Chapter 960: Chapter 134: History Always Repeats Itself… (Double-Length) (Part 2)
His impression of Gongsun Jing remained fixed from a year ago—hard-handed, cold-fighting Fish Intestine Sword Master, an assassin, a killer. The reason he hadn’t left imdiately was out of concern that she might harm the villagers to cover her traces.
But everything he saw was quite unexpected.
Could she have really changed her nature? Or was it really sothing she had no choice but to do?
Just at this mont, Wang Anfeng slightly turned his face and saw a boy at the end of the path swinging a willow branch as he walked past. He smiled slightly, adjusted his hat to cover his face, brushed past the little boy, and turned to leave.
As he walked, he deliberately tucked his hands into his wide sleeves to hide the faint flas on the back of his hands. Even so, the air around his fists was already distorted by the heat, and without this concealnt, it would have been easily noticeable to anyone.
After two successive confrontations, the qi chanisms of the two Vajra Prajna gauntlets should have been fully exhausted. But, unfortunately, whether it was Xiao Runlin or Ouyang Guiyuan, both were disciples of the Sword Forging Valley with only ordinary cultivation, relying on qi chanisms and spiritual rhythms to fight.
If it were the rhythm of the divine weapon itself, or if like Wang Anfeng, soone could just barely use the qi chanism of the divine weapon to perform moves, Wang Anfeng had no choice but to take it head-on.
But their martial arts, in Wang Anfeng’s eyes, were rather ordinary and common.
For example, Xiao Runlin, despite using a spear, his spear technique was far inferior to Gongsun Jing, lacking in practiced moves and struck slowly and clumsily. Such a martial artist entirely lacked the ability to call upon qi chanisms, relying solely on the destructive power of the divine weapon’s qi chanism to confront the enemy.
It’s like having thousands of pounds but not exchanging it for a divine weapon, instead, using the gold as a weapon to smash oncoming foes—for others, this might be a curious tactic, but for Wang Anfeng, Shaolin Temple behind him was a world desperately in need of spiritual rhythm.
The qi chanism painstakingly wrought by the opponent, to him, was like offering fuel in the snow, sheep entering a tiger’s mouth—all of it was forcibly absorbed by the Buddha beads on his hand, leaving none behind.
And as circulating Gauntlets, they also retained so, and rather than depleting with use, they were surprisingly supplented.
Wang Anfeng felt from the Qilin Artifact Spirit that it was, perhaps, overstuffed…
Moreover, this overstuffing was forcibly shoved into its “mouth” by the opponent—cherished qi chanism, such a foolish thing, it had never seen since its birth, now struggling to suppress the overflowing spiritual rhythm.
The might of the divine weapon was thus a bit out of control, with heat waves subtly rising.
To focus on suppressing the more violent of the two gauntlets, Wang Anfeng had to stroll leisurely through the little village, waiting until part of the spiritual rhythm from the Qilin Instrunt Spirit was drawn by Shaolin Temple, dissolving again into two dim fla patterns before he could finally breathe a sigh of relief.
Just as he was about to leave directly, a rather enticing aroma reached his nose, sowhat sweet and cloying. Wang Anfeng paused slightly, recognizing the scent as that of pastries and couldn’t help but think of the ‘competition’ proposed by Dongfang Ximing when they left today.
At that ti, it was to divert Dongfang Ximing’s attention, claiming they would go their separate ways and each buy pastries back to see whose taste better. Though he never intended to win, it wouldn’t do to not prepare anything.
He followed that scent, walking through several narrow alleys, until he saw a very small shop—it was really just an open courtyard with a pole on which a faded banner hung, serving as a makeshift sign.
In the shade under the large wooden gate, a fifty-sothing old woman was tossing elongated pastries into an oil pot to fry. As they sizzled in the boiling oil, the aroma beca richer. When they turned a golden yellow, she expertly fished them out with two long bamboo chopsticks, placing them in a small bowl beside her.
Then opening a small pot beside her, she picked up a copper ladle, scooped a generous amount of thick brown sugar syrup, and poured it over the pastries.
The sweet fragrance spread instantly, like an erupting volcano.
“Alright, here, put a Copper Coin in the basket, bring the bowl back after eating, cleaned, or I’ll let your mother deal with you… careful, it’s hot, don’t eat it yet…”
“Sizzle… hot, no, I an fragrant!”
“Don’t worry, my mouth’s like iron, can’t be burnt!”
The old woman handed the pastries to a child who had been eagerly awaiting beside her, not forgetting to give two warnings. The child took them and eagerly threw one into his mouth, the crisp sound reaching Wang Anfeng’s ears.
He could even instantly deduce how thin the fried outer layer was.
The old woman grumbled twice, and after the child ran away with his prize, she turned to Wang Anfeng, blinked, and curiously said:
“…Young man, you look unfamiliar, are you from out of town?”
“Want to try so?”
Wang Anfeng nodded and pointed at the oil pot, saying:
“May I trouble you, shopkeeper, with these pastries, I’d like…uh, ten servings, no, twenty servings.”
The old woman was startled: “That much?”
Wang Anfeng calmly replied:
“…There are many people at ho with good appetites, pardon , shopkeeper.”
The old woman took a while to recover and tried to persuade him: “Young man, this is brown sugar glutinous rice cake; it’s best eaten hot. When it cools, it won’t taste as good.”
Wang Anfeng smiled and said: “No worries, I’ll be back quickly.”
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