Chapter 1811: 1811

Lord Bird left.

Bu Fang’s life returned to normal. He got up at sunrise, worked until sunset every day, cooked with natural ingredients, and enjoyed the delicious food brought by nature.

Whitey’s mechanical eyes were dim, and it seemed to become much clumsier. Eighty would occasionally climb on its head and cluck or occasionally chase insects in the yard. It was a very extraordinary Eight Treasures Chicken, yet it behaved like a wild chicken that lived in the mountains.

Bu Fang lived a very comfortable life. He enjoyed the unambitious life. When he was bored, he would study new dishes. It had been his only pleasure these days.

The world outside the mountains was in turmoil. The flames of war were almost all over the land, and the fierce battles had caused countless casualties. In contrast, the days in the mountains did not change much except for the seasons.

Bu Fang had not gone down the mountain for a long time, nor had he gone to the village to exchange rice. Snowflakes drifted down from the sky, falling on the ground in front of the hut and covering the earth with a thick layer of white blanket.

Whitey sat in the yard, dazed. The accumulation of snow on its body made it look like a snowman. Eighty was running through the snow with a pinch of snow on its head. Clad in a thick cotton coat, Bu Fang exhaled a puff of white breath.

The fire danced in the stove as the water was boiling and steaming in the pot. Bu Fang took a teacup and sprinkled a few brown tea leaves in it. The tea was a specialty of the mountains, but the yield was very little. He had found it by accident.

He filled the cup with hot water, and the tea leaves immediately gave off a refreshing fragrance that lingered in the air. As the tea leaves swirled in the cup, the color of the water gradually changed from transparent to light green, which was very pleasant to look at.

Holding the teacup with both hands, Bu Fang sat on a chair and looked at the snow outside the hut. Days passed, and Bu Fang did not know how long he had been in the mountains.

He took a sip of tea. A warmth dispelled the cold in him. After sitting in the chair and watching the snow for a long time, he stood up, took the hoe, left the hut, and walked up the mountain. There were fewer ingredients in the mountains in winter, but he did not care. He let fate decide if he would find anything or not.

Whitey followed quietly behind him. The mountain was covered in snow in winter, so it was hard to find good ingredients in a vast expanse of snow.

Halfway up the mountain, Bu Fang saw a rabbit in the distance. He did not move but watched it quietly. The rabbit kept hopping and soon got to its burrow. Inside, a few cute little bunnies huddled together, turning their heads as their mother returned to them.

Bu Fang smiled. After giving them one more glance, he carried the hoe and trudged away. There were many other ingredients on the snowy mountain beside rabbits. Winter mushrooms were one of them. These tiny mushrooms grew on tree trunks and looked like flowers blooming in the snow.

Bu Fang happily picked the mushrooms and put them into the basket. Every winter, he would come to the mountain to pick mushrooms. They grew best at this time of year. After bringing them back, he would dry them in the sun and store them for later use.

Of course, dishes cooked with fresh mushrooms were also very delicious.

After picking the mushrooms, Bu Fang did not leave immediately. As he continued to walk up the mountain, he was followed by a wolf. It was obviously starving because it did not hesitate for long before pouncing on him. Unfortunately, Bu Fang was also a little hungry.

Even though Whitey had become clumsier, its slap kept the wolf from getting up again. Bu Fang happily tied up the beast and threw it into the basket. Since the basket was much heavier now, he let Whitey carry it.

The harvest was good, but Bu Fang did not intend to go back yet. Instead, he went to the pond in the mountain, which was covered with a thick layer of ice. Fish had the most fat during winter, so he certainly would not let go of such a delicacy.

He cut a hole in the ice, and in a short time, a few fat fish were thrown into the basket. Satisfied at last, Bu Fang left the pond, humming a little tune as he made his way back in the snow. Although he had been humming the same song for so many years, he was still not very good at it.

Bu Fang returned to the hut. The days in winter were always short—it got dark quickly and the temperature dropped further. He built a fire, cleaned the fish, and then gently patted the flesh.

From inside the hut, he took out his collection of dried mushrooms, which he had prepared in previous years. The dried mushrooms had a unique aroma. He placed them on top of the fish and steamed them together in the wok. A plume of white smoke rose into the sky.

…

The snow was crushed under many feet. In a dense forest, sharp rays of light and terrifying knife energy kept shooting in a certain direction. Countless trees were cut down, and snow was constantly shaking off the leaves.

The sound of heavy breathing filled the air as a figure was crawling painfully through the snow. He was clad in blood-stained armor, with disheveled hair and a pale face. A gash ran from his shoulder down his back and stopped at his waist. Blood was spilling out of it, melting the snow on the ground.

The badly wounded man looked back from time to time. There were men chasing after him. Suddenly, arrows flew toward him, their tips glinting coldly in the dark night. Soon, some of them struck the ground around him, sending the snow flying.

