The Crooked Western Poison

In the lawless town of Longmen, no one can quite say what kind of man Ouyang Feng really is. He is a physician who charges according to his mood and never haggles over life or death. He is a broker who trades in both intelligence and human lives. He is a manor lord who keeps a crooked “White Camel Villa”—yet the sign at his gate reads: Disciple of Quanzhen, Heir of Shennong, Dragon Head of Qinglong, Successor of the Ancient Tomb. He cannot be bothered to rise for guests, to stoop for dropped coins, or even to explain why he is so indolent. His plan was simple: lie back, listen to tunes, earn his keep, watch the sun rise and set beyond the frontier, and drift through a lazy lifetime. Then—the master of Peach Blossom Island, who always visited three days each year, failed to appear. The hereditary marquis he killed with his own sword left behind shadows far deeper than expected. The woman of peerless zither skill turned out to be the last survivor of a massacred clan. The dashing thief-cum-rogue brought news from the great desert. Trouble snowballed into his villa—the court’s blades, the jianghu’s swords, the cult’s poisons, and the grudges of the obsessed all came knocking. Ouyang Feng sighed, slowly rising from his rocking chair. “It seems,” he muttered, “laziness is no longer an option.”