Samurai Heist

Throughout the vast river of history, countless cultivators have swarmed forth like carp crossing the river, each yearning to leap through the dragon gate. Yet, those who attain the Way are but a precious few. Seeking immortality and enlightenment is nothing more than drifting through the world with perception, steering one’s boat by the fortune of fate. Should either perception or fate fall short, one is destined to be swallowed in the bellies of dragons and serpents. The fresh drama unfolding in the Wasteland Province may be nothing more than a night-blooming epiphyllum, a momentary splendor at midnight—who can truly say?

Zhang Huai let out a weak sigh at his lips, “Goudan, bring me the gourd.”

He collapsed to the ground, covering his sweat-soaked face with his hand, shielding himself from the sun, unmoving. The soil among the winding fields exuded a mixed vapor, steaming upon the body, alternating between chill and warmth.

“Just look at yourself.” Qin Chuan wiped the sweat and mud from his face, reaching for the gourd at his waist. Hampered by the heavy stone hoe in his hand, he tossed it aside carelessly. Goudan was Qin Chuan’s childhood nickname, so called because he once claimed to have seen a mongrel by the village lay eggs. The name had long been buried in the dust of memory, yet unexpectedly resurfaced on his lips.

He glanced up at the blazing sun, coughed lightly to clear his parched throat, and tilted his head back to take a deep draught. The icy spring water sent a thrill through his chest. The gourd was nothing special—just an ordinar