Douluo Continent: A Fallen Immortal Descends to Earth, Slaying Gods with a Drunken Sword

Chapter 188 The Young Storyteller and the Heavenly Soul Master, Li Zhexian also didn't know why the old man insisted.
Li Zhexian led the Wind Chaser Steed.

I stopped in front of that simple storytelling shed on the street corner.

The benches under the shed were sparse, and there were hardly any listeners.

The storyteller was even older, his faded blue robe hanging loosely on his body, as if a gust of wind could blow it over.

Only one pair of eyes shone brightly in the dim twilight, like the last embers of burnt-out charcoal.

Snapped--!
The gavel was slammed onto the limping table.

His voice was hoarse, yet every word struck the ground:
"Ladies and gentlemen, behold today's episode—'Sword and Wine Angrily Slay the Golden Generation, the Pope's Blood Splatters the Spirit Hall!'"

"Speaking of Li Zhexian, he was dressed in white, his robes as white as snow, with a three-foot-long sword hanging at his waist..."

His tone was that of a seasoned veteran, slick yet ruthless.

I don't know if it was something I saw with my own eyes, or something I've said countless times.

The details were so vivid and lifelike.

That murderous aura was bone-chilling.

Li Zhexian listened quietly.

I felt a mix of emotions.

The feeling of meeting an old friend in a foreign land, the stirring of hearing past stories again...

A mix of emotions welled up in his throat, making his throat feel dry and sore.

He finally understood.

It was an old friend who spread the news of his death, thus dispelling some of the suspicions of the Spirit Hall.

It turned out to be a storyteller from Tiandou City.

Looking at the old man's face, which was deeply lined with wrinkles and made him look even older.

It's not hard to imagine that this kind of book-telling has been going on for quite some time.

Li Zhexian let out a long sigh.

With a barely perceptible tremor.

He endured the biting winds of the North for a year and a half, and he persevered because of the girl lying in the Lake of Life.

even so.

He also had to admit:
The wind and snow in the North are truly bone-chillingly cold.

But where is this storyteller in front of us?

Even Li Bai himself couldn't figure it out.

What exactly is it that drives this old man to trek to this desolate place and stubbornly tell his story of Li Zhexian?

Behind the storyteller.

There stood a middle-aged man with dark skin, wearing a tattered Soul Master robe.

The old man spoke with a hoarse voice.

He silently refilled the tea.

The sparse spectators under the shed had their eyes mostly glued to the Soul Breaker's robe, which was more captivating than the roaring stories on stage.

This twilight town doesn't seem to be a place for listening to storytelling.

People come and go, come and go, but there are always only a few scattered people under the shed.

But the old man still stood in front of that rickety elm table, meticulously striking the half-rolled, worn-out gavel.

Snapped--!
The gavel strikes again.

The lingering sound echoed through the deserted shed.

"Gentlemen, this is indeed..."

"The sacred mountain once hung with crowns, blood stained the old banners, wind and snow buried chivalrous bones, and only laughter remains in the world of martial arts!"

After a long pause, the atmosphere became so cold it felt like it could freeze.

There were only a few slaps, a few lazy ones.

The guests on the bench pursed their lips and got up, their idle chatter drifting on the wind:

"Tsk, what nonsense is this old man spouting?"

"Li Zhexian? That stray dog ​​wanted by the Spirit Hall all over the continent? He nailed His Holiness the Pope? He's dreaming!"

"Hmph, it's only because we don't believe in the Spirit Hall that this kind of nonsense is happening here. If you were spouting this madness in a big city, you'd be beaten to death with sticks long ago!"

"Ugh……"

The storyteller, his back hunched, let out a long sigh.

The Soul Master from Tiandou City silently packed up his meager belongings.

Such cold indifference and spit.

The two of them have been enjoying it for almost two years.

"Let's talk about the last day in Twilight Town tomorrow... there are still some things I haven't heard the whole thing about."

The old man said in a hoarse voice.

"to make."

The Soul Master replied sullenly.

As dusk settled, the lanterns hanging in the corner teahouse cast a dim, yellowish light.

The storyteller let out a suppressed cough, his gaze sweeping over the copper coin dish on the corner of the table, where three wooden boards lay forlornly.

Hey.

Two of them were actually inserted by him beforehand, just to make things look better.

He smoothed the stubble from his cuffs, preparing to pack up his stall.

