"That was the first real defeat of my life. I truly hadn’t expected a disruptor like Jing Ke to appear. At that time, the princess had already sent a letter to Rong City for help. As long as she could suppress her nephew’s army, there was still a chance. But then Jing Ke arrived with his troops. Knowing he was outmatched, he chose to take his own life."
"Is it really so fun to toy with others? The situation is never truly in anyone’s control."
I stared blankly at Xu Fu, who smiled and nodded.
"Indeed, in these past two thousand years, we’ve been through countless things. The human heart is the easiest to manipulate, yet the hardest to control. It’s all very strange, isn’t it?"
Xu Fu slowly stood up and looked at me.
"You should know the story of Lao Chongyuan. In fact, you must know it."
My heart skipped a beat as I looked at Xu Fu.
"He once single-handedly founded an organization called the Ghost Burial Squad. You know that, right? Though it’s been centuries since I last spoke with him—and I have no idea what’s become of his group—the one thing I do know is that among the thirteen of us, he’s the most unique. I’m talking about his personality: it’s as if he has countless personas inside him, and only he knows which one is real."
I swallowed hard, looking at Xu Fu. I’d heard and seen things about Lao Chongyuan. I still remember his conversation with the Soulreaver Blade at the founding of the Ghost Burial Squad.
The meaning of existence—maybe that’s what Lao Chongyuan is still searching for even now.
“His interests are the most unique among the thirteen of us, but it was precisely thanks to Mr. Lowell’s peculiar passions that we survived.”
“Look, Mr. Lowell is tinkering with something again.”
A crowd of villagers gathered, watching a man of about thirty, with delicate skin and a heroic face, dressed in a farmer’s coarse linen, wielding a hoe as he broke ground on a barren field. Small stones marked irrigation ditches around the plot—this was a village in Rongton plagued by years of drought.
That man was Mr. Lowell, the only son of the Lowell family in Rongton. His parents had passed away, leaving him alone to inherit a vast estate. Well-read and deeply respected, Mr. Lowell gave generously to Rongton’s development and many other causes, earning the favor of Governor Rhonda.
Yet Mr. Lowell was different from most. Every so often, he would vanish from home, only to be recognized somewhere else, smiling as he left. He would disguise himself as a beggar and live that life for days, or as a tavern runner, serving water and washing feet.
He even once slipped into the army, but was recognized the very next day—Governor Rhonda rushed over and scolded the commander for failing to notice.
From inheriting the family business at twenty-three to now, at twenty-nine, Mr. Lowell spent his days experiencing the lives of others. Many whispered he was a bit mad, but the people of Rongton respected and even admired him. Unlike other wealthy young men, he always wore a gentle smile and was quick to help those in need.
During the famine, Mr. Lowell brought large quantities of grain to help the villagers survive. They all held him in high regard.
There was once a bully in the village who tormented everyone, but Mr. Lowell taught him a harsh lesson, and he never dared trouble anyone again.
With such a solid family background, good looks, and capable hands, it was no wonder the young women of Rongton vied for any connection to Mr. Lowell.
News of Mr. Lowell coming to the village as a farmer spread quickly, and people braved the mountain paths just to see him.
Beside the barren field, well-dressed young women and influential figures waited, hoping for a word with Mr. Lowell.
Days of hard labor left Mr. Lowell’s hands and feet covered in blisters—he’d never done such rough work before. Yet he seemed to relish the experience, tirelessly tilling the field.
The day passed quickly. Mr. Lowell declined many invitations and cooked his own meal alone. The wealthy onlookers could only sigh—his eccentricity was well known.
Previously, Mr. Lowell had grown a thick beard and roamed the city as a wanderer for over twenty days before anyone realized who he was. He even worked as a bodyguard for a wealthy family.
Eating a steaming bowl of rice with ordinary dishes, Mr. Lowell felt uneasy. His face was troubled.
"Something’s still missing. These days may be dull, but they have their flavor. It’s always been like this—but what exactly is missing?"
Early the next morning, Mr. Lowell rose to work again. Other farmers warned him that the weedy, barren land would yield nothing, but seeing the weeds grow, Mr. Lowell believed crops could too.
Inside, he was restless. Though happy, the constant labor made him anxious, as if he was yearning for something he couldn't name. Was this truly his passion, or something else? Even he didn’t know.
He started the irrigation, watching water flow into the barren field, planning to observe it for a while. Just then, the family butler hurried over.
"Master, you should come home for a bit."
Mr. Lowell said nothing, just looked at the old butler and sighed.
"The field has just been irrigated—it’ll need some time yet."
The old butler knew Mr. Lowell’s stubbornness—he’d always been this way. There was no persuading him, so he just waited in the village.
After hearing about Mr. Lowell, many in Ebonhold found him intriguing. The Lowell family’s relatives held influence in the capital, and seeing Mr. Lowell nearing thirty, they arranged for Commander Lee’s granddaughter to marry him.
All this happened without Mr. Lowell’s knowledge. His uncles and elders also came, and the marriage was personally endorsed by King Simon of Yanland. Under such circumstances, Mr. Lowell could hardly refuse.
The butler didn’t dare tell Mr. Lowell about the marriage—he knew Mr. Lowell’s current identity was ‘farmer,’ and if angered, he’d be furious. The late master had seen it before: whenever Mr. Lowell was exposed for disguising himself, he’d threaten to end it all in rage.
That was the kind of person Mr. Lowell was—his stories filled every street and alley. He’d disguised himself as common folk and punished many wrongdoers, earning a reputation as a benevolent hero.
"Master, um..."
That night, the butler waited nearby, several times wanting to speak but stopping himself. Mr. Lowell saw his urgency and finally said:
"Old Li, go ahead—I won’t get angry."
The butler immediately explained everything. Mr. Lowell’s brows furrowed, his face full of disgust.
"Commander Lee’s granddaughter? Sigh... I’m not worthy of her."
But the butler quickly listed all the reasons, the most crucial being that King Simon of Yanland had personally suggested it. Refusing would mean serious trouble.
At that, Mr. Lowell suddenly smiled and waved his hand.
"Go home tonight. The household still needs your care. I’ll return—on the day they arrive."
Mr. Lowell’s word was law—he’d never broken a promise. The butler felt reassured and left for home by carriage that night.
Days ago, the whole of Rongton was abuzz about this. Everyone thought marriage might cure Mr. Lowell of his odd habits.
"Heh, next time I’ll be a good husband, a good son-in-law, a good son... maybe even a good father. I’ve never experienced any of that. Heh."
Mr. Lowell spoke, then stood up. The next day, he checked the rice paddies again. Other fields already had crops growing, and Mr. Lowell grew impatient.
On the third day, he started planting rice seedlings, refusing help from the villagers. Though his rows were crooked, he finished by evening. Commander Lee’s granddaughter and his relatives would arrive in Rongton in two days.
Mr. Lowell told the villagers to look after the field and notify him when the wheat sprouted. He packed his things, ready to walk back to Rongton.
"What should I pretend to be this time?"
After some thought, Mr. Lowell broke into a smile. He took out a black cloth and some black mud, disguised himself as a one-eyed swordsman. He hadn’t trimmed his beard for days. He decided to observe his bride first—if she was just a spoiled heiress, he wouldn’t be a good husband.
Resolved, Mr. Lowell set out on the road to Rongton.
Along the way, Mr. Lowell met many people. Some were curious about his one eye; children pointed and laughed, but when he drew his sword, they cried in fright—he looked truly fierce.
Nearly a month of fieldwork had tanned Mr. Lowell’s skin and left him dirty and scruffy. With black mud and fake freckles on his face, no one could recognize him.