Han Li had taken only a few steps into the plaza when a voice hailed him from afar.
"This way, Brother Han!"
He traced the cry to find Wan Xiaoshan standing beside an old man in a blue robe, waving eagerly. Han Li smiled and walked over quickly.
When he drew near, the youth introduced him: "This is Master Qingyan of Tailan Valley, a close friend of my father. This Tailan Assembly is convened by him and several other seniors."
Han Li gave the elder a careful look. The man was tall and thin, with broad shoulders and long hands, dressed in a blue scholarly robe that lent him an air of transcendent grace — save for one startling feature: his face was mottled all over with bluish blotches.
"And this," the boy said to the elder, "is Brother Han, whom I met just outside the valley. Though he is a rogue cultivator, we hit it off at once. Uncle, do look after him a little."
The old man studied Han Li in turn, then narrowed his eyes. "Young friend Han, your wood-attributed art is well practiced. At your age you have already reached the eighth layer — a level rarely seen even within cultivation clans."
Han Li inwardly winced. Had it not been for swallowing pills and elixirs like candy, he would never have climbed to the eighth layer; he would still be crawling among the third and fourth. Yet he answered with studied modesty: "You flatter me, Master. I have only been fortunate."
Master Qingyan nodded faintly and turned away from Han Li, addressing the boy instead. "Little one, several of your family have already come. They worry about you terribly; they bade me bring you to them the moment I saw you. Come along now."
Wan Xiaoshan's face fell. "It isn't my Seventh Sister and Ninth Brother, is it? I fear their scolding most of all. Must I go?"
The elder set his face stern. "What do you think?"
"Of course I must." The boy drooped.
"Hmph. You have nerve, sneaking off from home against your family's wishes. Had you met ruthless cultivators on the road, you would have left a few lives behind here!" As he said it, Master Qingyan cast a sidelong glance at Han Li.
Han Li caught the meaning at once. This old man was subtly implying that Han Li himself was precisely such a scheming, ill-hearted cultivator, drawing close to the gullible young master. He watched with cold eyes but said nothing.
"Pity," he thought. "Here was a young master who told me everything without reserve — yet now we must part. If this Master Qingyan wishes to give me small shoes to wear, I could hardly refuse them."
Aloud he said, cupping his fists to both: "Since Brother Small Mountain must go to his family, I will wander a while on my own. Later, if the chance comes, we can drink together."
"Wait, don't rush off! Let me introduce you to—"
"Little friend Han has business of his own to attend to. Don't make trouble for him!" The old man cut in, gripping the youth's arm.
Han Li smiled brightly at Wan Xiaoshan, then turned and continued toward the plaza.
Behind him, the boy trudged after Master Qingyan with a face like a condemned man being led to the block.
Han Li bore no grudge over the elder's handling of him. Any senior who saw a stranger of unknown origin hovering by his kin would view the fellow with suspicion — all the more so a great clan like the Wans. And Han Li harbored no ill intent toward Wan Xiaoshan; he simply wished to learn more of the cultivation world through the boy. With Qingyan having put a stop to that, he would have to glean what he could by watching and picking his moments.
So reflecting, he drew near the market stalls.
The cultivators' stalls ringed the broad plaza in a loose pattern, forming crooked lanes. Browsers drifted in twos and threes down the open middle, stopping to examine goods and haggle in low voices — a scene not unlike a worldly bazaar.
The light was fading, yet the plaza blazed bright. Before most stalls stood uniform great lamps of ancient cast bronze, a meter tall. But instead of oil, each cupped a white stone the size of a fist that gave off a soft, steady glow — far brighter than any oil lamp, turning the stalls beneath them pale as day and laying the nearby paths clearly visible. Han Li clicked his tongue in quiet wonder at so useful a marvel.
Though the hour was late, the plaza had only grown more crowded. New stalls sprouted, and browsers swelled. A flood of cultivators poured in all at once, and the place turned lively and clamorous.
Han Li approached slowly but did not immediately enter. He lingered at the fringe, watching these cultivators come and go.
Being so near, their dress and appearance opened his eyes. Some wore garments ragged in the extreme, covering only the vital spots, leaving the rest bare. Others were swathed head to toe, not a finger of skin showing — the perfect opposite. Strangest of all, he saw one figure whose face was clearly a man's, decked in a woman's robes and ornaments, and Han Li felt a lurch of disgust. Fortunately such oddities were few; most attire was merely unusual, and he could bear it.
After watching for a while, Han Li's expression moved suddenly — a gleam passed through his eyes.
He realized that every cultivator in the square, whether hawking or strolling, was a youth in his teens or twenties. He had yet to see a single one past thirty.
Wan Xiaoshan's words surfaced in his mind: the Tailan Assembly, held every five years, was exclusively for juniors. So the older, more senior cultivators stayed away; even Master Qingyan could only appear here in his capacity as host.
At this, Han Li breathed easier. Those old monsters were not easily handled — and if one of them set against me, he thought, it would be no harder for him than crushing an ant. But the "juniors" before him were no weaklings either. A cultivator like Han Li ranked only middling among them, and figures of the caliber of the blue-robed one he had once seen — of very great skill — abounded. In a short while he spotted five or six such masters, which made him sweat with humility.
He lingered on, taking the measure of the crowd, letting his plans for this strange valley slowly take shape in the back of his mind.