Chapter 1: What a Slip Through the Net of Nine Years of Compulsory Education!

For the first time, the ashes in the incense burner at the Quiet Dust Temple had piled up into a small mountain.

Chen Shian crouched before the mourning basin, stirring the embers with the copper bell his master had loved most, wielding it with the practiced ease of someone turning over yesterday’s rice. He had assisted his master in countless funerary rites, yet never imagined that the first transcendence ceremony of his eighteenth year would be for his master himself.

Among all Chen Shian’s skills, he was most adept at conducting these rites. No wonder his master had so often taught him, and now, arranged for him to perform this final one.

A youth of eighteen, clad in a robe washed pale with age, the cuffs smudged with soot from burning paper money, looked at the throng crowding the hall. Suddenly, he felt his master’s departure was most unfair—running the temple like a branch of the Beggars’ Sect, debts stretching from the peak down to the foot of the mountain, and even at his last breath, leaving his apprentice a hefty "gift."

Indeed, his master had devoted years to cultivation, severing ties with worldly friends and kin; today, those who came to mourn were not relatives, but creditors... The old man had predicted the hour of his passing, and called these people the night before!

[Shian, the debts our master-disciple pair owes must be repaid. A man without trust cannot stand; so it is in life, and more so in cultivation. I did not avoid repayment, merely delayed it, but it must be settled. I leave this matter to you—]

[Master! Wait, please! What do you mean "our master-disciple pair’s debts"?]

[Did you eat the half pork from Old Liu at East Village?]

[I did.]

[Did you sleep on the bed replaced last winter?]

[I did.]

[Then my debts are yours.]

With that, his master closed his eyes, and before Chen Shian could protest, departed.

He left Chen Shian a letter, an account book, and this remote, dilapidated, infamous, perpetually loss-making temple.

The letter and accounts, Chen Shian had not yet examined, but just looking at the creditors filling the mourning hall, his face turned ashen with despair.

Master! You’ve truly hurt your apprentice! So many people—how much debt is this?

The calm, stoic youth, as the coffin lid was about to be sealed, suddenly burst into tears, clutching the coffin and crying out,

“Master! Don’t leave me here alone!”

“Master! Take me with you, Master!”

Such devotion moved all the guests who had come to pay their respects.

“This young Daoist must be the apprentice Chen Daoist spoke of?”

“Yes, Shian has had a hard life, found as an abandoned infant by Chen Daoist years ago. Though they call themselves master and disciple, their bond is as deep as grandfather and grandson…”

“He doesn’t look very old, does he?”

“He’s just eighteen this year.”

“Well, at least old enough to stand on his own. So, after Chen Daoist’s passing, this Quiet Dust Temple…”

“There were only the two of them here; naturally, Shian inherits it.”

“But he’s still just a boy… Will he manage?”

Chen Shian paid little mind to the whispered comments. Truthfully, his master’s passing had not felt entirely real to him at first.

As the coffin lid descended slowly, Chen Shian was lost in thought, staring at the narrowing gap, seeing his master’s sparse white hair resting on the pillow like unswept snow.

Only when the last sliver of light was blocked by the heavy wood, and a dull thud echoed in his heart, did he snap back to reality—

No one would knock on his door at dawn, calling him to copy scriptures.

No one would hum a tune and correct his steps when he practiced wrong.

No one would tuck a warm stove into his blankets on cold nights.

Realizing this, Chen Shian felt suddenly breathless, as if he were a child again, slipping into the mountain stream while fishing, not feeling cold at first, but suffocated.

That sense of suffocation gripped his lungs; his eyes stung as if steamed by incense heat.

He recalled his master often saying, “Life and death are like day and night,” and the line he once copied, “Heaven and earth are impartial, treating all things as straw dogs.”

But in the moment the coffin closed, all those teachings became bitter grains of sand in his mouth—impossible to spit out, impossible to swallow.

So much reasoning, yet it could not fill this sudden emptiness.

He had been crying loudly just a moment before, but now he could not shed another tear.

The crowd fell silent. The hall, lively for a while, returned to solemn stillness…

…

When the rain stopped, water still dripped from the eaves.

Inside, the incense burner’s candle burned crookedly, smoke curling upward with the damp chill, striking the web-dusted beams and dispersing into haze.

The east hall’s door hinges were rusted, creaking as the wind pushed them.

Chen Shian had composed himself.

Standing in the courtyard, he followed his master’s old customs, guiding the departing guests down the mountain.

“Shian, take care of yourself,” said Uncle Liu, the butcher from East Village, patting his shoulder.

“I’m fine, thank you, Uncle Liu.”

“Your master always said you were the reincarnation of the Literary Star, but never had the chance to get an education. But there’s another saying… 'Reading is not as good as walking'? I think, Shian, you should go out and see the world. After so many years on the mountain, it’s time. Times are changing fast now.”

