I'm Just an Innkeeper, Why Are You All Kneeling?

As the two heavy wooden carriages carrying the Lin’s Inn expedition team crossed the provincial border marker and left Qingshui Town far behind, the true, breathtaking scale of the Azure Origin World finally unfurled before Lin Fan’s eyes.

For months, his universe had been neatly contained within the rustic stone walls of the lower market district, bounded by familiar faces, local farmers, and the predictable rhythms of daily service. But out on the open imperial highway, the world was a sprawling, chaotic tapestry of immense proportions.

Every mile brought a new spectacle. Massive merchant caravans consisting of dozens of reinforced wagons, protected by rows of hired guards and flashing spiritual barriers, rolled past them carrying exotic goods from distant provinces. High above the winding mountain passes, groups of young sect disciples soared gracefully across the sky on glowing flying swords, leaving trails of colorful light in their wake. Along the roadside, bustling provincial towns traded spirit herbs and rare metals, while deep, ancient wilderness zones whispered with the dangerous, latent presence of wild spirit beasts.

Lin Fan sat by the carriage window, staring out at the changing landscape with a mixture of awe and commercial fascination. ”I always knew the cultivation world was big,” Lin Fan murmured, resting his chin on his palm. ”I just didn’t realize how much real estate needed proper restaurant management.”

Up on the driver’s bench, Crimson handled the expedition’s security with terrifying, silent efficiency. Whenever a group of shady bandits or rogue cultivators lurking behind a ridge attempted to eye the luxurious travel carriages with greedy intentions, Crimson merely turned his head and cast a single, cold glance toward them. A micro-fraction of his ancient demon lord aura leaked into the air, instantly dropping the ambient temperature by twenty degrees. The bandits usually took one look at Crimson’s emotionless red eyes, dropped their weapons, and sprinted away in blind, whimpering terror without a single drop of blood being shed.

Inside the lead carriage, the atmosphere was far less intimidating.

The three siblings were practically glued to the glass windows. Xiao Ling and tiny Xiao Mei pointed excitedly at colorful street vendors selling candied spirit-berries, exotic flying birds, and glowing talismans in passing towns. Xiao Yu sat beside them with his leather ledger open on his lap, diligently recording travel times, road conditions, and provincial tax checkpoints with the precision of a veteran corporate logistics manager.

Meanwhile, Sect Master Lu spent half the journey craning his neck out of his window every time they passed a roadside rest stop or an independent tavern.

”Look at that chimney smoke!” Lu would groan dramatically, shaking his head in professional despair. ”The color is far too grey! That indicates damp pinewood fuel and a poorly ventilated combustion chamber! I guarantee you, any bread baked in an establishment like that would emerge as hard as a foundation-building brick!”

”Relax, Lu,” Lin Fan chuckled, flipping a page of his business notes. ”You’ll have plenty of modern, spirit-stone heated baking sheets to play with once we reach our capital pavilion.”

By late afternoon, the autumn sun began to dip below the jagged tree line, casting long amber shadows across the dusty highway. The horses were growing tired, and the team needed a place to rest before nightfall. Ahead of them stood a modest, weathered two-story building bearing a sagging wooden sign that read: The Wandering Scholar Rest Stop.

It was a typical, ordinary roadside inn catering to weary travelers, merchants, and low-stage wandering cultivators.

Lin Fan called for a stop, and Crimson expertly guided the carriages into the dirt courtyard. The group stepped down, stretching their legs after hours of travel, and walked into the common dining hall.

The interior of the inn was dimly lit by flickering oil lamps. The air smelled heavily of stale tobacco, unwashed leather, and cheap cooking oil. A few rough-looking travelers sat at wooden tables, quietly drinking thin, watery rice wine.

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An overworked, middle-aged innkeeper rushed over, eyeing their clean clothes and Crimson’s imposing presence with cautious respect. ”Welcome, honored guests! Table for six? We have vegetable stew and salted river fish tonight!”

”We’ll take a table by the window and a round of your house specialties,” Lin Fan said politely, sliding a few copper coins onto the counter.

A quarter of an hour later, the innkeeper brought out their food: a large clay pot of greyish vegetable stew, a plate of heavily salted, tough river fish, and a basket of hard, dense wheat rolls.

Lin Fan picked up his chopsticks, broke open a piece of the fish, and took a small bite.

He chewed slowly.

