"Hey, old man, what are we still doing here? It's already the eighth. The Celestial Sword Sect stopped letting people up ages ago. If you ask me, we should just turn back and head home."
Twenty li outside Ten Thousand Swords City, the Little Fatty, dressed in golden brocade, complained to a scruffy old man up ahead while tearing into a greasy, golden-brown roasted chicken leg.
The old man shot the Little Fatty a fierce glare. "And whose fault is that?" he snapped, his beard practically bristling. "The whole way here, it was one complaint after another—a stomachache, a sore rear... You made us miss our window, and now we're delayed another ten days."
The Little Fatty seemed unconcerned. "I told you already, I'm not interested in that stupid Swordsmanship. Even if you dragged that stele right in front of me, I wouldn't give it a second look."
