Zhao Sheng shot up from his seat and jabbed a finger toward the ceiling.
"Look! Look! Even Dao Xuan Tianzun himself is complaining about your handwriting!"
The old physician turned crimson, caught between guilt and panic. "Dao Xuan Tianzun forgive me! I—I'll make it clearer this time!"
He bent over the table and scribbled something furiously. "There! This one's legible, right?"
Li Daoxuan and Zhao Sheng leaned in at the same time. Both froze. The air went still.
The doctor puffed out his chest. "That's licorice root!" he declared proudly.
Zhao Sheng's lips twitched. "If that's licorice root, then I'm the Emperor of Mars."
Li Daoxuan just sighed. "There are mysteries in this world that even heaven won't explain…"
Clearly, logic had packed its bags and left the clinic. Zhao Sheng, clutching the hieroglyphic prescription, gave up trying to decipher it and let the attendant gather his medicine — a hefty bundle he lugged out like a man carrying a sack of cosmic injustice.
Li Daoxuan had been watching for amusement, but as Zhao Sheng stepped out, an idea sparked in his mind.
This guy… might actually be the perfect choice for Gudu Ferry.
Most scholars, bless their fragile souls, were about as practical as silk shoes in a swamp. They knew how to debate poetry, not dig ditches — and courage wasn't exactly their strong suit either.
Take Principal Wang, for example. Smart man, respectable teacher. But outside the comfort zone of Gao Family Village? He'd probably barricade himself indoors, waiting for Dao Xuan Tianzun to send an all-clear sign.
San Shier, Tan Liwen — same problem. Brains? Plenty. Backbone? Negotiable.
But Zhao Sheng? Entirely different breed.
Sure, the man had been a rebel once — a reluctant one. But he'd led three thousand men, marched through counties, faced death more times than a bad gambler, and somehow survived.
The body might be frail, but the heart? Solid iron.
And above all, Zhao Sheng had something rare: character. He wasn't the type to crumble or scheme when no one was watching. Li Daoxuan could trust him to manage Gudu Ferry without constant supervision — and maybe even keep the locals alive while doing it.
"Alright," Li Daoxuan muttered. "Decision made. If only his lungs would cooperate…"
He started looking for Gao Yiye, planning to send word through her — only to realize, once again, that she was nowhere to be found.
Finding Gao Yiye in Gao Family Village was like trying to catch smoke with chopsticks. The village might have been bustling with tiny residents, but she had a talent for disappearing whenever needed most.
At that moment, Li Daoxuan finally understood why holy figures in old tales always wore ridiculous outfits — bright robes, tall hats, golden halos. Not because of vanity — because it made them easier to spot from the heavens.
"Even Dao Xuan Tianzun would lose patience trying to find you," he grumbled.
Scanning carefully, his focus drifted across the village until he finally spotted her — sitting in the bookstore, of all places.
And she wasn't even reading her own illustrated Tales of Dao Xuan Tianzun's Demon Extermination! Nope — she was nose-deep in a comic called Breaking Through the Firmament.
Li Daoxuan frowned. The title alone sounded suspiciously like something Gao Sanwa would cook up after a midnight inspiration binge. And sure enough, a closer look confirmed it — the same "underdog's revenge" comic Gao Sanwa had bragged about earlier, now officially in print.
Gao Yiye was hooked. Her delicate brows furrowed and relaxed in rhythm with the plot, her lips curling into a victorious grin when the scorned hero finally smashed his rivals to pieces.
Li Daoxuan zoomed out a bit — and burst out laughing.
The entire bookstore was full of people reading the same comic! Everywhere he looked — taverns, tea stalls, noodle shops, even a braised duck stand — everyone had a copy. The whole district was gripped by Firmament Fever.
At a corner table, a middle-aged man squinted at the page and nudged a passing kid.
"Hey, little scholar! You can read, right? What's this line mean? This book's got too many blasted words for us honest illiterates!"
The kid straightened up proudly and read aloud:
"Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west of the river! Don't you dare look down on me!"
The man's eyes lit up. "Hot damn! That's deep. Sounds like something worth shouting before punching someone!"
"Yeah," said another listener. "Books that sound this fierce are worth reading!"
Li Daoxuan couldn't help grinning. "Well, I'll be damned. Gao Sanwa, you sly little genius — you've hit the jackpot."
He recalled the deal between San Shier and Gao Sanwa — profits split fifty-fifty, half to the bookstore, half to the author. Judging by the crowd, several thousand copies were already out in the wild. Even if Sanwa earned just ten wen per copy, that was still tens of thousands of copper coins — and growing fast.
"And that's only the beginning," Li Daoxuan murmured. "Soon, readers from Chengcheng and Heyang will be lining up too. He's about to become filthy rich."
And with that realization came another.
"This sets a perfect example," he said, a grin tugging at his lips. "When people see an author actually getting rich from his craft, they'll start picking up brushes instead of hoes. That's how real art flourishes."
He could almost picture it — the dawn of a new creative age, ink-stained hands replacing calloused ones, literature booming under Dao Xuan Tianzun's watchful eye.
Meanwhile, miles away, Xing Honglang led her weary caravan of salt porters toward Gudu Ferry. Their faces were sunburnt, their clothes dust-streaked, and skepticism hung over them thicker than river fog.
Sure, Chief Xing seemed generous — bold voice, easy smile — but the porters had lived too long under false promises to believe any kindness at face value.
After years of scraping by, selling salt for two wen per jin, who could believe anyone would suddenly offer ten?
One porter finally blurted, "Chief Xing, Chief Tie, we've been walking over a hundred li now. How much farther? And about the wages—"
Xing Honglang just laughed, tossing her braid over her shoulder. "Relax! I'll pay half a jin of flour for every li you've walked. Sounds fair?"
The porter's eyes nearly popped. Half a jin per li? That meant fifty jin of flour for this trip alone!
He blinked rapidly. That can't be right. Nobody pays like that… right?
And just as doubt gnawed at their hearts, Xing Honglang raised an arm and pointed ahead.
"We're here!"
The porters looked up — and froze.
Before them stood a towering wooden fortress, braced with watchtowers and solid walls overlooking the Yellow River.
Their first thought: Imperial soldiers.
Bandits would never build something this proper, and salt smugglers sure wouldn't spend money on watchtowers.
Cold dread crept down their spines. If this was a government fortress, then they were done for. No one would believe the Commissioner had sent them. The moment they were caught, he'd deny everything and leave them to hang.
The porters exchanged anxious glances, the weight of flour promises suddenly feeling a lot heavier.