Chen Shian nodded silently, thinking: You must be mistaken. What clings to me is incense smoke—and now, perhaps, a cloud of creditor’s resentment as well.

At this, he finally had time to observe the creditors who had come to mourn.

It surprised him.

Despite his youth and sheltered life in the mountains, Chen Shian was skilled at reading faces.

People carry their own aura—a projection of status, character, mood.

Yet these creditors, attending his master’s wake, showed little resentment, mostly genuine regret.

Chen Shian was puzzled. Could it be that those least eager for your death are your creditors?

And judging by their attire and bearing, each seemed of some standing.

The mountain path was difficult, muddy after rain, cars unable to ascend; they had all walked up, shoes caked in mud, yet still came.

Chen Shian, keen-witted, sensed something was amiss.

But he knew none of them, nor who owed whom or how much; seeing most had no intention of conversation, he simply responded politely, planning to consult his master’s account book later to clarify the debts.

As things wound down, a young man who had been waiting outside entered, eyes behind glasses scanning the dilapidated temple as if appraising relics, finally settling on Chen Shian.

“Hello, Daoist Chen. I’m Yang Yao, clerk from the Yunqi City Daoist Association. According to regulations, inheriting a temple requires certain documentation; I’ve come to process your paperwork.”

“So soon?” Chen Shian had expected to handle it himself in a few days, not that they would come in person.

“Chen Daoist notified us in advance.”

…So even while alive, master was planning for after. So much for detachment from life and death.

But truth be told, Chen Shian had never realized his master carried such weight—association staff coming to him, not the other way around.

What kind of place was this rundown temple, to merit such service?

He fetched his Daoist certificate, ID, and the transmission certificate proving the master-disciple inheritance.

“Daoist Chen, we also need your proof of education.”

Chen Shian pulled from his robe the much-thumbed copy of the Dao De Jing.

The clerk and Chen Shian exchanged glances, the atmosphere suddenly awkward.

“I’m sorry, Daoist Chen… This isn’t considered proof of education, it can’t be entered into the system. According to the Compulsory Education Law, you need…”

“Wait,” Chen Shian interrupted. “I’m inheriting my master’s temple, why do I need a diploma? I’ve never attended school. Where am I supposed to get proof of education? Can you double-check?”

So not only was he a 'nine-leak fish,' but also a legal ignoramus!

“It’s like this, Daoist Chen. Due to the temple’s special status, it’s not private property; to inherit it legally, you do need the proper documents…”

“What happens if I really can’t provide them?”

“By the rules, it will be treated as ownerless property and handled by the association.”

Chen Shian frowned.

To think that a model Daoist, well-versed in doctrine and scripture, impeccable in cultivation, character, and inheritance, would be tripped up by a piece of paper!

“What kind of diploma do you need?”

“A nationally recognized degree from a key university.”

Even the clerk found this incredible. Normally, a small temple would suffice with a high school certificate, let alone one so remote and obscure.

But after checking the system multiple times, he confirmed that Quiet Dust Temple, though little known, was classified at a high level; to inherit it and become temple master, a key university degree was required.

Chen Shian spread his hands, unsure whether to indicate he had none, or simply didn’t understand.

“You said my master contacted you in advance—did he know about this?”

“He did. You need not worry, Daoist Chen.”

As he spoke, the clerk retrieved something from his briefcase, “When Chen Daoist asked us to process the paperwork, he also asked us to give you this…”

Master left me something through them?

Chen Shian raised his gaze, watching as the clerk produced a red, hard-paper item from the bag.

He blinked, thinking: Surely master wouldn’t let me suffer—did he get me a diploma?

At last, the red hard-paper item was in his hands.

Seeing the gold-embossed lettering, Chen Shian was stunned—

“Admission Notice, Yunqi City No. 1 High School…?”

Instead of a diploma, it was an admission letter. The abrupt reversal felt absurd; he turned it over, doubting,

“Are you sure my master asked you to bring this? Haven’t you made a mistake?”

“No mistake. Chen Daoist was scrupulous about procedure. He said you’re the Literary Star incarnate, that passing a university entrance exam wouldn’t be difficult for you, and we should just follow the process.”

“Heh…”

Chen Shian stared at the words, “Please report to Class 5, Year 2, on September 1st,” recalling his master’s gaze before death. At the time, he thought his master was worried about the temple’s debts; now he understood—his master had foreseen he’d have to hit the books!

“Where did this come from?”

“Chen Daoist said he borrowed the school spot for you.”

Borrowed…

That meant it would need to be repaid.

“Oh, and this—”

The clerk reached into his bag again, producing a set of “Five Years Gaokao, Three Years Simulation” study guides.

“Chen Daoist borrowed these from me for you. Use them as you wish, no need to return them.”

…

Well, thank you very much!

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