the while, he led by example—teaching them how to treat others, how to carry themselves. Now the boys were grown, and he could finally rest.

By the riverbank, the old man and the young man spoke of their own worlds—topics unrelated, meanings divergent—yet both arrived at the same truth: however different the methods, at least the students turned out well.

When Bian Hong approached, Rong Feng had already finished the map and marked their route.

The river route meant following every twist and turn—adding lengthy detours. Overland, however, Rong Feng feared no wild beasts, so they could cut straight from Mount Gui to their destination—bypassing main roads entirely. Mountain hiking was the fastest way home.

With the route set, they wasted no time. Bags packed, slung over shoulders—they prepared to depart.

The Lumber Gang hated to see them go. These two had brought in enough work to sustain the gang for two years—and aided countless logging and rafting operations, saving more than a few lives. They’d even treated the brothers’ chronic shoulder and back injuries with daily massages and medicinal wine rubs.

At a loss for how to express gratitude, even the toughest men wiped their eyes. The entire crew walked them past the mountain—and still refused to turn back, pressing onward in reluctant farewell.

Rong Feng sighed and halted them at the mountain’s edge. “Go further, and we risk encountering wild beasts. With this many people, we’ll scare them off.”

Besides, matching the Lumber Gang’s pace would slow him down. Otherwise, he could simply hoist Bian Hong onto his back, flood his feet with true qi, and sprint full-tilt—even Silver Frost couldn’t keep up.

Hearing that, the Lumber Gang had no choice but to stop and bid farewell there.

Before leaving, Little Mute approached Bian Hong, eyes red-rimmed. From his chest, he withdrew a gray cloth bundle and unwrapped it layer by layer—inside lay an array of seasonings, mostly rare, plus numerous small seed packets.

These seeds were priceless. Without the Lumber Gang’s constant logging and rafting expeditions, you’d be lucky to find even one or two of these varieties at any ordinary village market.

They included seeds for expensive spices, sesame, chili peppers, eggplant, and garlic—each carefully labeled. Yet quantities were minuscule: barely a dozen seeds per variety.

Little Mute had spent days scouring the wilderness, scrambling to gather everything before Bian Hong’s departure. That single bundle had cost him half his earnings from this rafting trip.

When Bian Hong opened it, he hesitated to accept. He’d lived in this world long enough—and grown close enough to the villagers below the mountain—to know this seed bundle was worth a fortune. A raftsman’s pay for one trip—earned with his life—was no trivial sum.

When Bian Hong refused, Little Mute stamped his foot and pointed emphatically at the Deputy Headman—as if to say, *I’ve got someone looking after me. This is nothing.* Then he signed: *The riverbanks aren’t fit for farming. Once you grow these and they bear fruit, I’ll come find you in the mountains this fall—and feast on your harvest!*

Such sincerity left no room for refusal.

So Bian Hong accepted the seeds, wrapped them carefully, and tucked the bundle against his chest.

He and Little Mute agreed to reunite this autumn.

That warm promise filled his heart—and kindled genuine hope for the days ahead.

He hoped time would pass, the seeds would sprout, and when the land turned golden, friends would gather once more.

Ahead, the Chief Headman set down his pipe and took two heavy money pouches from one of the men.

These weren’t ordinary pouches—they bore a snakeskin pattern and the character “木” (wood) stitched prominently. Bian Hong had seen countless such pouches—every member of the Lumber Gang used them. Waterproof and rugged, they were essential for river work. On rafts, some men even stored dried rations inside—true lifesavers in emergencies.

The old chief handed one pouch to each of them. “Take these—your pay for the past few days.”

They were heavy; shaking one produced a clear clink—undoubtedly full of silver. Rong Feng frowned and pushed it back. “We came seeking your favor. We agreed the timber would be free.”

The old man’s eyes widened. He whacked Rong Feng’s shoulder with his pipe. “What does that have to do with the timber? Anyone in this gang who works the mountains or rivers receives this treatment. Do you think you’re too good for the Lumber Gang’s wages?”

The Deputy Headman added, “Just take it. Keep arguing, and the old chief might crack you over the head.”

This was the first time Rong Feng had ever received payment from someone else—a share of the gang’s earnings. According to the old chief, he and Bian Hong were now official members of the Lumber Gang.

It felt new—slightly unreal—and, frankly, a little strange.

But seeing how the Lumber Gang members were looking at him, he finally accepted it.

So, at the mountain pass, the two finally had to part ways with the Lumber Gang, and say goodbye to the thrilling time they had shared.

All good things must come to an end, but the bond they'd formed would never fade.

Rong Feng led Bian Hong as they dashed toward the shortcut home through the deep mountains. The Lumber Gang members grew smaller and smaller as the distance grew, until they could no longer be seen.

Bian Hong suddenly felt a sense of melancholy, so when they rested at night, he couldn't help but take out the package Little Mute had given him.

He weighed it in his hand and found it surprisingly heavy. Bian Hong was puzzled—how could seeds weigh this much?

So he opened it again, and sure enough, at the very bottom of the cloth bundle, there was a palm-sized porcelain jar. Curious, Bian Hong pulled out the wooden stopper and sniffed it, but there was no smell. He dipped a finger in and rubbed it between his fingers, realizing it was a small jar of ointment.

Bian Hong thought to himself that Little Mute was really thoughtful, even giving him a jar of face cream. But he had never been one for such cosmetics, so he'd just have to let the gesture go to waste.

However, there was a small note tucked beneath the jar. As Bian Hong's hand brushed against it, he flipped the jar over and peeled the note off.

He thought it might be a farewell message, but when he unfolded the note, it annoyed him so much he laughed.

The warm campfire light reflected on the crumpled paper, where there were no words at all, only a sloppy sketch of a hand sign.

A pale, slender finger was lewdly moving in and out of a fist...

Bian Hong gritted his teeth, crumpled the note, and tossed it into the fire.

Rong Feng, holding a freshly roasted wild chicken, squatted beside him, watching Bian Hong's brow furrow in the firelight.

"What's wrong?"

Bian Hong took the chicken and bit into it hard. "Nothing, just eating this chicken."

But as soon as he said that, because of that little jar, Bian Hong was already a bit on edge, so he quickly swallowed the word "just" before it fully came out.

Back at the Lumber Gang, Little Mute was grinning from ear to ear all evening. The Deputy Headman asked him, "What's up? Did you eat honey or something?"

Little Mute shook his head, giggling.

What he had given Bian Hong was not just a packet of seeds, but also a hidden jar of oil meant for bedroom use.

Just thinking about the look on Bian Hong's face when he saw the note got him all worked up!

But as the night grew quiet, once his excitement faded, Little Mute leaned against the window, gazing at the moon, chin resting on his hand, thinking slowly.

Time's moving so slowly—when will autumn finally get here?