Wang Anfeng nodded to the young Taoist, then turned around to face the smiling, portly man, right hand caressing the hilt of his Iron Sword, and asked with a smile,
"May I know who the gentleman is..."
The man clasped his fists in a salute, his chubby face trembling with laughter, and said,
"I am neither learned nor skilled, unworthy of being called a gentleman."
"The only thing I can manage is a pair of fists, my father's family name is Zhou, and I am the third oldest."
"If you don't mind, just call me Zhou San."
Wang Anfeng uttered an "oh," his gaze sweeping over the man, whose face seemed to have an extra pound of flesh, and looked towards the back.
The inn's wooden door was half-closed. The martial artists inside were unusually sober, each of them staring eagerly in this direction, not just those from Yuedao Sect who were earlier knocked out by money thrown by Wang Anfeng, but martial artists from the other sects as well, holding their breath and widening their eyes.