Dimensional Supermarket - Chapter 8

The sun rises in the east, and the last traces of the previous night’s chill have yet to dissipate. A few nearly imperceptible dewdrops cling to the withered blades of grass by the roadside.

Hoofbeats echo on the official road, long untended for years, kicking up a storm of yellow dust as horses gallop past.

The man at the front pulls tight on his reins, leaning back as he directs his chestnut steed to turn around.

A two-wheeled carriage sits askew in the middle of the road, a narrow gap opened in the wooden window beside the carriage cabin.

The leader approaches the carriage and says in a coarse, low voice, “Young master, there are refugees up ahead.”

A hoarse male voice replies from inside the carriage, “Go around.”

The leader looks troubled. After hesitating a moment, he presses his lips together and says, “This is the only road. If we go around, we’ll have to enter the forest.”

The person inside doesn’t hesitate: “Go around.”

The leader can only nod and respond, “Understood.” He turns to signal the others to prepare for the forest.

Since they’re going into the forest, they have no choice but to abandon the carriage.

The men untie the ropes tethering the horses to the carriage and help the pale man, who has been riding inside, mount one of the horses.

“Brother Zheng, he looks so weak, I don’t think he can last long on horseback,” says a scar-faced man riding up beside the leader. “Without the carriage, what are we supposed to do once we get around this stretch?”

Zheng glances at the sky—still not a cloud in sight. He squeezes the horse’s belly with his legs and mutters quietly, “That’s not our concern. We were only told to deliver him—whether he arrives alive or dead was never specified.”

The scarred man clicks his tongue. “If I’d known it’d be like this, I wouldn’t have come all this way for a handful of silver.”

What they’ve seen most on this journey aren’t refugees, but corpses—strewn along the road like dried bones, unburied and forgotten.

And those who are still breathing aren’t much better off—barely clinging to life.

“We’re running out of supplies,” the scarred man mutters, swallowing dryly. “I haven’t had a proper sip of water in two days.”

Zheng replies, “And you think I have?”

The scarred man tilts his head toward the rear: “He’s living better than any of us.” He grows angry: “So his life is worth something and ours isn’t? How many of us were there at the start of this trip? How many are left now? Whatever’s left of our water and food all has to go to him first. And he’s so picky—can’t eat this, won’t eat that. I say we just…” He gestures with a finger across his throat. “Say the refugees got him. They never said he had to make it back alive.”

Zheng swings his whip, giving him a light but firm lash. The scarred man doesn’t dodge and takes it head-on without flinching.

“They didn’t specify alive, true. But bringing him back alive is worth more,” Zheng says with a furrowed brow. “The brothers who died out here had families. We can’t let their deaths be in vain.”

The scarred man spits. “Yeah, those high lords don’t lack money. They can buy lives with silver. But us—we’re so poor all we have left is this one miserable life, and we have to risk it to earn coin!”

They left with more than forty men. Now, barely ten remain. To fill their stomachs, they even killed a healthy horse for meat.

Even so, supplies are nearly gone. And what little remains has to be saved for the sickly man.

The scarred man quietly makes up his mind. If they truly can’t make it back, then that delicate young master has to die first—better he die than them.

He stays back, eyes fixed on the pale man riding ahead. Anger flickers in his gaze. Then he bends down and rides into the woods.

The forest has already been stripped bare by refugees. There’s nothing left to take.

They wander the woods for four or five days, drain the last of their water, and slaughter another horse to survive—drinking blood to quench their thirst.

Still, they can’t find their way out.

They ventured too deep. With no map, no guides, and no water source, they wander in circles.

They don’t dare kill more horses. If they do, even if they make it out, they won’t have enough strength left to return south.

Several times, in the middle of the night, the scarred man creeps toward the sickly noble. He wants to strangle him, or run him through with a blade—quick, clean, and cathartic.

That night, he finally makes up his mind. There’s no way out—why should he keep serving this spoiled young lord? He isn’t any more special than the rest of them. His life isn’t worth more. Killing him would be justice for their fallen brothers.

The sickly man leans against a tree. Dressed in a white hemp robe, a belt around his waist, a jade crown on his head, and cloud-embroidered shoes on his feet—even on the road to ruin, he looks calm and dignified, untouched by panic or shame.

The scarred man looks at him, seething with resentment.

People like that are born to step on people like him. It has been this way for generations. Even now, half-dead in the wilderness, he still carries himself like a noble.

The scarred man draws a dagger.

His comrades are fast asleep—not out of carelessness, but to save strength.

Only in dreams can they forget their hunger.

Kill him!

The scarred man creeps closer. He doesn’t know the man’s name—never did. They were only told he’s someone of status.

How noble? Doesn’t matter now—he’s about to die.

Just as the dagger is about to strike—

A blinding light flashes toward them.

The forest lights up as if it were midday. In that brilliant white glow, the scarred man’s vicious expression is laid bare.

He freezes. The dagger slips from his hand, landing blade-first in the dirt.

“God…” he murmurs, eyes wide. “God has come…”

The light is too white, too pure. It isn’t from a torch or the sun.

It has to be divine.

He drops to his knees, bowing low to the ground.

