One person: Starting with the Snow Drinking Blade

A bald, burly man grabbed the old man by the collar and said viciously. His bald head gleamed in the dim light of the tavern, and a scar running from the corner of his eye to his chin made his expression look particularly ferocious.

The old man didn't struggle, but slowly said, "This humble Taoist... oh no, this old man is just temporarily short of money, it's not like I won't pay back. Why are you in such a hurry?" His voice wasn't loud, but it was very clear, each word seemed to slide out slowly from his throat, unhurried and unperturbed.

"Struggling for money? You've been struggling for three months!" the bald, burly man roared, his grip on the old man's collar tightening, tearing the collar of his long robe out of shape. "Today you either hand over your money, or you hand over your life!"

"Forget about taking my life; it's worthless to me." The old man yawned. He really was yawning, his mouth open to reveal a set of perfectly aligned teeth—unbelievably complete for a man in his seventies or eighties, not missing, not loose, each one gleaming white. "How about this, I'll tell you a story to settle the debt?"

"Who the hell wants to listen to your stories!"

The bald, burly man raised his fist, which resembled a small iron hammer with bulging veins. The surrounding crowd had already parted to surround the old man and the bald, burly man; some were watching the spectacle, some were stirring up trouble, and some were waiting expressionlessly to see how it would end.

Just as the bald, burly man was about to make his move, a voice came from the side—

"I paid for his drinks."

Everyone turned their heads and saw that Zhang Chulan had walked up to the man at some point, holding a stack of banknotes, which he handed to the bald, burly man.

His movements were natural, as casual as buying vegetables at a market. He had a smile on his face, but it wasn't deep; just enough to make him seem harmless, neither too enthusiastic nor too cold. His hand that handed over the money was steady, without trembling, and his fingers didn't move excessively.

The bald, burly man took the money, looked at it, and counted it. He ran his fingers over the banknotes a couple of times to confirm the amount. Then he snorted, loosened the old man's collar, and shoved him aside like a rag doll.

"Consider yourself lucky!"

After saying that, he turned and led his men back into the tavern. The tavern door closed behind them, shutting out the lights and sounds inside, and the dim, yellowish light from the distant streetlights returned to the entrance.

The old man straightened his disheveled collar, his movements unhurried. He ran his fingers back and forth along the collar a couple of times, smoothing out the wrinkles, and then refastened the button that had been askew. Then he looked up at Zhang Chulan.

A hint of amusement flashed in his eyes.

"Young man, you look unfamiliar. Are you new here?"

"Yes, I just got ashore." Zhang Chulan smiled and put his hands back in his pockets. "Grandpa, are you alright?"

"It's nothing, it's nothing. This little thing is no problem for this old man." The old man waved his hand, his gesture like shooing away a fly, small but casual.

He looked Zhang Chulan up and down several times, his gaze moving from his face to his shoulders, from his shoulders to his hands, and from his hands to his feet—not just an ordinary scrutiny, but an experienced, expert one. It was like a connoisseur appraising a piece of porcelain, examining its shape, glaze, and body.

Then, he suddenly said, "Young man, you've treated me to drinks, so I can't accept your kindness for nothing. Here's some advice for you—"

He leaned closer to Zhang Chulan and lowered his voice. The smell of alcohol emanated from his mouth; it was strong, but strangely, it wasn't unpleasant—it had a fermented, slightly sour and sweet taste, like aged rice wine.

"On Nathan Island, don't easily stand up for others. Because you never know if the person you help is a good person or a bad person, an ordinary person or... someone far more dangerous than you imagine."

When he said his last sentence, his voice lowered a few decibels, so low that only Zhang Chulan could hear it. His eyes met Zhang Chulan's, a hint of a smile deep in his pupils, but it didn't seem like a joke; it was more like a reminder.

After saying that, he laughed heartily. The laughter was loud and hearty, like someone who had been holding it in for a long time and was finally able to laugh. He patted Zhang Chulan's shoulder, the force just right so that Zhang Chulan could feel the warmth of his palm.

Then he turned around and was about to leave.

"Please wait, sir!"

Zhang Chulan quickly called out to him. His voice was a little louder than usual, with a kind of urgency—the kind of urgency that comes from wanting to grab something but also being afraid of it slipping away.

The old man stopped and turned to look at him. Half of his face was illuminated by the streetlight, while the other half was hidden in darkness, making his expression difficult to discern.

"I have another question to ask—"

"What's the problem?"

Do you know someone named "Wugensheng"?

The old man's body visibly stiffened for a moment.

The stiffness wasn't just a fleeting sensation; it was a genuine, visible stiffness that spread from the spine outwards throughout the entire body. It was as if someone had pressed a pause button inside him, and his breathing, his heartbeat, and his blood flow all stopped for a moment.

Although it was only a very brief moment—less than half a second—Zhang Chulan still managed to catch it.

His pupils dilated, not from surprise, but from confirmation. It was like a detective finding a hair at a crime scene; he couldn't be sure if it belonged to the murderer, but at least he knew—there was a clue.

His heart tightened; he knew he had asked the right person.