Suddenly, a young man dressed in black appeared outside the stall.

The straw raincoat was pulled low, covering half of his face, revealing only a sharp brow bone and a faint scar that slanted down from the end of his eyebrow.

Her ponytail was tied neatly at the back of her head, giving off an aura that kept strangers at bay.

Storytellers make a living in the world of martial arts; they need to develop a keen eye for detail.

At first glance, my heart skipped a beat:
The young swordsmen in the early stories, who were known for their chivalry and vengeance, seemed to have this kind of physique and appearance.

The young man in black walked straight over.

The Heavenly Dou City Soul Master instinctively stepped in front of the old man, his eyes wary.

But the young man simply bent down and silently helped pack up the stall.

The Soul Master's tense shoulders finally relaxed a little.

"Old sir, the story you told was... authentic."

Li Zhexian spoke.

"Oh?"

The storyteller's wrinkles relaxed for once, revealing a genuine warmth.

"In recognition of what you said, young man, I'll treat you to a bowl of noodles. Would you do me the honor?"

Li Zhexian paused slightly, then nodded.

"Sorry for bothering you."

A greasy little square table, three copper coins for three bowls of watery noodles, with a pitiful few drops of oil and scallions floating on the soup.

The storyteller held up the large, rough porcelain bowl with both hands, his calloused fingers stroking the rim of the bowl, the faint warmth making his dry eyes slightly moist.

He looked up at the young man opposite him, then suddenly sighed. His voice, mingled with the steam of the noodle soup, seemed to be directed at the boy or at himself.

"I've been telling the story of Lord Jianjiu for over a year and a half..."

"Young man, you're the first person in the last two weeks to speak fluently."

He slurped up a mouthful of scalding soup, took a breath, and then continued:
"The Spirit Hall's power is overwhelming."

"My strength is but a drop in the ocean."

"But I think that I should do my part, however little I can."

"If in the future anecdotes circulating in the martial arts world, as long as there are two true words and two good words about Lord Jianjiu... then I will have not wasted my efforts."

"Oh, Lord Jianjiu, the one from my story..."

The old man paused, and a glimmer of light suddenly appeared in his cloudy eyes.

"Every time I finish telling a story, Lord Jianjiu casually tosses me a gold coin."

"That golden light dazzled my eyes; I will never forget it."

Li Zhexian's hand, gripping the chopsticks, had knuckles that were so tense they turned white.

He lowered his eyelids.

The strands of hair cascading down from under the straw raincoat concealed all his expressions.

Only the movement of picking up the noodles seemed slower and heavier.

The storyteller continued his rambling.

Li Zhexian suddenly spoke.

"Sir, could you please help me remove the chili peppers?"

The Soul Masters of Heaven Dou City got up and went to look for them.

The storyteller also subconsciously turned his head to look at the next table.

Just at this moment.

Li Zhexian remained engrossed in his bowl of noodles.

The tip of the chopsticks lightly touched the rim of the bowl.

Silently, two barely perceptible sword intents swept across the table.

Two spiritual herbs, brimming with spiritual energy, appeared out of thin air and floated above the storyteller's and the soul master's noodle soup.

Fine, hair-like sword energy crisscrossed, instantly pulverizing the spiritual herbs into powder, which then fell evenly and silently into the two bowls of plain noodles.

Li Zhexian only took the spiritual herbs he needed, then returned the Ice and Fire Yin-Yang Eye to Dugu Bo, and casually taught the latter how to identify them.

Hopefully, that old poisoner can use that precious land to one day reach the threshold of the Heavenly Ridge Martial Arts Tournament.

The waning moon sets in the west, and the cold seeps into my clothes.

I finished eating the noodles.

Li Zhexian rose to take his leave.

After walking a dozen or so steps, he paused slightly, turned half his face to the side, the shadow under his straw raincoat obscuring his expression. His voice was not loud, but it clearly pierced through the bleak night wind.

"Sir, when we meet again, ... I will certainly share a drink with you."

The night wind is howling.

The storyteller didn't seem to hear clearly.

He instructed the Soul Master to pack his luggage.

His hand brushed against the edge of the crippled table.

My fingertips suddenly touched something cold and hard.

A gold coin lay there quietly, bathed in the cold light of the waning moon.

The light was so bright it made his eyes glaze over.

　Three chapters updated in a row!
　　
　
(End of this chapter)