As Shi Jian rode deeper into Jiangzhou City, his eyes never stopped moving.
They slid across rooftops, lingered on street corners, counted guards by instinct. Years of scouting had trained him to read cities the way other men read ledgers—where the pressure points were, where fear collected, where belief quietly took root.
Pinned to his chest, the embroidered Dao Xuan Tianzun seemed just as alert.
Thread-stitched eyes tilted left. Then right.
They were looking for the same thing.
A place where faith already lived.
Shi Jian hadn't expected much. Jiangzhou was orderly, wary, and exhausted—three qualities that usually left little room for miracles.
Then both man and deity paused.
Ahead of them rose a temple.
Not a small roadside shrine, nor some half-abandoned hall clinging to relevance, but a proper structure—thick pillars, wide eaves, incense smoke curling steadily into the rain-soaked air as if it had nowhere better to be.
Shi Jian slowed his horse slightly.
"Milord Qin," he asked casually, "what temple is that?"
Qin Changqing glanced over, tone indifferent.
"Jiwang Temple. Built back in the Yuan dynasty. Dedicated to Jiwang. The locals are quite attached to it—always burning incense, always praying."
"Jiwang," Shi Jian repeated.
The name sounded familiar. Familiar enough that he didn't question it.
Inside Li Daoxuan's mind, however, there was a very brief—but very real—pause.
Jiwang?
The silence lasted only a heartbeat, but it was the kind of silence that made one uncomfortable.
Wait. Who?
No matter. This was the twenty-first century. Ignorance lasted exactly as long as one's internet connection.
Li Daoxuan withdrew from the diorama for a fraction of a second, typed two characters into his computer, and stared.
Houji.
Ancestor of Agriculture. God of the Five Grains.
One of the oldest cultural cornerstones still standing.
Li Daoxuan clicked his tongue quietly. I really need to read more.
When he returned to the diorama, Qin Changqing's voice reached him immediately—loud, scoffing, unrestrained.
"What use is worshipping Jiwang?" Qin Changqing sneered. "Ancestor of Agriculture? Hah. When drought comes, where is he then? These idiots kneel until their foreheads bleed, and not a single grain grows. Last year they even dared to delay tax payments. I had to beat a few instigators to death just to get things moving. Nearly ruined my evaluation."
The embroidered eyes of Dao Xuan Tianzun narrowed.
Not theatrically. Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Shi Jian felt the shift instantly. His jaw tightened—but he kept his gaze forward, expression neutral. A soldier learned early which reactions were safe and which would get him killed before the real work even began.
Under his breath, he muttered,
"Dao Xuan Tianzun… this one's cut from the same cloth as Zhang Yaocai."
Mm, Li Daoxuan answered softly. Worse tailoring.
They reached the gates of Jiwang Temple.
Inside, the courtyard was packed.
Rain-soaked commoners knelt shoulder to shoulder, filling every open space. Those who couldn't squeeze inside the main hall knelt outside in the mud, backs hunched, palms pressed together.
"Thank you, Jiwang, for the blessed rain!"
"Thank you, Jiwang!"
The sound rolled outward like waves.
Li Daoxuan watched silently.
He didn't believe in gods. Never had. But Houji was not merely a god. He was a memory—of farming, of survival, of people clawing food from stubborn earth long before there were emperors to tax it.
Respect, at least, was deserved.
Qin Changqing snorted.
Then, loudly—far too loudly—he barked,
"Useless lot! Rain falls and you think next year will be easy? Let me make this clear—if you dare delay taxes again, don't blame this official for showing no mercy."
The courtyard went silent.
Commoners turned. Faces drained of color. Knees trembled. Some bowed lower, as if hoping to sink into the ground entirely.
Shi Jian's fingers twitched.
Qin Changqing smiled and turned back to him.
"Captain Shi, no need to trouble yourself with these people. Come. My residence is prepared."
Shi Jian said only,
"Oh."
He followed.
Tea was served. Words were exchanged. Empty phrases drifted like smoke. Qin Changqing eventually excused himself, convinced he'd made a useful connection.
Only after the doors closed did Shi Jian lower his voice.
"I want to kill him," he said flatly.
Dao Xuan Tianzun did not rebuke him.
"He deserves it," Li Daoxuan replied. "But not yet. You've stepped into the court's shadow. Kill him now, and everything collapses."
Shi Jian clenched his fists.
"And the people?"
"They're why we're here."
Silence.
Then—inside Li Daoxuan's mind—two ideas collided.
Not gently.
More like flint striking steel.
"Shi Jian," Dao Xuan Tianzun said calmly, "continue as planned. I'll handle the rest."
Li Daoxuan withdrew.
Outside the box, he aimed his camera at the statue of Jiwang and took photographs from every angle. Front. Profile. Rear. Details.
Then he turned to the 3D printer.
Minutes passed.
A four-centimeter Jiwang statue emerged.
He placed it into the box.
"Co-sense."
Nothing.
He stared at it.
Then he smiled.
Back to the printer.
This time, he printed only the face.
A thin, crude mask.
He took out a four-centimeter silicone Dao Xuan Tianzun figure—metal skeleton, realistic proportions. A body meant to move.
He placed the Jiwang face onto it.
The result was… unsettling.
A refined body. An archaic face.
Perfect.
He placed it in an empty valley.
"Co-sense."
The world shifted.
An eight-meter-tall figure stood beneath gray skies. Before him, a withered tree barely reached his waist.
Li Daoxuan chuckled.
"Ancestor Houji," he murmured, "lend me your name for a moment. I'll return it cleaner than I found it."
Rain continued to fall.
And somewhere in Jiangzhou, faith was about to be redirected—very carefully.