Chapter 345

From the dense snowy forest, the land opened into plains. The further they went, the thinner the snow became. By the time they reached the edge of the marketplace, the snow had completely melted. Streams trickled merrily, and before them stretched a scene of early spring.

The divide between snow and bare earth was so stark it looked like two different worlds. If not seen with one’s own eyes, it would be hard to believe such a wonder existed.

Inside the Hei Yao camp, clansmen had shed their heavy fur cloaks and were busily working.

Rabbit Ya, Shu Lin, and a few other sub-beastmen crouched at the camp’s center. They had built a simple stone stove, lit a fire, and set up an iron pot. Soon, the fragrance of food wafted through the air.

Because Qi Bai had only prepared the most valuable goods for this trip—barely filling a single wagon—nearly half the remaining carts were loaded with food. Now that they had finally arrived, it was only right to reward everyone with a hearty meal.

As for whether such an extravagant feast would draw covetous eyes, there was no need to worry.

For one, no one would dare stir trouble right under the shadow of the Beast God City. More importantly, Qi Bai had observed along the way that everyone here was well supplied. Each stall flaunted piles of food, almost as if afraid others wouldn’t notice their wealth. Eating poorly here would only invite ridicule.

On another side, the horned beastmen, eager for dinner, set up tents at remarkable speed.

The materials were ready-made: drive stakes into the ground, erect frames, lay furs and felt, and a tent shaped like a Mongolian yurt was complete. Each tent could house thirty people.

The center was left open for a smoke flue, so that even in snow, a fire could warm the inside without choking anyone. Though with the current mild temperature, they didn’t yet need heating.

Six large tents stood in the outer ring, with the inner circle reserved for cargo and three living carriages. One belonged to Qi Bai and Lang Ze, the other two were converted from newly emptied wagons. Covered in furs outside, with carpets and bedding inside, each instantly became a snug little house.

The sight of these sturdy, warm structures was too much for nearby beastmen to bear.

“Beast God bless! Friends from Qi Cheng, I am Xiang Rui from Angqi City. Would you be willing to trade one of your tents with us?”

The first to approach came from the stall across from Hei Yao’s.

The three Upper Cities—Qi Cheng, Ji Cheng, and Mi Cheng—had stalls arranged side by side. Hei Yao, though belonging to none, had been received by Qi Cheng, so they were placed under its section.

Opposite them sat a stall that, judging from its size and placement, must belong to a Middle City dependent on Ji Cheng.

Qi Bai hadn’t expected business to come knocking before dinner was even served—and over tents, no less.

He’d overlooked them. After all, pitching tents was a basic survival skill for beastmen—who wouldn’t know how? But Hei Yao’s tents were the product of millennia of Blue Star steppe refinement—perfect for travel.

The beastman called Xiang Rui looked around thirty, with a rounded frame. His plump belly bounced with each step. In his guileless eyes Qi Bai all but saw the words glowing: “I’m rich.”

Well, only a fool turned away profit. Qi Bai adjusted his smile. “Beast God bless. We still need these tents for our return journey, so they aren’t available for trade at the moment.”

Xiang Rui clutched his belly in disappointment. “I see...”

But though refusing, Qi Bai tapped the felt exterior. “This is Hei Yao’s own felt. Sturdy, warm, moldable into any shape.”

He lifted the flap, gesturing inside. “Our tents are even more spacious within than they appear outside.”

Xiang Rui peered in, eyes darting from the vaulted ceiling to the simple furniture. His heart sank. Compared to this, his own tent was trash.

Qi Bai added, “Hei Yao is open to trading with Angqi. If you’re not in a rush, perhaps you could place an order with us.”

Xiang Rui’s eyes lit up. “Order? What does that mean?”

“As long as you pay part of the price in advance, Hei Yao will complete the goods and deliver them to a city we both know. When you receive the tents, you can pay the rest.”

Xiang Rui had never heard of such terms. He hesitated—this would be a large order, and even wealthy Angqi would hesitate to risk so much.

“Song wu will vouch for the trade between Angqi and Hei Yao.”

The two turned. In the sunset stood two beastmen, one tall, one short.

Qi Bai smiled. “Ji, Zhao—it’s been a long time.”

It was Ji and Zhao, long unseen. By his count, it had been three years since their parting in Song wu City.

Zhao arched a brow, lips curled. “Thank you, High Priest, for remembering us. But since you’ve come as a guest, I won’t bother preparing food.” He still bore a grudge—back then Qi Bai had refused his cooking.

Qi Bai only chuckled deeper. “What food? If the Grand Shaman doesn’t mind, stay and eat with us tonight.”

“Then I must thank you.” Ji turned to Zhao. “Liao and Sun have praised Hei Yao’s food more than once. At last we can taste it for ourselves.”

Zhao’s retort died halfway, interest fading. He turned his head away, bored.

Qi Bai smothered a secret laugh.

“Hey, hey, we weren’t done talking!” Xiang Rui flapped his hands, hurrying to Ji’s side. “What did you mean just now?”

“Angqi and Hei Yao are both friends of Song wu,” Ji said. “We trust both cities to keep their word. If you wish to trade, why not designate Song wu as the meeting place? Should Hei Yao fail to deliver, I’ll personally send a caravan to remind them.”

