One person: Starting with the Snow Drinking Blade

Several people stood on the shore, gazing at the unfamiliar island before them, each lost in their own thoughts.

The waves crashed against the rocks on the shore, making a "whoosh, whoosh" sound, the rhythm sometimes fast, sometimes slow, like a never-ending melody. The sea breeze blew in from the island, carrying the moist scent unique to tropical vegetation, mixed with the fragrance of earth, grass, and some unknown flower. In the distance, the calls of unknown birds drifted, one long and one short, as if they were calling to each other.

As darkness fell, the last rays of the western sunset faded, and the eastern sky turned a deep blue, with a few stars faintly visible twinkling. The moon had not yet risen, and the surrounding light became ambiguous, obscuring the clear outlines of people and objects, turning them into blurry shadows.

"Let's go." Nie Lingfeng took the lead and stepped onto the path leading into the island.

His footsteps were very light, making only a faint "rustling" sound on the gravel road. His figure was somewhat blurred in the twilight, but his steps were still steady and powerful, each step almost equal in length, as if measured with a ruler.

The others followed. Zhang Chulan walked second, a twig he'd somehow acquired from the roadside in his hand. He parted the roadside bushes as he walked, seemingly scouting the way, or perhaps just passing the time. Chen Duo walked behind him, holding Xiao Yun's hand—no, Xiao Yun wasn't there. Xiao Yun had stayed at the sanatorium, cared for by someone. Her hand was free, hanging at her side, her fingertips slightly curved—a gesture ready to form a hand seal at any moment. Her eyes shone brightly in the twilight, her pupils slightly dilated, as if searching for something in the darkness.

Zhang Lingyu walked slightly behind the middle of the group, her hands tucked into her sleeves, her steps leisurely, as if strolling in her own backyard rather than on a strange island where danger might lurk at any moment. Feng Baobao walked beside Zhang Lingyu, carrying a twig she had broken off from the roadside, which she was using to tease the insects on the roadside.

Lu Linglong and Lu Lin walked behind. Lu Linglong looked around, finding everything fascinating. Lu Lin walked beside her, one hand in her pocket, the other hanging at her side, her body slightly leaning towards her sister, like a moving human railing. Wang Zhenqiu walked at the very back, his phone glowing in the darkness, displaying a simple map of Nathan Island. He glanced down at it every now and then, then looked up to confirm his direction.

The market on Nathan Island was much more lively than I had imagined.

It's less of a market and more of a small town made up of various simple buildings and tents.

The street was a dirt road, hardened and solid by countless feet, with a layer of fine dust on its surface, which would kick up a small cloud of dust when stepped on. The street was lined with stalls, which were built with all sorts of materials such as wooden planks, sheet metal, and canvas. Some of the stalls were neat and orderly like regular shops, while others were so hastily made that they looked like makeshift shelters.

The goods for sale were diverse—fresh fruits and vegetables, bananas, mangoes, papayas, and coconuts, piled high, exuding a sweet, fruity aroma; handmade weapons and armor, long knives, short swords, bows and crossbows, and shields, rough in workmanship but practical, with undried oil stains still on the blades; some small items that looked like antiques or magical artifacts, copper coins, jade pendants, talismans, bottles and jars, some displayed in glass cabinets, others casually tossed on cloths for people to look through; there were even some shops with signs that read "Information Trading," with hooded people sitting at the door, their faces obscured, only smoke rising from under the hoods.

The streets were bustling with people of all skin colors and attire.

There were young people dressed in modern T-shirts and shorts, earphones in their ears, scrolling through their phones as they walked, looking more like they were strolling down a commercial street in China than on a secluded, alien island. There were elderly men in retro robes and cloaks, leaning on canes, slowly making their way through the crowd, their faces expressionless, but their eyes sharp as knives. And then there were burly men covered in strange totem tattoos, their muscles bulging like small mountains, shirtless, standing out conspicuously in the crowd—clearly not to be trifled with.

The air was filled with a mixture of smells—the smell of grilled meat, spices, the sweetness of fruit, the saltiness of the sea, and an indescribable, smoky aroma that wafted from behind a stall, making one feel drowsy.

The appearance of Nie Lingfeng and his group attracted the attention of many people.

Their Asian faces stood out starkly on this island, predominantly inhabited by Westerners and Southeast Asians. Several idlers sitting on the street looked up, scrutinizing them with curiosity or wariness. An elderly woman selling fruit stopped cutting mangoes, squinted at them for several seconds, then lowered her head to continue cutting. A young woman with a child quickly walked away, pulling the child to the other side of the street.

"Hey, new here?"

A burly man, shirtless and with a tiger tattooed on his chest, blocked their way.

The tattoo stretched from his shoulder to his waist, depicting a tiger with its mouth wide open, revealing sharp teeth. It was so lifelike, appearing almost alive with the rise and fall of the man's chest muscles. He was chewing betel nut, a dark red liquid trickling from the corner of his mouth, leaving a mark on his chin. His smile was somewhat malicious, revealing a set of teeth stained red by betel nut, which looked rather creepy.

"Where did you come from? Which faction are you from? Don't you know the rules?"

He stood in the middle of the road, hands on his hips, his two thick legs spread shoulder-width apart, like a wall of flesh blocking the entire road. Behind him followed several burly men dressed similarly, arms crossed, standing behind him, looking on with amusement.

Just as Zhang Chulan was about to speak, Nie Lingfeng stepped forward and blocked his way.

He didn't look at the burly man. His gaze swept over the subtle glances cast from all around—from behind the windows, from the gaps in the curtains, from behind the stalls—those glances flickered like fireflies in the dark, secretly observing this place.

