Chapter 141 It was a harsh winter in the northern desert; a strong wind swept across the Gobi.
Starting from the north of the capital, it is 500 li to Juyong Pass, the first formidable pass in the northwest.
After passing Juyong Pass, we entered the southern plateau of Inner Mongolia, and after traveling eight hundred li, we arrived at the northern Gobi Desert.
That winter, a fierce wind swept across the Gobi Desert, leaving it barren and covered in red sand.
...
As the sun sets in the west, the Gobi Desert is shrouded in a blood-red, fiery cloud. Sandstorms howl across the sky, crashing against the crimson rock walls with a piercing, ghostly wail.
An inn stands amidst the vast sandstorm, surrounded by eight hundred miles of desolate wilderness, yet this place is bustling with activity.
A mix of accents from all over the country, a chaotic blend of smells, the rising steam from the wok mingling with sweat, and the pervasive pungent aroma of mutton and strong liquor.
Merchants who were complete strangers could become like brothers and chat about anything and everything after a few bowls of wine.
For example, the young general who was swept away by the Rakshasa Wind is still missing.
For example, that famous frontier poet, I heard his real name is Qiao Yunfei.
For example, that mysterious female warrior who travels in the northern desert region, I heard, recently wiped out two more bandit strongholds.
In short, any interesting thing you pick up can be a good snack to go with drinks.
The shop assistant, as thin as a bamboo pole, carried a three-foot-long tray with seven or eight large, rough earthenware bowls filled with steaming lamb bones. He darted like an eel through the crowded throng, carefully placing the bowls down while putting on a smiling face to join in the fun.
"Is that female knight really as powerful as the legends say? She can even kill bandits? Tsk, I don't believe it."
The merchant, his face flushed from drinking, let out a burp, his breath reeking of mutton: "Believe it or not! I've heard that the woman's skills aren't from the amateurs; every move she makes has been trained by a master. If she's not from a reputable martial arts school, she must be from a wealthy and noble family. How could someone with a meager background learn such skills?"
The waiter chuckled, "Then I'm even less likely to believe it. Why would a noble lady abandon her pampered life to suffer in this godforsaken place? I think the rumors are just that—unfounded. I'll only believe it if she comes to me in person."
With a loud "bang!", the heavy wooden door of the inn was kicked open, and the wind and sand, carrying a biting chill, rushed in. The setting sun cast extremely long shadows on the ground, and in the crimson glow, the newcomer was seen alone, covered in sand and dust.
The clamor of voices was abruptly cut off, and all eyes turned to the doorway.
The newcomer was dressed in coarse linen clothes, which had long been worn by the wind and sand until their original color was unrecognizable. His face was wrapped in a thick windproof cloth, with only his eyes showing.
Those were a pair of amber almond-shaped eyes, stunningly beautiful, completely out of place in this rough inn. Almond-shaped eyes should be naturally lively, but these were like eyes tempered with ice, filled with a deep-seated ferocity, causing all those who harbored ill intentions to shrink back.
The waiter stood there dumbfounded for a while before hurriedly going up to him and asking, "Sir, would you like to eat or stay at the inn?"
Cui Ying didn't rush to answer. Instead, he took out a portrait from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it up in front of the waiter. His throat, which hadn't drunk water for a long time, was extremely hoarse: "Have you seen this person before?"
The portrait was old, the paper was yellowed and the edges were worn, but the boy in the picture had bright eyes and a spirited demeanor, a handsome face that was one in a thousand.
The waiter leaned forward for a closer look, then shook his head: "If I had seen this gentleman before, I would definitely remember him."
The answer was as expected.
Cui Ying's eyes remained unmoved. After half a year away, she had long since grown accustomed to repeated disappointments. From the initial collapse and despair to her current state of calm, even though her heart still ached, she only took a very slight breath before putting the portrait back into her bosom.
"Let's eat," she said.
The waiter quickly replied, "Okay, please come this way."
The waiter led Cui Ying through dozens of large tables filled with people to a corner at the far end of the hall, where there was only a small square table with some miscellaneous items piled up next to it, making it relatively quiet in comparison.
"Please sit here." The waiter wiped the greasy table with his sleeve.
"Thank you." Cui Ying sat down and placed her personal bag at her feet.
Unable to contain his curiosity, the waiter lowered his voice and asked, "Young lady, have you come to this barren land alone to look for someone? Do you have a grudge against the person in the portrait?"
“We have a grudge,” Cui Ying said.
"What grudge do you have?" the waiter asked instinctively.
“He killed my man.”
The man didn't dare to say a word.
Cui Ying had been lost in the desert for three days without food or water. The smell of oil and meat made him want to vomit, so he only asked for a bowl of plain noodles and a plate of coarse, hard flatbread.
Once the food was served, Cui Ying pulled off his face mask and began shoveling food into his mouth with louder noises than the rough men around him gnawing on mutton, which drew attention.
But Cui Ying seemed oblivious to those stares, continuing to eat heartily. After finishing, she wiped her mouth and asked the waiter, "Do you have any paper or pen?"
The shopkeeper paused for a moment, then said, "Yes, we do have some. What do you need it for?"
"Write letters home."
"Please wait a moment."
The waiter quickly brought out a rough, yellowed sheet of paper, a pen with a forked nib whose bristles were unidentifiable, an ink stick, and a chipped inkstone.
Cui Ying used chopsticks to dip a few drops of noodle soup into the inkstone, skillfully ground the ink, picked up his brush, dipped it in ink, and mentally reviewed the draft, thinking about what to write.