Men in their line of work often flirt with death. Superstition is a survival instinct. He has heard tales of men saved by gods, who then rise to wealth and whose descendants prosper.

This light—it has to be from the heavens.

Only gods can shine through the night like this.

“What’s going on?!” The others wake, disoriented.

Their expressions shift—from confusion to terror to reverence.

They all believe in gods. Before every job, they make offerings. In good years, they’re the first to light incense in the temple.

Now they stare in awe.

The scarred man kneels, forehead pressed to the earth.

He doesn’t ask for fame or wealth—he only wants the gods to help them leave the forest and return to the south.

Even Zheng kneels.

Only the sickly young man doesn’t kneel. He still leans against the tree and doesn’t even try to stand.

But no one cares about him at this moment.

Everyone kneels, foreheads pressed to the ground, silently waiting for the gods to show them the way.

“Raise your heads.” A clear male voice echoes, coming from all directions. Though it isn’t loud, everyone hears it clearly.

The voice is like gold and jade striking—strong, pure, and noble. It makes one feel the speaker must have a heart as vast as a mountain, a gentleman as clean as the wind and bright as the moon.

Everyone lifts their heads.

But…

Out of the light steps an old woman in strange clothing. She wears a long skirt unlike anything they’ve seen before, embroidered with complicated and vivid floral patterns. From a distance, it looks like real flowers bloom across the fabric.

At this moment, Ye Zhou, hiding behind the bushes, doesn’t know what they’re thinking—or he’d be stunned.

Cao’er’s mother wears a beach skirt bought by the kilogram from the supermarket.

It’s cheap. The print is gaudy—large peonies in vivid colors.

Ye Zhou originally doesn’t plan to buy it, but it’s such a steal that it feels like a loss not to.

It looks a bit odd on Cao’er’s mother, maybe because of her temperament. Somehow, even in a beach skirt, she still gives off an ancient vibe. The contrast is bizarre.

Ye Zhou has been observing this group for several days. The forest connects to multiple mountain ranges, with no real roads. All the paths are just trails trampled by wild beasts over the years. He has to be extra cautious when scouting the area.

He only manages to find this group because he’s on high ground and uses a telescope every day—looking for potential “customers.”

But even then, he doesn’t dare contact them right away.

Only after they’re starving and no longer a threat does he bring Cao’er’s mother here.

If he wants to maintain his image, he can’t show up himself.

Luckily, Cao’er’s mother is a natural at this—practically a genius! In modern times, she’d be a boss’s favorite manager and an employee’s worst nightmare.

Even without instruction, she’s a pro at handling new people.

Now, those “employees” bow to him whenever they see him.

Ye Zhou can accept bowing—but never kneeling.

He lowers the megaphone and the high-beam flashlight, listening carefully to what’s happening not far off.

Cao’er’s mother remains calm, her face kind as she looks at the group of rough men. She speaks steadily: “The Lord Immortal knew someone was trapped and sent me to see what happened.”

Cao’er’s mother isn’t lying—she genuinely believes she was sent by The Lord Immortal.

Everyone is stunned into silence, no one daring to speak. It’s Zheng who finally musters the courage to step forward. He bows stiffly and asks, “May I ask, immortal lady…”

The smile on Cao’er’s mother’s face grows even more gentle. Oh, she’s already being called an immortal lady now.

But she remembers her role: she follows The Lord Immortal and must not lie.

She waves her hand. “I’m not an immortal. I, too, was fleeing famine. It was The Lord Immortal who saved my life with his magic and gave me food and clothes.”

Zheng flushes: “Is The Lord Immortal… nearby?”

Cao’er’s mother smiles. “The Lord Immortal is everywhere and sees all.” She steps aside slightly. “The Lord Immortal has a cave. Follow me.”

Then she says no more and turns to lead the way into the woods. A light shines from her hand again—though not as bright as before.

No one dares to doubt anymore.

They’re trapped. No way forward or back. Out of water and food. Now, with divine light falling from the sky, even nonbelievers would believe.

“Hurry! Hurry! Keep up!” The scarred man runs so fast he falls flat on his face, but doesn’t care. He scrambles up and limps after her, even forgetting his horse.

Zheng is excited too, but he still remembers the horse—and the sick noble.

“The horse!” Zheng shouts, his voice cracking with urgency. “You forgot the damn horse!” He turns back toward the sickly young man still leaning against the tree. Forcing down his impatience, he approaches and bends down. “Young master, shall I carry you to the horse?”

The sickly boy coughs twice and whispers, “Thank you.”

Zheng hesitates. “Why didn’t you kneel just now, young master? If you don’t kneel to the immortal, it shows a lack of sincerity.”

The sickly man replies between labored breaths, “It’s not that I didn’t want to kneel… my strength failed me. Brother Zheng, I couldn’t stand up.”

Zheng: “…”

He really is on the verge of death.

Thinking of the silver, Zheng grits his teeth, crouches with his back to him, and says, “Enough talk. Get on. I’ll carry you. If The Lord Immortal is merciful and saves you, then it’s your fortune.”

Ye Zhou, still eavesdropping from the bushes: “…”

How’s he supposed to save him? He’s never treated a sick person in his life. The people he saves don’t need medicine.

Everyone he’s “saved” just needs food—.rice cures all ailments.