The old man slowly turned around and looked at Zhang Chulan. His movements were slow, so slow that it took him twice as long as a normal person. It was as if he needed this time to adjust his expression and think about what to say next.

His gaze became somewhat complicated.

That complexity wasn't singular—it included surprise, memories, hesitation, and something indescribable. It was like someone flipping through an old, untouched photo album, seeing a familiar yet unfamiliar face, and feeling the surge of emotions within.

There was a few seconds of silence. In those few seconds, the noise of the street seemed to fade away, leaving only the old man's heartbeat and Zhang Chulan's breathing.

Then he sighed.

The sigh was long, as if something that had been accumulating for many years had finally found an outlet.

"What's your name?"

"Junior Zhang Chulan."

"Zhang Chulan... Zhang Chulan..."

The old man repeated the name twice in a low voice, as if savoring a vintage wine. His lips curled slightly when he pronounced "Zhang," pursed slightly when he pronounced "Chu," and curved slightly when he pronounced "Lan."

Then he laughed.

There was something in that smile that Zhang Chulan couldn't understand—it wasn't happiness, sadness, sarcasm, or relief. It was like a mixture, several different emotions tangled together, indistinguishable from one another.

"Are you Zhang Huaiyi's grandson?"

Zhang Chulan's pupils suddenly contracted!

Aside from the company's top management and a very few insiders, almost no one outside knew about this! Those who knew had all signed confidentiality agreements and wouldn't be talking about it. How could this seemingly ordinary old drunkard from Nathan Island know?!

His heart skipped a beat, so hard that he felt everyone around him could hear the "thump."

"It seems I guessed right." The old man's smile deepened when he saw Zhang Chulan's reaction. His eyes curved into two crescent moons, and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes layered upon each other, like the rings of a tree.

"You and your grandfather really do look quite alike when you were young. But you're a bit fairer than him; he was out and about all the time back then, and he got so tanned he looked like a lump of coal. Oh, by the way, did your grandfather still have that little mustache?"

Zhang Chulan's lips moved slightly, but no sound came out.

"You...you know my grandfather?" His voice trembled slightly. It wasn't the tremor of fear, but the tremor of excitement.

"Know them? More than just know them..."

A flicker of reminiscence crossed the old man's eyes, a glimmer of light that shone into a corner of his deepest memories. He stood there, his body motionless, but his gaze had already drifted far away—across the night of Nathan Island, across the Pacific Ocean, across decades of time, returning to a world that Zhang Chulan had never seen before.

"Back then, your grandfather, Wugensheng, and I... well, let's not talk about it, it's all old news."

He waved his hand, his fingers tracing an arc in the air, as if to sweep those memories aside.

He seemed unwilling to say any more.

But how could Zhang Chulan possibly let this opportunity slip by?

He took a step forward. It was a large step, a third longer than normal, as if he wanted to shrink the distance between them to zero. He reached out his hand, but didn't grab the old man's arm—he stopped in mid-air, because he knew that if the old man wanted to leave, he couldn't stop him.

"Grandpa! Please tell me! Who exactly is Wugensheng? What happened between him and my grandfather? How did the Eight Extraordinary Techniques come about? I've been investigating these things for a long time, but I still have no clue..."

He spoke so fast that, in retrospect, he wasn't even sure if he had said every word clearly. He only knew that he had so much to say, so much that had been building up for so long, and now that he finally had someone to confide in, the words poured out like water bursting its banks.

The old man looked at his anxious expression and remained silent for a moment.

His gaze lingered on Zhang Chulan's face for a long time, as if reassessing the young man. He saw a light in Zhang Chulan's eyes—not an ordinary light, but a light that had been suppressed for too long and had finally found an outlet. Like someone who had been groping in the dark for a long time and finally saw a window with a light on.

Then he sighed. This sigh was shorter than the previous one, but deeper.

"These things can't be explained in just a few words. Besides, knowing too much about some things might not be a good thing for you."

"I'm not afraid!" Zhang Chulan said firmly. His fist clenched, his nails digging into his palms, leaving white marks. "I have a reason I absolutely need to know!"

The old man stared at him for a long time. Maybe five seconds, maybe ten seconds, maybe longer. During that time, the noise of the street seemed to fade away, the music from the distant tavern became indistinct, and the sound of moths flapping their wings under the streetlights became clearly audible.

Finally, he slowly nodded.

"Alright, since you insist... come find me at the beach tomorrow morning. I can tell you some things then."

"However—" He changed the subject, giving Nie Lingfeng and the others a meaningful look. "You'd better come alone. Some things are better left unsaid."

His gaze lingered on Nie Lingfeng for less than a second, but Zhang Chulan noticed that the old man's pupils contracted slightly at that moment. It was an instinctive, wary reaction of one extraordinary person seeing another.

After saying that, he turned around and slowly walked towards the other end of the street.

His shadow stretched long under the streetlights, his long blue robe fluttering gently in the night breeze like a cloud blown by the wind. His footsteps were so light they were almost inaudible, as if a person who didn't exist was walking.

They quickly disappeared into the twilight.