He Yuzhu returns in Siheyuan

Chapter 822 is a baby dragon

As Wang Ran entered the room, a faint smell of charcoal filled the air. The furnishings were excessively simple: a dark red eight-immortal table, its surface worn smooth and slightly chipped at the edges, flanked by four carved wooden chairs, the patterns on their backs now somewhat blurred. A charcoal fire burned in the corner, sparks occasionally crackling from the dark red embers, casting dappled light onto the wall and spreading a warm glow that dispelled the chill he had carried from the border.

Yet he dared not relax for a moment, standing obediently before the table, hands hanging at his sides, fingertips slightly clenched, nails digging into his palms. His eyes were fixed on the cracks in the blue bricks of the floor, where tiny specks of dust accumulated, yet he seemed to count them all—his heart pounded like a rabbit caught in its throes. He wondered which esteemed person he would be meeting this time. Was it the hot-tempered, quick-tempered Steward Zhang? He'd heard he couldn't stand people being slow or inefficient; or was it the "Master," who was said to be in seclusion year-round and rarely showed himself? That was a legendary figure, whose temperament was unknown to anyone.

About the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, footsteps came from outside the door, unhurried, making soft "tap, tap" sounds on the bluestone slabs in the courtyard. The sound was not loud, but it carried an invisible sense of oppression, like a stone thrown into still water, making the air in the room seem to freeze, and even the sound of the charcoal fire popping seemed to weaken.

An elderly man in a gray cotton robe pushed open the door and entered. The cuffs of the robe were worn and slightly white. His hair was as white as frost, loosely tied back with an ordinary wooden hairpin, with a few stray strands falling in front of his forehead. His face was covered with wrinkles, deep and crisscrossed, as if carefully sculpted by the knife of time. Each line held a story. He looked like an ordinary schoolteacher or an old man repairing shoes on a street corner. He didn't have the sharpness of a monk; instead, he exuded a down-to-earth charm.

But those eyes were astonishingly bright, like obsidian immersed in a clear spring, deep and transparent, as if they could see through the deepest secrets of people's hearts. Wang Ran felt that gaze sweep over him, even seeing clearly his hands, which were trembling slightly with nervousness and hidden in his sleeves, and he immediately dared not look up.

"Sit down, what are you standing for?" The old man pointed to the chair opposite him, his voice as gentle as if he were having a casual chat. He was also twirling two shiny walnuts in his hand, making a "crunching" sound, which added to his easygoing and down-to-earth atmosphere.

Wang Ran felt a chill run down his spine, his spine tightening inexplicably—this simple and unpretentious demeanor alone was something no ordinary cultivator could possess. He quickly bowed and saluted, lowering his head even further, almost touching his chest: "This junior will remain standing; I dare not disturb the venerable sir."

The old man didn't insist. He sat down in the main seat, picked up the dark purple clay teapot on the table, its surface engraved with delicate cloud patterns. He poured a steaming cup of hot tea into a small white porcelain cup, the steam carrying a faint, refreshing aroma. He gently pushed the cup towards Wang Ran, a thin ring of tea stains still clinging to the rim. "Try it," he said, "this year's pre-rain Longjing tea, picked from the mountains. It's quite smooth." He paused, then slowly spoke, his gaze fixed on Wang Ran's face with a hint of inquiry: "Tell me, why did you rush here from the border? What happened over there?"

Wang Ran still didn't dare to sit down, his Adam's apple bobbing as if trying to swallow his nervousness. He composed himself before slowly recounting the unusual activity at the border and the traces of the demons. But as soon as he uttered the word "dragon race," the previously composed old man suddenly stood up abruptly, the walnut in his hand stopping spinning and falling to the table with a "thud," rolling to his feet. His eyes widened, shock etched into his usually gentle wrinkles, and his voice trembled slightly: "What did you say? You really saw the legendary dragon race?"

Wang Ran was startled by the old man's sudden reaction, instinctively taking a half-step back, his sleeves clenched into crumpled pieces like a tattered piece of paper. But he composed himself and replied truthfully, "Yes, sir. Many cultivators present at the time saw it; it was definitely not an illusion. The dragon's form was very clear, its scales and claws distinct, and even the movement of its whiskers was clearly visible. However, judging from its size... they were all still young dragons, yet its aura was already extremely powerful, even repelling some of the demonic energy."

The old man sat upright in a pearwood chair, his body slightly hunched, yet his back was ramrod straight. His expression seemed calm, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes holding his usual indifference, but his fingertips unconsciously caressed the intricate floral carvings on the armrest, his fingertips repeatedly grinding against the cool wood edges. Deep in his eyes lay an barely suppressed excitement, like a candle flickering in the dark night.

He had lived for nearly a century, witnessing the rise and fall of three dynasties, and had long since seen through the vicissitudes of life. His only obsession, however, remained with the legendary Dragon Pearl—a thing said to gather the spiritual energy of heaven and earth, not only prolonging life but also helping one break through the shackles of cultivation and attain immortality. For him, at his twilight years, such temptation was like a dying man gazing upon a life-saving spring.

He slowly raised his eyes, his gaze falling on Wang Ran, who was bowing below him. His voice carried a barely perceptible urgency, like a spider's web swaying in the wind, subtle yet persistent: "Are you sure you really saw the dragons? Or was it just a trick by the demons? Where are they now? Are there any traces of them?"

Wang Ran hung his head, beads of sweat sliding down his cheeks and dripping onto the bluestone slab, leaving small watermarks. His tone was tinged with frustration and fear: "My lord, I dare not lie. We did indeed encounter the dragons at the edge of the Misty Forest. Their scales gleamed with a golden-red luster under the moonlight, something no demon could imitate. However, they were incredibly powerful, their scales indestructible, and their breath could whip up a ten-foot-high gale. Ordinary magical artifacts couldn't even get close. Before we could set up a trap, they vanished into the depths of the dense forest. The brothers we sent to track them searched all seven surrounding mountain ranges, even the caves and crevices, but they found no trace of them, as if they had disappeared into the earth."

Upon hearing this, the old man frowned slightly, his white eyebrows furrowing into a knot, a sense of disappointment rising in his heart—the dragons had actually escaped? This once-in-a-lifetime opportunity had almost been missed.

But then, thinking back to the details Wang Ran had mentioned, she pressed on, her tone becoming more inquisitive: "You said they are young dragons? Less than ten feet long? If they are young dragons, why would they fight in the wild? It is said that dragons are extremely protective of their offspring. Not to mention young dragons, even newly adult dragons are always accompanied by elders to protect them. How could they leave their young alone outside?"

The old man felt both happy and a little puzzled.