Chapter Eleven: The Priest Descends the Mountain (Asking for Nothing)

As the saying goes, there is always someone better, and there is always a higher mountain. Just like Chen Yu at this moment, who, after making his way down the twists and turns of Qing Platform with much effort, found yet another mountain blocking his path not far ahead.

"Young Daoist, are you the esteemed disciple of Master Li from Crane Cloud Monastery on Qing Platform?"

In the distance, an old blue ox, lazily swishing its tail and chewing tender grass, ambled toward him with a half-grown child perched on its back. Beside the path, an elder stood in the field, wearing a bamboo hat and leading the ox by a rope. When he approached, he asked in the local dialect.

Having inherited the memories of his predecessor, Chen Yu had no issue reading, writing, or understanding speech, but he did struggle with dialects. So he replied in the official tongue, the elegant language of this world.

"Greetings, elder. My master is indeed surnamed Li. May I ask who you are?"

Chen Yu showed no disrespect, observing that the elder was at least in his fifth or sixth decade—a considerable age in this world. He maintained due deference while inwardly uncertain of the elder’s connection to his late master.

But the old man waved his hand with a warm smile. "No need for such formality, young Daoist. Master Li was a great help to the villages at the foot of Qing Platform. If not for him, how could the twenty or thirty villages in these ten miles have enjoyed so many years of peace?"

The elder spoke with remarkable clarity and vigor, quite unlike most countryside elders with white hair and sallow faces. He continued, "I used to climb the mountain often to hear Master Li’s teachings. But in recent years, age has taken its toll—my legs tremble so much now I can no longer make the ascent."

At this, the elder seemed to reminisce, gazing at the distant mountain as if he could still see the monastery perched above. There were many temples and shrines in the vicinity, but in his eyes, Master Li’s command of Daoist philosophy was unrivaled, his knowledge of the classics inexhaustible. It was a pity he couldn’t hear one last discourse before the master passed on.

The two lingered by the field’s edge, exchanging idle conversation as the day remained young. The great blue ox looked up, then lowered its head to graze. The child on its back reached and grasped at the air, babbling at butterflies flitting above the wildflowers.

The elder explained his home lay just beyond the mountain, in a village called Cloudroot, where his family had lived for generations. Among his ancestors were two craftsmen—a carpenter and a stonemason.

But not mere woodworkers or stonecutters; they were true artisans with a lineage. Such craftsmen occupied a far higher status and had a surer livelihood. The carpenter was his uncle; the stonemason was his father, who had even helped build Crane Cloud Monastery.

"Those were peaceful days—Guangyong Prefecture was still called Guangping. Unlike now..." The elder’s father, drawn to Daoist teachings, had carried his own food up the mountain to assist with the monastery’s construction, bringing his son along to haul stones and lumber.

Chen Yu listened, realizing these stories weren’t in his predecessor’s memories; the old master had spoken little of them—perhaps he had, but the former Chen Yu’s slow wit had simply forgotten. Regardless, he listened with patient interest as the elder recounted the past.

From time to time, Chen Yu joined in, having discerned the elder’s fondness for Daoist learning, likely inherited from his father. He offered parables and wise sayings from Daoist texts, occasionally sprinkling in elegant turns of phrase, and the conversation flowed merrily.

Moo—

"Ouch!" The ox’s horn gently nudged the absorbed elder, who turned to find the child on its back nearly toppling off, arms flailing at the butterflies, utterly oblivious to the danger.

The elder’s heart leapt; he hurriedly scooped the child into his arms. "Little Water Baby, you careless thing! Nearly fell—if you’d landed on your bottom, it’d be in pieces!" he scolded with affectionate laughter.

Amused, Chen Yu wiggled his agile fingers before the child’s pudgy face, making them dance like little people. The child’s bright eyes followed his movements, enraptured.

"This child is clever," Chen Yu praised sincerely.

The old man’s fondness for the child was plain to see, and hearing such words from Master Li’s disciple made his smile even broader, stretching nearly to his ears. They exchanged a few more words and parted ways.

Before leaving, the elder invited Chen Yu to visit Cloudroot Village. The young Daoist accepted warmly and went on his way.

The mountain trail gradually widened, the trees thinning. Fields receded as the mountains fell behind, and after half an hour’s walk, a broad road came into view.

A few months prior, Chen Yu had descended this way and recognized the official road, said to have been built in an earlier dynasty. Wealthy landowners provided the funds, country folk the labor, and the county magistrate oversaw the construction of this ten-mile stretch of earthen road.

Ten miles may not seem much, but for that era’s means, it was a vast undertaking. Qing Platform’s proximity to Shiya County made such a road possible; in more remote places like Gufang or Autumn Maple Mountains, even a narrow path would be rare.

Life in ancient times was no easy matter.

Soon after, a convoy of carriages and horses thundered past, raising clouds of dust. Chen Yu glanced at them—the carriages bounced so violently they seemed ready to take flight, and the urgency of those inside was clear. Only desperate travelers would drive so recklessly on such roads.

The crowd thickened as he went on. Some farmers, having sold all their goods at market, led empty carts home. Others, late risers, hurried toward the county with wagons piled high.

In time, the city walls appeared on the horizon.

Shiya County lay in the southwest of Guangyong Prefecture—not a strategic location. Over the past century, it had mostly escaped the devastation of war—though not entirely, just less so than other, more vulnerable cities.

Even now, a band of outlaws held Whitefruit Mountain not thirty miles from town. Last year, they had gathered and rebelled, led by a self-styled "Plow the Sky King." The name alone—Plow the Sky, Plow the Fields—marked them as desperate peasants driven to revolt.

The county authorities showed little concern at first, and the local landlords paid it no mind. But lately, the situation seemed to be changing. The wealthy gentry had pooled together thirty or fifty men, recruited local hunters, and hired several martial arts masters to mount an expedition against the bandits.

Chen Yu learned all this from a middle-aged man in a felt hat as they entered the city. The fellow sported a sly mustache and darting eyes, looking every bit the cunning type, perhaps one of those very landlords himself.

Chen Yu didn’t linger. He passed through the wide-open city gates into the bustling streets.

Vendors shouted, hawkers wandered, messengers dashed about. In one corner, martial artists performed feats of strength, breaking stones on their chests as a crowd cheered.

Chen Yu felt puzzled—hadn’t there been rumors of fighting to the north last month? He’d spoken of troubled times with the old cowherd, yet the city now seemed livelier than ever.

Perhaps, he thought, something had changed. An idea occurred to him—a good place to gather news.

He picked his way through the streets, and soon raised his eyes.

"Yiyuan Teahouse."

He glanced inside at the lively scene, then strode in.