Happy Little Farmer
Chapter 770

Chapter 770: Chapter 770

This was Yang Fan’s first time seeing a building on this road.

The previous roads he had walked, though flanked by all kinds of different structures, were devoid of any on the yellow dirt path itself—apart from the sporadic patches of weeds on either side, there was nothing else present.

The sudden appearance of this earthen house was the first exception.

As Yang Fan held up his lantern to examine the house, a group of people suddenly shoved their way into his view.

There were a lot of people—the rough count was three or four dozen.

Seven or eight men holding rusty broadswords were forcefully herding a group of bound men and women, whose hands were tied with coarse grass ropes, toward the earthen house.

One of the men jumped onto a smooth dirt platform in front of the house and barked an order for the bound men and women to kneel.

The sword-wielding men surged forward, beating and kicking the bound captives until they forcibly knelt down.

At that moment, the door to the earthen house swung open, and an old man in a green robe stepped out, carrying a bunch of wooden placards. He had speckled gray hair, upwards-curved eye corners, and eyebrows so sparse they were nearly nonexistent.

The placards resembled the ones historically pinned to the backs of condemned prisoners before execution, except the inscriptions on these were different.

The characters matched those on the flagpole in front of the earthen house—characters Yang Fan did not recognize.

The green-robed old man stroked his beard and leisurely walked up to the bound men and women.

He crouched down, carefully examining the first man in the line, pried open his mouth to inspect his teeth, then shuffled through the placards until he found a suitable one and pinned it onto the man’s bound hands.

The scene was straight out of a historical execution.

Yang Fan’s pupils contracted suddenly, and his entire body tensed in an instant.

He had spotted Wang Daqiang among the crowd.

He was positioned in the center.

If Wang Daqiang hadn’t just tilted his head slightly, Yang Fan would never have noticed him.

Yang Fan could not discern what was happening, but judging by the scene, it was clearly nothing good.

Despite his growing unease, Yang Fan refrained from making any rash moves.

He still hadn’t figured out the group’s strength and needed more time to observe.

In just that short moment, the green-robed old man had finished inspecting everyone and had pinned placards onto each of the captives. Every placard bore a unique inscription.

Some placards displayed exclusively red characters, while others bore black ones.

The majority, however, featured red characters beside circled black characters, or black characters beside circled red characters.

The green-robed old man surveyed the group, his expression one of great satisfaction, before addressing the man on the dirt platform. "Sound the gong. We can begin now. Some of the customers are already getting impatient."

As he spoke, he cast an enthusiastic, knowing glance at Yang Fan.

Yang Fan froze instinctively.

So it turned out he had already been discovered.

Yang Fan had initially assumed that these people were oblivious to his presence, that he had rendered himself invisible in their eyes.

Turns out, it was all wishful thinking.

A deep, broken gong rang out.

Clang!

The sound was downright unpleasant—piercing and jarring against the eardrum.

Not only was the gong damaged, but its sound reverberated with ridiculous loudness, as if someone had struck it right next to Yang Fan’s ear.

Yang Fan rubbed his ears and glared ahead with a darkened expression.

What on earth are these people up to?

The fog ahead suddenly churned violently, and one by one, lanterns bearing Blood Palm Prints emerged from the mist.

Countless human figures began swaying out of the mist.

It was a crowd clad in masks of ghostly white, their clothing varied and eclectic.

Their attire didn’t appear out of the ordinary—some wore modern styles, while others were dressed in ancient robes.

But the masks on their faces evoked dread.

Some were blank and colorless; others bore grotesque, horrifying expressions or sharp, menacing teeth.

If that were all, it wouldn’t be as disturbing.

What truly made Yang Fan shudder was the way these masks seemed to meld seamlessly with their faces.

It was as if these masks *were* their faces.

Though Yang Fan also held a Blood Palm Print Lantern, standing among this crowd made him feel glaringly out of place.

Luckily, they seemed far more interested in the captives on the ground and paid little attention to Yang Fan.

A few individuals cast brief glances in Yang Fan’s direction but quickly averted their gaze, seemingly indifferent to his presence.

It appeared they had mistaken Yang Fan for one of their own.

"What are these things? Are they living people or natives of this place?" Yang Fan muttered inwardly.

He speculated that if these people were indeed natives, then Mr. Fan had likely tasked him with imitating them.

Suddenly, Yang Fan recalled something the woman in the graveyard had said.

She had instantly identified Yang Fan’s origins, recognizing him as someone from the mortal world.

So...

Could it be that these people were also from the mortal world, just like him?

As Yang Fan wrestled with uncertainty, the green-robed old man stroked his beard and began speaking.

"I apologize for the long wait, dear patrons. The market has been closed for quite some time, and this old man has felt rather melancholy about it. But there was simply no choice—fresh souls have become increasingly scarce, and I couldn’t gather enough to justify opening the market. I had to delay again and again as a result."

"Fortunately, it seems your patience will be rewarded. Recently, some things have been stirring in Sanping. A certain troublesome individual was dealt with—not only that, but the souls he hoarded scattered far and wide, leaving this old man with rare opportunities to clean up after him."

"Now, I doubt you’d want to hear me ramble. Let us skip the pleasantries and begin directly."

The green-robed old man stepped forward and grabbed the foremost man in the line.

Despite the man’s burly build, he dangled weightlessly in the old man’s grasp, as light as a feather.

"Dear patrons, take a good look. This soul weighs one tael and three maces. For the opening transaction, I’ll offer you all a discount—just one hundred cents." The green-robed old man grinned and set the man aside, then bent down to grip his chin and display him to the crowd.

"So, what do you think? Isn’t one hundred cents a fair price for him?"

The masked crowd began buzzing among themselves.

Oddly enough, Yang Fan could tell they were speaking, yet he couldn’t understand a single word of their murmurs. Their voices sounded undeniably human, but the words spilled forth like the discordant drone of flies buzzing aimlessly.

Yet, at last, Yang Fan started piecing together what they were doing.

They were selling people.

No—more accurately, they were selling *souls*.

The green-robed old man had captured these people and was now auctioning them off to the masked figures.

The weight of one’s soul determined the price they fetched.

From the green-robed old man’s earlier remarks, Yang Fan surmised that, unsurprisingly, the captives on the ground were likely individuals he had been searching for. They seemed to be from the inner-city village.

He had to figure out a way to rescue them!

If they were sold off, finding them again would be nearly impossible.