Early spring in Xishan Hollow was a season of fervent labor.
Older children already assisted their parents with light tasks, while the young either squatted obediently on the ridges between fields or chased one another in boisterous games. Their mingled cries and laughter accompanied the farmers' toil, adding a certain vitality to the air. If a child's wailing grew too persistent, a single sharp rebuke from a parent was enough to silence it.
It was nearly the fourth month, yet a lingering chill clung to the mountains. This basin, encircled by peaks, stretched four li from north to south and over ten li from east to west. Its soil was rich, crisscrossed by streams and rivulets. In its southeastern corner lay a lake, a hundred zhang across, gathering the living waters from all directions.
On the lakeshore slope stood the "Hunyuan Temple." In earlier years, pilgrims had still come to pray for blessings or sons, but as their prayers went perpetually unanswered, the temple had gradually fallen into neglect. Now, even the clay form of the Heavenly King statue in the main hall showed patches of wear.
The temple housed only a master and his disciple. The master was called Pingyang, the disciple Qingxu. They eked out a living through the old Daoist's services: selecting auspicious dates and assessing geomantic sites.
The young disciple was an infant Pingyang had found and taken in while gathering herbs. Now, at the cusp of manhood, he possessed a refined and handsome beauty that rivaled the young masters of the city. Yet an early childhood fright had left him seeming somewhat slow-witted.
Matchmakers had occasionally urged the old Daoist, "Why not let the child return to secular life and marry into a family? It would be better than having no one to care for him after your ascension."
Pingyang had sounded out his disciple several times, but the young man would always fall into a long silence before finally managing only, "I do not wish to leave Master."
The old Daoist reflected that although his apprentice was dull, he possessed a heart of pure simplicity—perhaps he truly had a deep affinity for the Dao. Thus, he abandoned all thought of his disciple returning to the world.
At the beginning of the year, the old Daoist had taken a fall, seriously injuring himself. In less than two months, he had departed this world. Villagers helped arrange the funeral affairs, and he was buried on the slope behind the temple. From then on, the young Daoist seldom left the temple, except to purchase necessities. Until last month, when he seemed to have suddenly awoken. He began initiating conversations, claiming his secular name was "Xu Zhixing"—the name embroidered on his swaddling clothes.
Though his speech could still be disjointed at times, a new light shone in his eyes. Stranger still, the once-wooden young Daoist had learned to drink. He now rose only when the sun was high, taking the silver his master had saved to repair the Heavenly King statue to carouse at the tavern by the official road, eating and drinking with the local idlers. The elders sighed in private: the Hunyuan Temple's allotted fortune, it seemed, was nearing its end.
None could know what kind of transformation Xu Zhixing was undergoing.
Memories of past and present lives surged within him like tidal waves. He sat in rigid meditation for two days, until the pangs of hunger gnawed at his belly, before he truly accepted reality—the famed connoisseur of antiquities, a master who had dominated his trade, was now a young Daoist in a dilapidated temple.
He searched the entire temple. Aside from scriptures and his ordination certificate, he found a text titled "Liu Baogong's Register of Spells for Expelling Evil and Binding Monsters," and a bag of silver coins. Now, his most important daily task was to visit the village tavern to gather news.
This morning, he washed his face hastily and descended the mountain. The scene of busy farming along the path was peaceful, but the scolding voice of an old woman on a distant ridge carried on the wind.
The tavern, situated adjacent to the official road that ran north to Songshan County sixty li away, saw patrons not only from the village but also traveling merchants and martial artists stopping to rest. Besides wine, meat, and spiced dishes, it also served broth and steamed buns in the morning, making it a popular spot for locals to gather after work, catch up on news, and ease their weariness.
"Proprietor, good morning," Xu Zhixing greeted as he entered, selecting his usual seat and dusting it off. "Baolu, two meat buns and a bowl of hot broth."
One corner was particularly noisy. Scholar Chen, surrounded by seven or eight men, was holding forth with great animation. "It was during Emperor Qingzong's reign—some fifty or sixty years ago! Our very own Luzhou Prefect, Zeng Zhengquan, back when he was merely a county magistrate! All he knew was squeezing the people dry, turning a prosperous upper-tier county into a complete mess!"
He rolled up his sleeves and lifted his bowl, looking immensely pleased with himself. "But this scoundrel was clever. He used half his ill-gotten gains to curry favor with his superiors. His annual evaluations were always 'Excellent,' and he climbed all the way to Prefect! After that, he grew even more arrogant. Unfortunately for him, he crossed the Fang family from our county."
"Do any of you know the Fangs' background?" He took a sip of wine, deliberately building suspense.
Wang Er, one foot propped on a stool and leaning against a post, sneered, "How could we common folk compare to your knowledge, Scholar Chen? Isn't your eldest son the Fang family's steward?"
"Assistant steward! Assistant steward!" Scholar Chen waved his hands, beaming with pride as he hugged his wine bowl.
"Their ancestor served as a Secretary in the Ministry of Justice during Emperor Xizong's reign. After retiring, he returned home, building bridges and repairing roads—a true philanthropic family. Their descendants were all outstanding men, producing officials in the capital and governors of provinces. By Emperor Qingzong's time, they were a prominent and powerful lineage." His voice boomed as if recounting his own family's glory. "The Fangs maintained strict discipline, never bullying others. Their sons served with integrity. Why would they fear a mere Zeng Zhengquan?"
He cleared his throat and took another sip, his expression turning disdainful. "Zeng Zhengquan didn't know his own limits! Do you know what gave him such audacity?"
Wang Er licked his lips and interjected, "I heard his younger sister was a peerless beauty who became a consort to Prince Shou? If I had a sister like that, I'd have ten wives by now and eat meat every day!"
"Pah! A mere concubine dares to be called a consort? And it wasn't even his real sister!" Scholar Chen sprayed spittle in his excitement, all semblance of refinement gone. Catching himself, he straightened his clothes and wiped his face. "And it wasn't even his sister! It was a fox spirit from the mountains who killed a courtesan and used illusions to pose as his sister to enter Prince Shou's household! The bewitching creature had the Prince utterly spellbound, and that's how Zeng Zhengquan's career soared."
He slammed the table. "Turns out the demon was approaching her millennium tribulation. She'd heard the Fang family possessed a piece of jade that could ward off the Three Calamities and Nine Tribulations. So, she devised a 'substitution' plot, hoping to use the powerful Prince's influence to seize the treasure. Repeated failures drove her to attempt exterminating the entire Fang line! Fortunately, the family invited an immortal master..."
As Scholar Chen continued, spittle flying, Xu Zhixing shook his head with a faint smile. Most of the stories he'd heard during this time were of this nature—full of spirits and sorcery, yet all told with such vivid conviction.
In a way, he came from a family with its own esoteric traditions. His maternal ancestors had been geomancy masters and physiognomists. His grandfather had traveled the land during turbulent times, honing martial skills. As a child, obsessed with Journey to the West, he had pestered his grandfather to teach him magic. Only when older did he understand its illusory nature. However, to learn martial arts, he was forced to memorize the I Ching and the Classic of Burial, even delving deep into the Four Books and Five Classics.
After university, unwilling to be confined to a nine-to-five life, he entered the antiques trade, relying on his family's foundational knowledge. By forty, he had amassed a considerable fortune. Who would have thought that after a smooth-sailing life, he would be betrayed during a transaction...
Inside the tavern, the debate continued—whether the immortal master used a flying sword or incantations to subdue the demon. But Xu Zhixing had already lost interest. His gaze was firmly captured by a group of a dozen riders galloping down the official road.