Transmigrated into a Grandpa, Embracing the Laid-Back Life

Chapter 409: Nocturnal Commotion

The rain at Wind Crossing Ferry finally stopped at the Zi hour.

On the eaves of Yuelai Inn, residual rainwater dripped from the broken tiles onto the bluestone slabs below, producing a monotonous and heavy sound. The air was thick with a strong smell of earth, mixed with the sour stench of fermented low-quality horse feed.

Inside Room Jia, no lamps were lit.

Su Ming sat cross-legged on the slightly damp wooden bed, his eyes half-closed. The liquid spiritual energy of the Foundation Establishment stage flowed silently and steadily through his meridians like streams of deep blue light. He maintained the Aura Concealment Art at an extremely delicate balance—not appearing too conspicuous, yet perfectly blending his aura into the mundane, worldly atmosphere of this mortal inn.

His divine sense extended outward.

Although in this turbid mortal realm, the range of his divine sense was compressed by a full thirty percent, it was still more than enough to cover this small inn.

In the corner of the downstairs lobby, several drunken martial artists lay sprawled across wooden benches, snoring thunderously. In the stables, the two Yunnan horses snorted restlessly. In the room next door, Elder Qingquan’s breathing was long and even, clearly fast asleep.

Just then, Su Ming’s brow twitched slightly.

From the direction of the inn’s backyard came an extremely faint noise. It sounded like some dry, withered branches being dragged across muddy ground—barely audible, but to a Foundation Establishment cultivator’s ears, it was as clear as thunder.

Su Ming didn’t get up. He simply extended his divine sense covertly.Under the eaves of the woodshed in the backyard hung several strings of dry flatbreads and roughly-made jerky, kept there to prevent dampness. These were the coarse rations the inn used to fend off impoverished porters passing through.

At this moment, three scrawny, shadow-like figures pressed tightly against the base of the wall, slowly inching toward those rations under the cover of darkness.

They were three refugees.

The oldest looked no more than fourteen or fifteen, while the youngest was perhaps seven or eight. Their clothes had long since become tattered rags, barely covering their vital areas. All three children shivered violently from the cold.

But their eyes, fixed on those dried provisions, glowed with the primal instinct of survival.

The oldest boy gritted his teeth, stepping onto the shoulders of a slightly sturdier child, and tremblingly stretched out a hand covered in frostbite and grime, desperately reaching for the string of flatbreads hanging a bit too high.

Their movements were very light, but their hunger-weakened bodies couldn’t maintain their balance.

“Crash—”

a broken clay pot, which shattered with

night, that sound was

“Who’s in the backyard?!”

shout rang out. Immediately afterward, a rapid series of footsteps, accompanied by the

inns often knew a few crude fighting techniques, precisely to guard

break your damn

jujube wood staff, the assistant cursed loudly, kicking open the

string of flatbreads, crashing heavily into the mud from mid-air. Ignoring the searing pain in his body, he scrambled and crawled to grab the provisions, pulling his two companions toward the wooden gate

had already been securely locked by the shop assistant with a

door with all their might, but the

of the assistant carrying a

companions behind him, clutching the half-string of mud-stained flatbreads tightly to

second-floor

finger of his right hand curled slightly, and at its tip swirled a strand of deep blue spiritual energy, a

level of cultivation, he could simply will the shop assistant

didn’t

above all avoid entangling

refugees—this is the natural cycle of dynastic change in the mortal world. You can save one, but you can’t save ten thousand.

rapidly analyzed the pros and cons in his mind. This was the ironclad law of the jungle in the cultivation world, the survival principle he had

had clearly captured

with fear, his lips bitten until they bled as he forced himself not to

the villagers outside Qingshi Town, driven to desperation by unpaid

deep breath of cold

to

deep in his heart held an

backyard. The jujube wood staff was raised high, and the torchlight

little bastards, stealing from your

whistling down

eyes snapped open in the