His pupils narrowed, then he sprang to his feet, his body spinning in midair. An arrow came whistling at him the next moment and glanced off his face before flying away.

“Dugu Wushuang! You can’t run away from us! Of the top ten swordsmen of the empire, you’re considered the best, but now you’re running away like a stray dog! Aren’t you ashamed?!”

A voice rang out. After that, many black-clothed assassins rushed out of the dense forest behind the man. They all exuded true energy as they ran at great speed through the snow.

The wounded man coughed up a mouthful of blood, grunted coldly, and continued to crawl. As he moved, he lifted his sword and waved it with all his might. Sharp sword energy erupted from the blade and flew toward the assassins in the distance.

The few assassins drew their swords at the same time and slashed out. Their blades tore the snowflakes falling from the sky and collided with the sword energy that flew toward them. Then, a powerful force bent their swords and forced them back several steps.

Judging by how they used their swords, the cultivation base of these assassins was quite strong. The man, on the other hand, was badly injured, and the more he used his energy, the weaker his aura became. Soon, the assassins closed in on him and engaged him in a fierce battle.

The clash of swords against swords rang incessantly, shaking the snow-clad mountain. Countless trees were cut down by them, and the ground was covered with footprints and blood.

After a long time, the battle was over. Several mutilated bodies were left on the ground, while a row of messy footprints stretched into the dense forest in the distance. The wind kept blowing, and soon, the footprints were buried under the white snow.

…

Bu Fang counted the time and then removed the steamer from the fire. As soon as he lifted the lid, a plume of steam rushed out of the steamer and gradually dissipated into the night. Sniffing the aroma in the air, he said, “It smells delicious.”

The fragrance of dried mushrooms and fish blended into a very delicious aroma, and the soft, tender fish wrapped in the smooth skin looked tempting. In addition to this dish, Bu Fang also stir-fried a plate of shredded fresh mushrooms. The mushroom slices, coated in a slightly sticky sauce, glistened. Fresh and dried mushrooms tasted completely different.

Bu Fang set the dishes on the table, then turned and walked into the hut, where he fetched a jar of wine from the cellar. It was a wine that he had made and stored for a few years. He would only take it out and drink it when he was happy.

The delicious taste of the wine intoxicated him. Having made a lot of wine, he was considered an expert in making it. In the past, he used to make wine with unique techniques, but he now knew that making wine required emotions. The quality of a wine depended, to a large extent, on the strength of the winemaker’s emotions.

In the past, his emotions about wine-making were more superficial. But, of course, the wines he made at that time were still very good because the techniques he used were very advanced.

The jar was not large, only about the size of a fist. Bu Fang happily slapped open the seal, and a strong fragrance of wine immediately wafted out of it.

…

Dugu Wushuang was so tired that he almost fainted. He felt he was losing too much blood.

“The search for immortality… Never thought I would ever be near death.” He sighed helplessly, then murmured in a bitter voice, “Am I, the Sword God of the generation, going to die in this uninhabited mountain? Maybe years from now, people will name this mountain Wushuang… After all, my body is buried here.”

In the distance, a little firelight was slowly spinning, gradually spreading in his eyes. A little lightheaded, he coughed up another mouthful of blood, which spilled on the snow like a blood-colored plum blossom.

He fell to his knees, his face buried in the snow and his hair strewn about his face. All he could hear was his breathing and the beating of his heart.

“I’m dying…” Dugu Wushuang sighed.

Suddenly, a fat chicken flapped its wings and came trudging through the snow. It circled around him and seemed to study him with curiosity. Dugu Wushuang could not move, but he could still feel the chicken jumping around. The next moment, it flew up and jumped on his body. He was so mad that he almost died.

“Eighty… Stop that now.”

A faint voice rang out. Then, a lean figure stepped out of the firelight. Dugu Wushuang’s consciousness began to drift. He felt a cold hand fall and lift him up like a chicken. He opened his eyes with the force of his consciousness. A puppet covered with cracks appeared in his eyes. He was so startled that he fainted straight away.

…

“Whitey, you’re scaring him.”

The corners of Bu Fang’s mouth twitched. He did not expect anyone to come up the mountain this late at night. After taking a look at the man, who was covered in wounds, Bu Fang decided not to let him die here. He asked Whitey to bring the man back and throw him in the yard.

Once they were back at the hut, Bu Fang sat down on the bamboo chair, rubbed his hands, exhaled a puff of white breath, and prepared to eat. He knew the fish steamed with dried mushrooms would be absolutely delicious.

He picked up a piece of fish with his chopsticks and put it into his mouth. The flesh melted instantly on his tongue. After swallowing it, he took a sip of wine. The refreshing wine went down into his stomach like fire and made all his pores open.

Eighty walked around Bu Fang, begging for food with its eyes. Finally, after throwing a piece of fish to it, Bu Fang filled a cup with wine and went to the severely injured man.

Looking at the man’s miserable appearance, he sighed and poured the wine into his mouth.