Volume One: Carefree Journey Amid Indistinguishable Paper Leaves Chapter Thirty-Two: A Familiar Stranger

Yang Ning couldn’t help but wonder who was inside the burlap sack. The plump man in the gray robe had claimed it was a fool, yet they seemed to rely on this very fool to return to Northern Han and win favor and reward. Clearly, even if this person was a fool, his background must be anything but ordinary.

With a swift motion, Yang Ning sliced open the sack with his icy blade. Inside emerged a figure who had taken an arrow to the chest and another to the neck. Judging by the wounds, the chances of survival were all but nonexistent.

Yang Ning reached out to feel the person’s nose. The tip was icy cold, entirely devoid of breath—undeniably dead.

“Talk about rotten luck,” Yang Ning muttered. Trussed up in a sack, struck by two arrows—both straight through vital points. Such ill fortune was almost impressive.

Once certain that the man was dead, Yang Ning took a closer look. The man’s build was much the same as his own—perhaps a bit leaner. His garments, though, were clearly of fine quality; a single touch told Yang Ning they were made from expensive cloth. A purple sash was tied at his waist—a sign of noble birth.

A strip of cloth was tied over the man’s eyes, and he looked to be about Yang Ning’s age.

Yang Ning used his icy blade to gently remove the cloth. When the young man’s face was revealed, Yang Ning gasped in shock, astonishment written all over his features.

It was a delicate, refined face, pale and serene, eyes closed. Yet Yang Ning immediately realized it was uncannily familiar.

Suddenly, Yang Ning sheathed his blade and ran his hands over his own face, his eyes wide with disbelief.

The dead youth before him looked astonishingly like himself. No wonder the face had seemed so familiar—the resemblance was uncanny, as if they had been cast from the same mold.

Yang Ning remembered every detail of his own features. After all, when he had crossed over into this world, inhabiting a new body, he had naturally examined himself closely. He never imagined this hostage would so closely resemble him—at a glance, almost identical; the more he looked, the more alike they seemed.

It was truly bizarre.

He sat in silence for a moment, then searched the ancestral hall for an incense burner. He filled it with water from a small pond by the bamboo grove, brought it back, and placed it on the ground. He glanced at the body, then at his own reflection in the water.

The features, the contours, the face—identical in every way, as though they were twins. The only difference was in their complexions: the noble youth’s skin was pale and pampered, while his own was tanned.

Yang Ning plopped down on the ground. The coincidence was almost unbelievable.

Lookalikes were not unheard of in the world, but such a degree of resemblance was rare—like a pair of twins. Yet their lives could not have been more different: one the scion of a wealthy family, the other a beggar cast adrift by war. Their backgrounds could not be further apart.

The world was vast and full of wonders—he had simply happened to run into one.

All around him lay corpses; the stench of blood hung in the air. Yang Ning was bold, but even his heart quailed. He knew this place was remote, the ancestral hall abandoned for years. No one came here, so even with dozens of bodies inside and out, it would be some time before anyone discovered them. With so many rats, snakes, and insects nearby, these corpses would soon be nothing but bones.

Seeing someone who looked almost exactly like himself lying cold and dead at his feet unsettled Yang Ning deeply.

“We may not be kin, but with faces this alike, I can’t just leave you here,” Yang Ning sighed. “You really drew the short straw—dying here, of all places. I can’t let the beasts have your corpse, at the very least.” With that, he picked up the body and carried it into the bamboo grove a short distance from the hall.

He set the body down, went back for a couple of knives, and returned. Muttering to himself, he said, “The view here is pleasant and it’s peaceful. Out of pity, I’ll make sure you’re not left to rot in the wild. Consider this a good deed on my part. If your spirit lingers, don’t pass your bad luck to me—instead, look after me a bit. And if you can, help me find Xiaodie and keep her safe.”