This was a habit she developed after leaving home. Ever since she stabbed Cui Jin in the back of the neck and ran away from the Duke's mansion while Cui Jin was unconscious, Cui Ying would write a letter home every half month to let the merchant caravan heading to the capital deliver it to the Duke's mansion. She had done this without fail for the past six months.
With the brush tip fully saturated with ink, just as Cui Ying was about to put pen to paper, he suddenly sneezed and asked the waiter, "Are you sick?"
The waiter was taken aback: "No, not at all."
Cui Ying began to write, and casually remarked, "Then where did the smell of medicine come from on you?"
Just as the waiter was about to explain, a burly, drunk man staggered over, grinning lewdly, and mumbled something unintelligible to Cui Ying.
Cui Ying ignored him, but the burly man still tried to touch her, his sticky, fishy fingertips about to smear her cheek.
A flash of cold light appeared, slashing ruthlessly and accurately across the thick wrist, leaving a deep red gash. Blood beads gushed out, bright red and glaring.
The room fell silent.
Cui Ying didn't even lift her eyelids, casually flicking the blood off the blood-stained dagger. She half-opened her eyelids, her gaze icy: "You dare lay a hand on me, my lady—"
She slammed the dagger on the table, suddenly raising her voice, seemingly scolding one person but actually intimidating everyone present: "You have enough hands to chop them up!"
The angry shouts pierced through the floorboards and spread to every corner of the inn.
The guest room at the far end of the second floor was dimly lit and filled with the smell of medicine.
The person on the bed seemed to have been asleep for too long, his face was pale and bluish, and his body was wrapped in bandages to bandage his wounds. The wounds looked like they had been repeatedly torn open, so that old and new bloodstains were visible all over his body, a shocking sight.
Sensing the girl's angry voice, even in his deep sleep, his brows furrowed involuntarily, and then his entire brow trembled.
His eyelids felt as heavy as iron. He struggled violently, like someone trapped in a swamp desperately trying to save themselves, clinging to anything that could bring him back to his senses.
As if a sudden burst of light had pierced his mind, he instinctively touched the deep, penetrating wound in his abdomen, tightened his fingers, and pinched it hard—
The intense pain dispelled some of the drowsiness, and finally, he opened his eyes a crack.
Before he was fully conscious, he had no time to take in the unfamiliar surroundings before instinctively trying to sit up, get out of bed, and rush toward the source of the sound.
Downstairs, the drunkard's three accomplices, seeing this, cursed and overturned the table, grabbed the stools and wine bowls beside them, and surrounded Cui Ying with ferocious expressions.
Cui Ying's eyes flashed with anger. Without another word, she kicked over the small table in front of her, smashing bowls, plates, inkstones, and other utensils all over the floor, clearing a space.
Facing the swung bench, she neither dodged nor evaded, nor even drew her dagger. Instead, she delivered a powerful elbow strike to the man's ribs, causing him to groan and stagger backward.
The second person threw a punch, but she dodged it by turning her head, grabbed the other person's wrist and twisted it, tripping him at the same time. The person screamed and rolled to the ground.
It's all about using skillful force to overcome great strength. After fighting so many times, Cui Ying is too lazy to even exert any strength when facing inferior opponents.
On the second floor, his rapid breathing trembled incessantly as he struggled to support himself, letting the wound on his arm reopen and bleed, soaking his clothes.
With great difficulty, my toes finally touched the ground.
Ignoring the excruciating pain, he tried to get up, but the next moment, his body was completely out of his control and he lurched forward—
On the first floor, the fighting was not over yet.
Seeing that things were going badly, the third man drew his short knife and lunged at Cui Ying with a roar, aiming to kill him.
A cold glint flashed in Cui Ying's eyes, and she finally thrust out her dagger to defend herself. After a crisp sound, she smoothly raised the blade and easily severed the tendons in her opponent's hand.
In the blink of an eye, four burly men collapsed to the ground, groaning in pain.
The inn was deathly silent; everyone was stunned.
Cui Ying caught her breath and glanced at the people on the ground as if they were four bedbugs.
She bent down, picked up the letter from home that was only partially written, stuffed it back into her bosom, then picked up her own bag, dusted it off, took out a silver ingot worth about twenty taels, and threw it into the arms of the stunned waiter.
"Is that enough?" Cui Ying asked indifferently.
The waiter nodded frantically, barely able to speak: "Enough, enough! More than enough!"
Cui Ying said no more, pulled up her face mask, and turned to leave the inn.
The waiter stood there for a long time, trying to figure out the woman's identity, until someone called out to him, and he suddenly realized what was going on.
But instead of greeting the guests, he went to the kitchen to prepare a basin of warm water. Then, carrying the basin of warm water and several strips of cloth that had been repeatedly washed and were stained with blood, he stepped onto the wooden steps to the second floor.
The waiter had just reached the door and hadn't even touched it when he heard a creak, and the door, which had been silent for more than half a year, was suddenly pulled open from the inside!
The boy's clothes were stained with blood, his body was so thin that it was unrecognizable, his face was as pale as paper, but his lips were a sickly crimson due to high fever and excitement, and his dark, narrow phoenix eyes were bloodshot and frighteningly red.
Xiao Qiyu stared intently at the person before him, his voice hoarse, as if blood were seeping from his teeth, as he struggled to utter the words: "Cui... Ying..."
"Where is Cui Ying?!"
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Author's Note: Here it comes!
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