The fish was heavily over-salted to mask its lack of freshness, the vegetable stew tasted like boiled grass water with a heavy splash of soy sauce, and the wheat rolls were so dense they felt like lead weights hitting the stomach.

Sect Master Lu took one bite of the bread, closed his eyes in pure culinary agony, and quietly set his chopsticks down. Xiao Mei took a tiny nibble of a vegetable and quickly washed it down with a large gulp of tea to get rid of the strange aftertaste.

Lin Fan did not slam his fists on the table. He did not call over the innkeeper to deliver a scathing critique of provincial culinary standards. Instead, he simply set his wooden bowl down, wiped his mouth with a clean cloth, and looked around the dingy, dimly lit room.

A quiet, profound realization settled into his mind.

“I understand why customers come to us,” Lin Fan thought to himself with a soft smile.

Back in Qingshui Town, he had sometimes worried that his success was just a fluke driven by novelty or the fact that he used System-rewarded equipment. But experiencing average food out in the wider world put everything into perspective. Most establishments in the cultivation realm treated food as a mere biological necessity—something crude and fuel-like to be swallowed quickly between meditation sessions. They didn’t care about texture, harmony of flavor, farm-fresh sourcing, or customer experience.

Lin’s Inn hadn’t just succeeded because it was cheap; it had succeeded because it brought genuine care, professional structure, and absolute culinary quality to a world that had forgotten what good food actually felt like.

”Keep eating what you can, everyone,” Lin Fan whispered to the siblings, pulling out a clean bag of travel snacks from his storage pouch. ”We’ll have a proper, fresh meal tomorrow morning.”

Just as they were finishing their modest rest-stop meal, a loud commotion broke out near the front entrance of the common hall.

A group of heavily armed merchant guards rushed through the doors, panting heavily. Their leader—a burly, scarred caravan master wearing the crest of the Silver Crane Trade Guild—scanned the room frantically before his eyes locked onto Lin Fan’s table.

The caravan master froze. He blinked once, rubbed his eyes, and stared intensely at Lin Fan’s clean white apron, at Sect Master Lu’s flour-dusted robes, and finally at Crimson standing motionless in the corner like an immovable mountain of silent authority.

The caravan master’s jaw dropped open. He staggered backward a step, grabbed his chest, and let out a loud, ringing gasp that made every traveler in the inn jump.

”By the heavens above!” the caravan master roared, dropping to his knees and bowing so low his forehead smacked the wooden floorboards. ”Are... are you the legendary staff of Lin’s Inn from Qingshui Town?!”

The entire common hall went dead silent. The rough travelers dropped their wine cups; the innkeeper froze behind the counter with a dish towel clutched in his fist.

Lin Fan blinked, caught completely off guard. ”Ah... yes. I am Lin Fan. But how on earth did you recognize us out here on the imperial highway?”

The caravan master practically wept with joy, scrambling back to his feet and waving his arms toward his guards outside. ”Recognize you?! Shopkeeper Lin, your fame crossed the provincial borders three weeks ago! Ever since the Nine Rivers Sword Sect held their grand banquet at your establishment, every merchant guild, traveling caravan, and wandering cultivator between here and the capital has been talking about nothing else!”

He rushed closer, his eyes shining with desperate hope. ”My caravan is heading to the Imperial Capital for the Great Culinary and Hospitality Festival! Please, honored Shopkeeper! Do you have any spare bamboo tokens? Or—or even a leftover loaf of hearth bread?! Name your price! I will pay fifty mid-grade spirit stones for a single plate of your braised meat!”

Lin Fan stared at the ecstatic merchant, then looked over at Xiao Yu, who was already calmly pulling out his travel ledger with a professional, practiced smile.

”We are currently off-duty and outside our territorial jurisdiction, my friend,” Lin Fan said, a confident, amused smile spreading across his face as he leaned back in his wooden chair. ”However... since you are also bound for the capital, I suppose we can discuss a private reservation once we arrive at our competition pavilion.”

The caravan master cheered loudly, pumping his fist into the air as the rest of the tavern stared in absolute bewilderment.

As the evening chatter resumed around them, filled with awed whispers about the famous provincial inn, Lin Fan looked around the room. Fame had traveled ahead of them. The world was watching.

The road to the Imperial Capital was long, but Lin’s Inn was already conquering it one milestone at a time.