Suddenly, there came the sound of ghostly wails, like mournful cries, yet also like fierce howls, making everyone’s scalp tingle.

“Hiss!”

Goosebumps broke out on the merchants’ arms, each hair standing on end atop the bumps, and their worry for the young mister grew even deeper.

Yet no one dared to investigate.

Even the only one with such courage, Mr. Brooks, couldn’t just leave the group and venture into the mist alone.

Soon, the sound abruptly ceased.

No one knew how much time passed before there was movement nearby once more.

Everyone craned their necks, staring unblinkingly into the mist, their hearts in their throats.

The mist before them was so thick it wouldn’t disperse, like a winter morning in the mountains. Suddenly, a mountain breeze swept through, causing the fog to flow. In the firelight, it seemed as if one could see tiny particles drifting. Amid this dreamlike, hazy scene, a figure walked out of the mist at a steady pace.

The person was young and handsome, dressed in a simple Daoist robe, his expression as calm as ever, as if he had just done something utterly trivial.

Not until he entered the pavilion and sat down again by the fire did he speak once more:

“The night is still long. Everyone should rest early.”

The group exchanged glances. Led by Mr. Thompson, the others all rose and bowed deeply in unison.

The flames crackled, and the young mister had already closed his eyes.

For a while, none of the merchants could sleep. They looked at each other, their minds replaying the scene from earlier—the young mister turning back in the thick fog, his figure shifting from blurry to clear, as if bringing hope. Some people might never forget this image for the rest of their lives.

……

That night was neither particularly long nor short.

The mountain wind carried the mist, the chill disturbing their rest. They woke several times throughout the night. Though they hadn’t slept well, they still couldn’t fall back asleep. At dawn, as the sky just began to lighten, Brian Carter awoke, and so did every other merchant—none had slept soundly, and some hadn’t slept at all.

In the early morning, the dew was heavy, the air moist, carrying the scent of earth and grass, just as suitable for cultivation as dusk.

Although Brian Carter was awake, he continued to sit cross-legged with his eyes closed.

He could hear the sounds around him.

The dew bent the wild grass, then slid down the curve and dripped, shattering on the bluestone slabs. Squirrels were active in the ancient cypress, and birds in the forest had already risen early.

That Mr. Brooks was quietly telling Mr. Thompson that his junior was actually quite skilled at escorting caravans, brave and capable, but it was his first time encountering ghosts, so he lost his nerve and didn’t perform well. He hoped Mr. Thompson wouldn’t mind.

He also heard Mr. Thompson whispering with the other merchants, discussing pooling money to thank Brian Carter, but struggling over how much to give—wanting to be generous, yet also calculating.

Dew on wildflowers and grass, the affairs of the world and the hearts of people—all are part of cultivation.

When he opened his eyes again, the merchants had rekindled the fire, boiled water in a small pot, and respectfully brought a bowl to Brian Carter.

Brian Carter did not refuse.

In the past, when he descended from the Daoist temple to solve problems for nearby villagers, they had shown the same respect. Long ago, he had come to understand one thing—

Sometimes, accepting others’ kindness is actually a sign of magnanimity, let alone their gratitude.

“Whoo…”

The mountain morning was crisp and cold. Blowing on the bowl sent a layer of white mist swirling along the rim. The flatbread was quite dry and needed to be eaten with water. After a night in the mountains, a bowl of hot water was a comfort.

One sip warmed him from throat to chest.

The merchants were talkative, and during breakfast, a few words of conversation helped Brian Carter learn more about them.

He already knew they were tea merchants from Yizhou, and that Yizhou was an important hub for the tea-horse trade. Now, from their words, he learned that in recent years, although the court’s official purchase price for tea hadn’t changed, the local prices had dropped year by year. Many tea merchants, left with no choice, either transported their tea to Yidu to sell to the tea-horse bureau, or took risks to sell to traders who bought tea for western countries.

As for which type they were, they didn’t say, and Brian Carter didn’t ask.

The group of merchants wanted to invite Brian Carter to travel with them to Yidu, probably to repay him for saving their lives the previous night. But Brian Carter always traveled as he pleased, stopping and going whenever he wished. If he had to join them, it would be a burden both to them and to himself, so he declined directly, only advising them to be careful on the road and not to spend another night in the wild mountains.

After finishing the water and dry rations, it was time to part ways.

Interestingly, after eating, that Mr. Brooks took his junior into the woods to gather some less-damp firewood, chopped it into sections, and stacked it in the corner of the pavilion, making up for what they had burned the night before. Perhaps after a couple of days of drying, it would be ready to use.

Brian Carter watched from the side, deep in thought.

Then Mr. Thompson took out a small money pouch and respectfully handed it to him, saying it was a token of gratitude.

Rather than respect, it was more about propriety.

In these times, monsters and ghosts were not uncommon, and there were many who caught or exorcised them among the people. Some temples and monasteries even offered such services—it was not a rare profession, so paying for it was perfectly normal.

Those who are at ease do not fuss over trifles.

Seeing Brian Carter accept the pouch and tuck it into his robe, Mr. Thompson and the others finally breathed a sigh of relief.