Yang Bao sat in the quiet bedroom, the scent of oil lamp smoke heavy in the air, a familiar comfort. He carefully pulled a white handkerchief, embroidered with delicate peach blossoms in the lower left corner, from inside his robe. Bringing it close to his face, he gazed at the faded red stain in its center, a ghost of memory, a painful reminder. His eyes drifted to the flickering flame of the oil lamp, and Yu Lei's earlier question echoed in his mind, drawing a heavy sigh from his lips, a profound weariness.
Seventeen years ago, the Dragon Inn buzzed with the chatter of travelers and the clinking of dishes, a lively, bustling atmosphere. Yang Bao, then a young waiter, his movements quick and eager, was called by a senior waiter to serve two men and one woman. The woman had smiled at him, a simple gesture that made his heart leap – she was the first woman who had ever truly smiled at him, a genuine, warm smile that touched his soul. After delivering their food, he quickly slipped away to listen to three young hunters at another table, engrossed in tales of the legendary Peach Blossom Hunters, his eyes wide with fascination. He loved hunter stories, dreaming of a life beyond the inn. As he listened, a homeless man, who had been rudely refused service by the senior waiter moments before, approached the hunters' table. After a brief conversation, the homeless man confirmed what many had suspected: people had been wrong about the Peach Blossom Hunters all along. Their real name was the Guozhao Hunters, a name whispered with reverence.
A deep sadness welled within young Ah Bao, a pang of longing. "I also really want to be their disciple," he whispered to himself, his voice filled with a bitter self-pity. "I don't know if they will accept me. I'm just a crippled boy."
The homeless man, overhearing him, turned, his eyes kind, a gentle warmth in their depths. "Why not, kid? Why would they not accept you?"
Yang Bao's smile was tinged with bitter self-pity, his gaze falling to his leg. "I know that clans choose their disciples carefully. Look at me. I am crippled on one leg. Do you ever see a clan with a crippled disciple? They only want the strong."
"Don't lose faith, young waiter," Man One encouraged. "I heard they are very friendly."
The homeless man offered him another warm smile, a silent reassurance, then walked back to his companions' table, and the young hunters resumed their conversation, their voices fading.
A while later, Yang Bao saw the homeless man wave him over. He walked slowly to their table, his heart pounding with a mixture of hope and trepidation. The homeless man asked him to pack the remaining food and inquired about the total price.
The senior waiter, his face twisted with open disgust, sauntered over, a sneer on his lips. "What's the problem, boy? Can't afford the meal now? Begging for scraps?" he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt.
The homeless man leaned in, whispering conspiratorially to the kind-looking man with them, a playful glint in his eye. "Hey, Baiyu, don't let me lose face here. I'm trying to look important."
"Each of us gave ten coins," Ping'an interjected calmly, pulling out her own money pouch, confused by their antics.
"No," the homeless man declared, straightening up, a playful glint in his eye. "I say we as men will pay, and we will pay. We are men of our word."
The kind-looking man a flicker of amusement in his eyes, took out his own money bag and gave the homeless man ten coins. The homeless man then handed the full amount to Yang Bao.
The senior waiter openly mocked them, making a face, his voice dripping with derision. "What kind of men are the two of you? Carrying a peach blossom embroidered money bag? How effeminate!"
The homeless man examined his money bag with exaggerated care, a wide grin spreading across his face. "There is nothing wrong with my money bag," he stated, his voice ringing with pride. "Our wife made it for us. You don't understand, perhaps you don't have a girlfriend, you miserable wretch." He burst into a fit of laughter, a booming, joyful sound. "Ah Bao, come over here!"
Yang Bao, still wary of the senior waiter's derision, walked slowly back to the table, his heart pounding. "Is there anything else, Senior?" he asked, his voice timid.
"Yes." The homeless man reached into his money bag and pulled out a small gold ingot, gleaming in the dim light. "Here is your tip, young man," he said, pressing the heavy piece of gold into Yang Bao's trembling hand. "I believe this is worth much more than ten coins. Keep it."
Yang Bao's eyes widened, disbelief warring with hope, his hand trembling as he held the gold. "Can I really have this, Senior? Is it truly mine?"
"It's yours, young waiter," the kind-looking man confirmed with a warm smile, his eyes kind. "You deserve it."
The homeless man smirked at the senior waiter, a triumphant gleam in his eye, then offered a piece of parting wisdom. "A piece of advice, my dear friend: Don't judge a book by its cover. You never know who you're talking to." He laughed heartily, grabbed the packed food, and with a final wave to Yang Bao, left the Dragon Inn with the kind-looking man and the woman, leaving a stunned silence in their wake.
That day, the homeless man taught Yang Bao a truly invaluable lesson: "Never judge a book by its cover." The people sitting in the inn that day had dismissed the homeless man as poor, a beggar, yet it turned out he wasn't poor at all; perhaps he wasn't even homeless as everyone had imagined. He was a man of immense wealth and power, disguised.
Three years had passed since that encounter. The familiar creak of the workers' beds settled as they lay down, ready for sleep, exhausted from a long day. Suddenly, the innkeeper burst in, his face contorted with rage, followed by ten burly bodyguards, their expressions grim.
"Search!" the innkeeper bellowed, his voice echoing through the cramped room, a chilling command. "Find it!"
