Not A Small-Town Girl

Someone noticed the powder on the ground and, without thinking, brought it to their nose.

"It’s sleeping powder..." Duang! They dropped to the ground.

The group of ten-odd mercenaries looked at each other, dumbfounded, as they realized they had just knocked themselves out.

"What kind of sleeping powder is this? You weren’t kidding when you said it’s powerful..."

"Well, you go ahead and smell it, don’t waste it. Stop standing there and help us wake them up!"

One mercenary, in a panic, grabbed a large bucket of water from who-knows-where and dumped it over the unconscious man’s head.

The effect was immediate. The guy, now drenched with cold water, jolted up in confusion.

"Who the hell threw cold water on my head?!"

Patrick yelled, his voice cracking.

The mercenary holding the bucket immediately dropped it, scared out of his wits. "It’s not me! I wasn’t... I was just trying to wake you up!"

"My antidote’s right in my pocket, can’t you search it or something? Why the hell throw cold water on me?"

Already in a sorry state, now drenched from head to toe, with an odd stench clinging to them, they looked like something even a beggar would pity.

"Patrick, look! There’s a wooden sign."

Another mercenary, desperate to change the subject, pointed to the wooden sign hanging on the door.

As soon as Patrick heard the words "wooden sign," he had a reflexive response, leaping to his feet in an instant. He grabbed the sign, yanked it off, and threw it on the ground, stomping on it furiously.

"Seriously, this is so childish. You want to put me under a spell, huh? I’ll crush you!"

After venting his anger, Patrick finally remembered they were supposed to be looking for someone and asked, "Did you find anyone?"

"Nope. We’ve searched the whole mountain, not a single person in sight."

Patrick paused. There was only this small bamboo house. Could this possibly be where Danielle’s master lived? But her master wouldn’t be this childish, would he? And who was the one speaking in the bamboo forest earlier? Patrick had been cursing like crazy—what if Danielle’s master overheard him?

Panicked, he rushed into the house. The small room inside was ridiculously simple—a small wooden bed, a table, a chair, and a row of cabinets, each one filled with herbs. A thick layer of dust covered everything, suggesting that no one had lived here for months.

This was the kind of minimalism that would make even rats weep. How did someone even survive here? Did they live off dew?

"Let’s go. No one’s been living here for a long time."

Patrick walked out, frustrated. How had he, the great "Yan Ye," ended up in such a mess?

"Patrick, there’s a small wooden box here. It looks like it holds letters."

Patrick halted in his tracks. "Don’t touch anything. Let me check. It might be a trap again." He was thoroughly fed up with all these petty tricks.