Chapter 111: The One-Eyed Snake Eavesdrops, Accidentally Obtaining a Fragment of the Tome

Speaking of which, the one-eyed snake trying to be a carpenter was like tying a rope to a chicken’s backside—utter nonsense. Yet, by sheer stubbornness, this one-eyed man insisted on tagging along with the carpenters to help with tasks like setting beams. At first, people saw him alone and missing an eye, felt pity, and let him work as a laborer.

When there was work, he would follow behind, handing over lumber or helping out. He earned one meal a day and three copper coins.

So the one-eyed man worked on and off, barely scraping by.

But misfortune often comes with a streak of luck.

On one particular day, the one-eyed man, Yang Shen, struck a stroke of luck.

That day, the carpenters didn’t start work, so he had no place to eat. With just two copper coins left, he went to the street to buy two vegetable buns.

While eating one, he tucked the other carefully in his chest to keep it warm. After all, as the saying goes, a full stomach breeds desire; sitting idly by the wall with nothing to fill his mouth would only deepen his loneliness and emptiness.

He planned to go to the brothel in the east of the city to listen to the red-clad courtesans sing their little tunes—a bit of enjoyment he knew well.

Actually, the songs sung by the courtesans in Dark Moon City were truly enchanting, but Yang Shen had offended the city lord, Yu Mofan, and dared not approach Dark Moon City again.

The brothel was not far; before long, Yang Shen reached the wall outside.

From within the brothel came the coy laughter of women, the gentle strumming of the seven-string zither, the melodious flute notes—it was enough to make one’s entire being melt.

By chance, just as Yang Shen reached the wall, the sounds inside grew even more seductive.

A woman’s voice, scratching like a cat’s claws, called out: “My lord, let Qian’er help you change your clothes.”

Yang Shen wished he could press himself right against the wall, afraid to miss a single word.

But his eagerness for warm food betrayed him; he tripped over a rotting piece of wood at the wall’s base, falling hard.

In the fall, the warm bun slipped from his chest and tumbled onto the ground, rolling right beside that rotten wood.

“Damn it, such bad luck,” he cursed irritably, then rose to retrieve the bun.

But a strange sight caught his eye.

That rotten wooden object began to move slowly.

Yang Shen was frightened. It was a dark, windy night with no one around. What if it was some monster? Even a big wolfhound would be enough to give him trouble.

He thought better of staying and turned to run. Yet, from the corner of his eye, he saw that the black shape had picked up the bun from the ground.

Curiosity overcame him. He stared and suddenly grew furious.

That rotten black thing was not a monster or a wolfdog—it was a person, coated in filth from head to toe.

If you didn’t look carefully, you wouldn’t even recognize it as a man.

Dressed in a tattered sheepskin coat, once gray or white, now utterly blackened, with no shoes, feet wrapped in layers of dried mud, his entire appearance was a grotesque sight.

Even more terrifying was his face—emaciated to the point of unrecognizability, bones almost piercing the skin, gray hair matted with dirt. He looked worse than the ugliest beggar in Dark Night City.

If placed in the Beggar’s Sect, he wouldn’t be the leader but perhaps an elder.

As Yang Shen was stunned, the man stuffed the fallen bun into his mouth and devoured it ravenously.

Only then did Yang Shen snap out of it, cursing loudly, “Damn you, you old wretch! You really want to die, huh? That’s my only bun, and you eat it!”

But it was too late—the bun was already swallowed.

Anger surged, but Yang Shen wasn’t one to respect the old just for the sake of it.

He snorted coldly, stepped forward, and berated, “You old bastard, since you ate my bun, I’m going to make you spit it out today.”

Then, without hesitation, he lifted his right foot and delivered a hard kick to the man’s belly.

The sheepskin-coated man, starved and weak, couldn’t resist. The kick landed squarely, causing him to writhe and howl in pain on the ground.

Yang Shen wasn’t satisfied with one kick and was about to strike again.

The man, knowing if another kick came, his life would end today, gritted his teeth and said, “Brother, don’t hit me anymore. I ate your bun. I’ll compensate you.”

Yang Shen withdrew his foot, sneering, “Compensate me? Even if I smashed all your bones and sold them, it wouldn’t be worth half a copper coin. What the hell do you have to pay me with?”

The man shakily reached into his pocket and pulled out a tattered scroll, saying, “This scroll of curse-breaking techniques is worth millions of silver taels. I’ll trade it for your bun.”

Yang Shen glanced coldly and saw the yellowed scroll—a hand-copied manuscript, and worse, only half of it.

He thought, “A broken scroll worth millions? This old bastard must think I’m a fool.”

His anger flared anew, and he raised his fist to strike.

Just then, the brothel heard the commotion outside and mistook it for unruly customers. Several burly men headed their way.

Yang Shen realized the danger—he came to eavesdrop, the last thing he wanted was to be caught and beaten by those tough men.

Acting swiftly, he snatched the scroll from the man’s hand and ran.

Back home, upon examining the scroll, he found it was indeed a manual on carpentry-related curse techniques.

Most of the methods cursed the master, with only a few meant to bring fortune.

At first, Yang Shen was skeptical. But after trying the techniques, he realized the scroll was valuable.

Using the scroll, he could bring fortune to his masters and eventually became a master carpenter himself, poised to live well.

Yet, being a snake at heart, he soon grew ill intentions.

When working for his masters again, he no longer blessed them but began casting curses.

Why?

Simple. Doing honest carpentry didn’t make money fast enough. Extorting masters through curses was far more lucrative.