Chapter 143: Carrier Of Feasts
Once they got outside, Feng’s eyes widened.
He stopped in his tracks, unable to take it all in at once.
The entire place was draped in snow, buildings frosted with white layers, paths buried in snow, and icy lanterns glowing faintly in the distance.
Yet... he couldn’t even feel the cold despite the ice.
The wind rushed past his face, sharp and crisp, and for a moment his body remembered what pain was supposed to feel like.
The chill bit into his cheeks, nearly making him shiver. But he welcomed it.
It was so much better than the heat of blood running down his head after a beating.
Feng’s gaze shifted toward the woman who had latched herself onto his Master.
Veyra walked with light steps, her silver hair bouncing in rhythm, her voice carrying with the ease of someone who never doubted herself.
She dragged Azel along with a mix of playfulness and stubborn insistence, even though his expression said he would rather be anywhere else.
From what little Feng had pieced together since his sudden arrival, her name was Veyra and she had been openly flirting with Azel from the start.
He, however, ignored it with the same effortless calm that he ignored everything else.
’I seee...’
Feng took out a small folded scrap of paper from his tattered pocket and scribbled down a note in messy strokes.
[It’s not about throwing yourself at the jade beauty... it’s about letting the jade beauty throw herself at you.]
He tucked it back safely, nodding to himself as though he had uncovered a secret scripture.
"Feng, why don’t we get some new clothes for you?" Veyra suggested suddenly, her tone bright.
Azel gave her a flat look. "Aren’t you the one that said you would show me the butcher’s place?"
He knew Feng needed clothes. The boy’s robes were practically rags, and standing beside them, he looked like a beggar trailing after nobles. Still, the detour irritated him.
Of course, Veyra ignored him entirely. She turned toward Feng with a dazzling smile.
"This is your mistress’s order. Let’s get new clothes."
Before Feng could even reply, Azel found himself herded into a clothing shop.
"As long as I’m not paying..." Azel muttered.
Veyra’s elbow found his ribs. "Hm? What kind of man doesn’t pay?" she teased before reaching into her pouch. "Fine, I’ll just do it this once."
The shop was warm, filled with racks of furs, silks, and stitched tunics.
Azel bit his lips, he was surrounded by garments that would have fit him better than his own battle-worn gear.
Far far better.
’Hunting gear really does make me look half-dressed,’ Azel admitted to himself, glancing at a dark coat trimmed with white fur. ’I’ll come here later.’
Veyra, however, had already pushed Feng toward the rows.
The boy wandered, wide-eyed, as though he had stepped into a palace treasury.
Eventually, he returned shyly holding only two sets of clothes — both plain cultivator-style robes.
"Hey! Go back and collect more!" Veyra barked.
Feng jolted upright and scrambled back into the aisles like a soldier fleeing from battle.
...
By the time they finally emerged back into the snowy streets, Feng was staggering under a mountain of new clothing tied into bundles.
His face was red, but he carried them all without complaint.
He had refused help, insisting he wanted to be "useful."
Azel didn’t bother arguing. Cultivators, he knew, thrived on unnecessary hardship.
To them, burden was proof of worth. If Feng wanted to drag his arms out of their sockets proving himself, then so be it.
Instead, Azel focused ahead.
They stopped before a heavy timber door framed by frost-stained stone.
Carved into its face was the sigil of a cleaver.
The butcher’s place.
Azel pushed it open, and the instant the door swung wide, a flood of metallic air hit them.
The smell of blood drenched the room. The sound of slicing steel followed, steady and practiced.
Inside, a silver-haired middle-aged man was bent over a block.
His knife flashed, separating the head of a Frost Monkey with a clean strike, then peeling its hide with the kind of dexterity that only decades of practice could grant.
Feng froze in place.
His heart raced.
’Wow... he has so many skills,’ he thought, mesmerized.
He had seen butchers before, back in his sect’s outskirts, but none with this level of mastery.
Every motion was smooth, precise — this was not a man cutting meat, but an artist revealing his work.
The butcher glanced up.
His eyes swept past Feng as though he were invisible, lingered on Veyra, and then fell on Azel.
Immediately, he bent forward in a respectful bow.
"My Prince," he said, voice trembling with reverence. "Thank you for visiting today."
Feng’s jaw dropped.
’MASTER IS A PRINCE?!’ he screamed inwardly, his hands clenching the bundles of clothing until his knuckles whitened.
’It all makes sense now... the aura, the bearing, the looks... of course he’s a young master! No — better! He’s a prince!’
He nearly fainted.
The butcher straightened, shifting his attention to Veyra. "And Miss Veyra, it’s a pleasure to have you visit. Have you come to bring the meat that you got from the Divide?"
Veyra gave a simple nod.
The man’s brows furrowed slightly.
He remembered the last batch she had delivered — tough, soggy, and barely worth the price.
But today, he saw nothing in her hands, no crates or sacks.
Doubt flickered across his expression.
And then —
A soft glow shimmered in the air.
Azel’s ring pulsed faintly, and in the next instant, far too many bowls of meat materialized out of thin air, settling neatly onto the butcher’s counter.
"They’re here~" Veyra said with a flourish, extending her hands as though she had conjured the goods herself.
The butcher’s eyes widened at the sight of the cuts.
They were fresh and really looked like they had just been cut up, it was unbelievable.
And in that moment, Feng tightened his grip on his notes again.
Not only was his Master a prince.
He was a prince who carried entire feasts in his ring.