He said casually, "Just passing by, buying something, not causing trouble."

"Oh ho, you're pretty arrogant, aren't you?"

The burly man grinned and strode over, each step heavy, kicking up dust. He tilted his head, scrutinizing Nie Lingfeng from top to bottom and then from bottom to top, finally fixing his gaze on Nie Lingfeng's face.

"Do you know whose territory this is? The market boss is Big G, and he hates unruly outsiders the most. If you want to stay here, you'll have to show some respect, won't you?"

As he spoke, he stretched out his hand, rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, making a soft, dry rubbing sound. The meaning of that gesture was self-evident—money.

"Damn, are they trying to collect protection money?" Zhang Chulan muttered under his breath, his voice low, but everyone could hear the displeasure in his tone.

Wang Zhenqiu, suppressing a laugh, twitched his lips twice, almost unable to hold it in. He replied in an even lower voice, "Don't worry, let's see how Brother Nie handles it."

Nie Lingfeng looked at the burly man and remained silent for two seconds.

In those two seconds, the burly man's expression changed several times. At first, it was impatience—his brows furrowed, his mouth opened, as if he wanted to say, "Are you going to give it to me or not?" Then it turned into confusion—because Nie Lingfeng's eyes were too calm, so calm that it didn't seem like he was facing someone blocking the road asking for money, but rather like he was walking down the street and saw a trash can blocking his way, considering whether to walk around it.

Then, Nie Lingfeng slowly spoke.

"We're looking for someone."

"Looking for someone?" The burly man was taken aback, his face contorting with grimaces. "Looking for whom?"

"Nguyen Phuong".

The moment those two words were uttered, the burly man's expression changed instantly.

It wasn't just surprise—it was something else entirely. Something had changed. Like being suddenly doused with a bucket of cold water, he froze. His pupils contracted, the smile vanished, and betel nut juice continued to drip from his chin, but he no longer bothered to wipe it away. He took a step back, not intentionally, but unconsciously, instinctively, as if pushed by something.

His eyes became wary.

"You're looking for a drunkard? What for?"

His voice had changed; it was no longer that lazy, roguish tone, but had become deep and urgent, as if he were asking about something very serious.

"I'll ask him about something." Nie Lingfeng's tone was calm, as natural as if he were chatting with an old friend over tea. "If you know where he is, tell me. I'll remember this favor."

The burly man stared at Nie Lingfeng for several seconds.

For those few seconds, his gaze scanned Nie Lingfeng's face back and forth, as if judging whether the man was lying. The burly men behind him also stepped forward, forming a semi-circle, partially surrounding Nie Lingfeng and the others. But no one made a move—they were just watching, waiting for a signal, a signal that indicated "it's time to act."

The burly man ultimately did not make a move.

He snorted coldly, the "humph" coming from his nose, carrying a hint of disdain and warning.

"The drunkard's whereabouts aren't something anyone can easily find out. If you want to find him, you'll have to try your luck at 'Paradise.' But I'll give you a friendly reminder—"

He took a step closer and lowered his voice, as if afraid of being overheard by the people next to him.

"People in the paradise are not as easy to talk to as they are in the market."

After saying that, he turned and left. The burly men behind him parted to make way for him and followed him away. Their figures quickly disappeared into the crowd, like stones sinking to the bottom of water, vanishing without a trace.

"Paradise?" Zhang Chulan frowned. "Isn't that the resistance organization on the island? How could Ruan Feng be involved with them?"

"It might not be a connection. It's possible he frequents the amusement park area," Wang Zhenqiu analyzed. He put away his playful expression, thought seriously for a moment, and frowned slightly. "After all, a lone wolf like Ruan Feng is unlikely to join any organization. But he needs alcohol and supplies, and the amusement park, as a local force on the island, definitely has its own channels. Maybe he just hangs out in that area and doesn't have any real contact with the people at the amusement park."

"Let's find a place to stay first, and then we can slowly inquire about it," Nie Lingfeng decided.

The group continued walking along the street, looking for a place to settle down.

The street narrows here, and the buildings on both sides change from simple stalls to sturdier wooden and stone houses. Some of the wooden houses have balconies on the second floor, where clothes are hung to dry. The night breeze blows, and the clothes sway gently in the wind, like a row of silent ghosts. A stray cat perches on the eaves, its green eyes glowing eerily in the darkness, watching the passersby below.

Just then, a commotion arose ahead.

There was an argument.

Upon closer inspection, one could see several strangely dressed people surrounding an old man with white hair in front of a tavern, pushing and shoving him while cursing.

The tavern door was open, and dim yellow light shone through, casting irregular patches of light on the floor in front of the entrance. Loud music and voices filled the tavern; some were laughing, some were shouting, and some were smashing glasses.

The old man wore a faded blue long gown. The fabric was so thin it was almost translucent, with several holes at the cuffs and hem, but it was very clean, the edges of the holes neatly trimmed. He was thin, with narrow shoulders and a slightly hunched back, looking to be in his seventies or eighties. His face was etched with the lines of time, three deep horizontal lines on his forehead, fine crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, and the skin on his cheeks was loose and sagging, like a crumpled piece of paper.

But his eyes were unusually clear. They didn't look like an old man's eyes—the pupils were bright, the pupils contracted and contracted smoothly, and there were no cloudy spots on the whites of his eyes. They were like two clean obsidian stones, set in his face that had been eroded by time.

"Old man! Paying back debts is a matter of course! You've been drinking here for three days without paying a single penny, and you think you can just leave?"