Xiang Rui’s eyes narrowed with delight. “That’s perfect! Then—how many tents can Hei Yao make for us?” If Hei Yao dared cheat, Angqi could just turn to nearby Song wu for restitution.

Qi Bai glanced between Xiang Rui and Ji and Zhao, raising a brow with a smile. “Why not come inside, share dinner with us, and discuss numbers at leisure?”

Xiang Rui, long teased by the smell of roasting meat, eagerly agreed and bustled in.

Braised rice with cured pork, kimchi pork-belly soup, smoked roast...

Xiang Rui ate until his face glowed red, praising Hei Yao’s tents and furniture without pause, and promptly ordered a hundred tents.

The only regret was that Hei Yao’s sturdy wooden huts weren’t for trade. But surely they weren’t difficult to replicate—once home, he’d have Angqi’s craftsmen try.

After seeing Xiang Rui off, Qi Bai and Lang Ze led Ji and Zhao into their carriage, ordering Lang Ji and the others to guard well, letting no one approach.

Once seated, Ji spoke frankly. “You must have noticed I intentionally courted Angqi.”

“Truth is, though Angqi lies under Ji Cheng, their backers aren’t among the Beast God City’s Seven Tribes. Because they’re close to Songwu, the Fu Shensi assigned us to draw them in.”

Zhao sipped his tea silently, clearly aware of this but disinterested in Fu Shensi’s schemes.

Ji had, in effect, used Hei Yao in this trade. Yet Qi Bai and Lang Ze took no offense.

If Ji hadn’t revealed it, they’d have never known—and would even feel grateful to Songwu for the favor. His candor showed true regard as friends.

Qi Bai rubbed his palm. “You deal with the Central Temple more. Have you heard anything of the Great High Priest?”

The Chi Hu, Ling Bao, Hong Chai tribes—and perhaps others hidden—were all making moves. The Central Temple wasn’t as harmonious as it looked. The crux might well be the Great High Priest.

Ji nodded. “What we hear comes only through Fu Shensi. We’ve never entered Beast God City, never seen the Great High Priest. But I do know a little, from long ago.”

Long ago—Qi Bai realized he must mean stories from his adoptive father, Ye Shen shi.

Over twenty years ago, the previous Great High Priest died. The Central Temple needed a successor.

By temple rules, when the Great High Priest of Beast God City passed, all twelve Shensi of the Central Temple were eligible. The final choice was made by those twelve, plus the nine Shensi of the Three Upper Cities.

But everyone knew—though equal in name, reputation, clan power, and influence meant some had no chance from the start.

At that time, three beastmen were contenders: one from the Chi Hu, one from the Hong Chai, and the current Great High Priest.

“Of the three, his support was weakest.”

Zhao perked up, resting his chin. “So how did he win?”

Ji shook his head. “Chi Hu and Hong Chai saw each other as enemies. Their infighting weakened both. In the end, the one who barely moved at all—the Great High Priest—took advantage.”

He looked at Qi Bai. “And among his supporters, was the Ling Bao tribe.”

Chi Hu had once been the strongest of the Seven Tribes. But the struggle for succession gutted them. They retained only the Fu Shensi. Ling Bao, having backed the right man, now threatened to rise as leader of all Seven.

And Chi Hu weren’t the only ones bled dry.

Qi Bai did the math. It was around that time Cang Shensi began extorting “god-blood” tributes, raiding to plug the hole left by the succession war. Everything aligned.

Lang Ze frowned. “So the current situation may be history repeating.”

“Impossible,” Ji said, startled. “The Great High Priest is just over fifty. He should have decades left—why would another succession be imminent?”

But then he recalled Qi Bai’s earlier questions. His eyes widened. “Don’t tell me... someone wants to harm the Great High Priest?”

Unthinkable. Each Great High Priest was blessed by the Beast God, able to commune with divinity. Who would dare raise a hand?

“It isn’t so simple,” Qi Bai said. He knew those men well—they’d never shied from bloody deeds. He shook his head. “Tomorrow, Lang Ze and I will meet the Great High Priest. Perhaps we’ll learn more.”

The moon hid behind the Sacred Mountain. Cold silver light left the peaks cloaked in shadow. Ji and Zhao made their way back to the Songwu camp.

“If Qi Bai and Lang Ze’s suspicion is right, we must be ready.”

The battle for the Great High Priest’s seat would be ruthless. From the moment they sought aid from Fu Shensi, they were in the game. There was no easy way out.

Zhao sneered. “Don’t overestimate the Chi Hu. They’d love to meddle, but do they have the strength? Their remaining cities can be counted on one hand, with Songwu their only Middle City. At their height, they made little stir. Now? Even less.”

Ji gazed at his companion, his face tinted by snowlight. He lowered his head, smiling faintly, and clasped Zhao’s cool hand. “I knew it. You’re worried for our city. You never agreed with me serving Fu Shensi, did you?”

Zhao tugged to pull away, failed, and only snorted softly, too weary to struggle.

Fu Shensi could help—or discard—them at will. Zhao didn’t think Ji wrong.

But he knew better than anyone: that man was no good. To worry for him was pointless.