He dug a pit among the bamboo with the knives, but just as he was about to lower the body in, he thought better of it. Pressing his palms together, he murmured, “Brother, I’m giving you a burial—consider it a favor. You can’t leave me with nothing in return. Just look at me—rags and tatters. I can’t go out in public like this. Now that you’re at rest, you don’t need these things. They’re of no use to you, but of great use to me.” He paused, then added, “I’ll borrow your clothes for now. If I ever make something of myself, I’ll come back and build you a fine tombstone.”

His own clothes were already in ruins, exposing skin in many places. If he didn’t change soon, even he couldn’t stand it. There were plenty of corpses from which to take clothes, but those were all far too large for him, and ill-fitting clothes would only draw attention.

This young man’s garments, though fine, were not unusual for noble sons; wearing them would not attract attention, and they fit perfectly.

He stripped off the hostage’s outer and under layers—both of excellent material, though each had a hole where the arrow had struck. Even so, they were a vast improvement over his own rags, and Yang Ning didn’t mind. As for the innermost garments, he left those—he couldn’t bring himself to wear a dead man’s underwear, nor bury him naked.

After burying the young man in the bamboo grove, Yang Ning took the two knives to the pond and washed the dirt from his body. Then he put on the new clothes, checked his reflection, and found that dressed in silk, he cut quite the refined figure.

His hair was a mess, so he tied it back with a strip of cloth. He tossed the two knives into the pond, looked around, and realized that after last night’s storm he had no idea where he was. He remembered the double-pupiled man had taken Xiao Guang east, so he set off in the same direction.

Wearing silk was far more comfortable than the rags he’d had before.

Though today’s weather was not as stormy as yesterday, the clouds still hung low and heavy, the sky dull and overcast. Who could say when it might rain again?

After less than two hours’ walk, a narrow path appeared ahead. The area remained deserted. Yang Ning hoped to find the main road to the capital, but after last night’s chaos, he had lost his sense of direction and could only follow the path.

After walking for half a day, he suddenly heard hoofbeats ahead. Looking up, he saw several riders galloping toward him at great speed.

He had seen no one all day, so the sight of people at last stirred his spirits. He wondered if he could ask them for directions, but then worried they might be more trouble than help.

Everyone he had met lately had been strange or dangerous, each encounter placing him in peril. As he debated whether to approach them, the riders drew near.

There were six in all, dressed mostly in short jackets and traveling gear. The leader wore black, a blade at his waist, his face fierce and broad, brutish with prominent features.

Yang Ning’s instincts told him these were not good men. He stepped aside to let them pass.

But as they drew near, the leader reined in his horse, and the others followed suit. The man at the front fixed Yang Ning with an odd look.

Yang Ning’s heart sank. Of course—they see a youth alone, dressed in fine clothes, and assume he’s carrying money. They must be planning to rob him.

He smirked inwardly, but then the man dismounted and strode toward him.

Damn, so it’s come to this.

Yang Ning slipped his hand into his robe, gripping the icy blade. With six burly men, he stood no chance in a straight fight. If he couldn’t win by force, he’d have to use his wits. The leader, seeing him as young and defenseless, would be easy to take by surprise. If he could seize him as a hostage, the others would hesitate, and he might be able to steal a horse and escape.

His mind made up, he waited for the man to come closer.

The big man had a scar on his left cheek, making his already fearsome face even more intimidating.

As he came within two paces, Yang Ning prepared to strike—when suddenly, the man dropped to one knee before him and said respectfully, “My lord!”

The others hurried forward, dropping to one knee in unison behind him. “My lord!” they chorused.

Yang Ning was struck dumb, his mind blank.

The scarred man looked up, unconcerned by Yang Ning’s astonishment, and said gently, “My lord, we were late in your rescue and have caused you to suffer. We deserve death for our failure. Please, punish us.”

Yang Ning blinked in disbelief. After a long moment, all he could stammer was, “You… what did you say? I…!” For the life of him, he didn’t know what to say next.