The bodyguards began their ruthless search, ripping blankets and pillows off beds, tossing belongings aside. One bodyguard lifted Yang Bao's pillow, and there, nestled beneath, was a small money bag, embroidered with delicate beautiful flowers at the bottom of the money bag.
"You..." the innkeeper snarled, his eyes blazing with fury, pointing an accusatory finger. "You filthy thief!"
Yang Bao's blood ran cold. He looked around, bewildered, his mind racing. "How did that money bag get here?" he stammered; his voice laced with confusion and fear. "I don't know how this money bag is under my pillow! I swear!"
"You must have stolen it!" one of the senior waiters accused, his face twisted in disgust, seizing the opportunity to condemn him.
"If you didn't take it, why is this money bag under your pillow, you liar?" another sneered, his voice dripping with contempt.
Yang Bao dropped to his knees, his hands clasped in desperate supplication, tears welling in his eyes. "Please believe me, I am innocent! I would never steal!"
"Drag him out!" the innkeeper ordered, his voice raw with anger, his face red.
"I didn't do it!" Yang Bao pleaded, tears streaming down his face, his voice cracking with desperation.
"How dare you steal from our customers, you ungrateful wretch?!" the innkeeper roared, advancing on him.
"I didn't steal anything! Trust me!" Yang Bao sobbed, his voice cracking, his body trembling.
"Drag him out!" the innkeeper bellowed again, his patience gone.
The bodyguards seized Yang Bao, dragging him roughly towards the backyard, his cries ignored. In the dim light, the innkeeper handed the money bag to a male customer who stood with his wife and young daughter, their faces grim, confronting Yang Bao.
"Childe," the innkeeper said, his voice now sickeningly polite, a false deference, "please count the money and make sure everything is there. This thief will pay."
The man opened the money bag, peered inside, and then looked at the innkeeper, his expression hardening. "The money is gone. There are only two coins in it. The rest is missing."
"Where's the rest of the money, you filthy thief?!" the innkeeper demanded of Yang Bao, his voice returning to a furious roar.
"I don't know," Yang Bao whispered, tears clouding his vision, his voice barely audible. "I didn't steal the money bag. I swear I didn't."
"You didn't steal it?" the innkeeper bellowed, advancing, his eyes narrowed to slits. "How could the money bag be under your pillow, then?! Explain that, liar!"
Yang Bao shook his head frantically, his body trembling. "I don't know. Please believe me. I'm innocent."
"I'll ask you again," the innkeeper snarled, his patience evaporated, "where is the rest of the money?"
"Please believe me," Yang Bao pleaded, his voice ragged with sobs, his body aching. "Although I am poor, I have never thought of stealing. I can tell right from wrong. If I knew it was wrong to steal, I would not do it. I have honor!"
"Are you going to deny it, you lying dog?" the innkeeper challenged, his eyes narrowed to slits, his face twisted in contempt.
"Boss, I didn't steal anything!" Yang Bao cried, desperation making his voice hoarse, his throat raw. "I will not admit to what I have not done."
"Very good," the innkeeper hissed, a terrifying calm in his voice, a chilling menace. He looked at the ten bodyguards. "Hit him. Teach him a lesson he won't forget."
The bodyguards surged forward, a brutal flurry of punches and kicks. The first few blows tore through Yang Bao's body, each one a jolt of agonizing pain, a sickening crunch. But after ten minutes of the relentless assault, his body went numb. He couldn't feel anything anymore, only a dull ache. He decided to simply lie there, curling into a fetal position, waiting for the sweet release of death, for the pain to end.
As Yang Bao began to vomit blood, a small, choked cry erupted from the little girl standing nearby, her eyes wide with horror. She pulled at her father's sleeve, her tiny voice pleading. "Father, let them stop, this big brother will die!" she sobbed, her innocence a sharp contrast to the brutal scene.
The man, startled by his daughter's distress, suddenly commanded, "Stop... let's forget about it. That small amount of money it's not worth his life."
The woman, her voice soft and relieved, murmured, "My Tingting is the nicest person. So compassionate."
After the man and his family left the backyard, the innkeeper ordered two guards to drag Yang Bao out of the Dragon Inn. The guards grabbed Yang Bao's arms, hauling his broken body to the back street, treating him like refuse.
One guard spat at him; his face contorted in disgust. "Filthy thief. You got what you deserved." Then, with a resounding thud, the two guards slammed the back door of the Dragon Inn shut, leaving Yang Bao alone in the darkness, bleeding and broken.
Yang Bao somehow managed to crawl to the front of the street before unconsciousness finally claimed him, his body giving out. The next thing he remembered was the distant, cheerful sound of hawkers calling out to customers, a stark contrast to his misery, a cruel reminder of life continuing without him. A pair of black boots appeared in front of him, and then, the person knelt down on one knee.
A gentle female voice, like a melody, floated to his ears, filled with compassion. "Young man, are you alright? What happened to you?"
Yang Bao forced his eyes open, but his left eye could only perceive a hazy blur, his vision clouded by pain. The woman gently helped him sit up, her touch surprisingly tender, a soft hand on his arm. "Are you alright?" she asked again, her voice filled with genuine concern.
Yang Bao opened his mouth to speak, taking a deep, ragged breath, but instead, a gush of blood erupted from his lips, staining the ground. Darkness swallowed his vision, and just before he completely passed out, he heard the woman's voice, now tinged with urgency, shouting, "Baiyu! He's dying! Come quickly!"