Chapter Two: A Bowl of Jade Insect Garments (Seeking Comments!)

Eating is never a simple affair. Humanity’s obsession with food runs deep. Whether it flies in the sky, runs on land, or swims in water, it hardly matters if the thing moves or even if it’s alive—so long as it can be chewed and fills the belly, there will always be someone brave enough to take a bite. As for whether it’s poisonous or not... well, that’s up to fate.

Chen Yu’s attachment to food never reached such extremes, but he did enjoy good cuisine. If he could eat well, he wouldn’t be so fastidious as to refuse. In the early days after arriving here, it was through the ordinary act of eating that he calmed the strong unease in his heart.

He made his way to the kitchen, washed a handful of tender, emerald-green vegetable leaves, and sliced them skillfully with the back of his blade. He lit the stove and fetched two ladles of clear water from the water vat—not the one outside with four vats of varying sizes, but this larger one filled with water drawn from the stone well, pure and cool.

He scrubbed the black iron pot clean with a bundle of thin, long wooden brushes, then added two logs to stoke the fire higher. Flames licked at the rim of the pot. Water was added and brought to a boil. He quickly blanched the shredded greens in the boiling water, then turned to the bamboo sieve on the wooden rack and scooped up a handful of blackish objects.

They sank into the bubbling water, making a lively noise. With a clang, he covered the pot tightly with a wooden lid, then placed the bowl of greens in a wooden basin, letting them cool gradually in the fresh well water.

The dish planned for lunch today was not a famed delicacy, yet it bore a name: “Steamed White Dry.” In his memory, the old master of the temple had mentioned its more elegant moniker, “Azure Sky’s Black Jade.” Words rarely heard among the mountain folk, yet it was a common dish for most people living at the foot of the mountain.

Thanks to its sweetness and refreshing texture, many favored it, especially in early spring when life returns—most households kept a supply. During a spare moment, Chen Yu had planted some in the backyard. This vegetable, resembling rice seedlings, had tender green stems and long, narrow leaves. It thrived easily and was simple to cultivate—just bury it in the earth, and within a month it could be picked.

Yet, more than the somewhat crisp stalks, he preferred the snowy-white sprouts revealed when the mature leaves fell away. White, moist, worm-like, and jade-like in appearance—sweet and crisp, whether tossed raw with oil and salt or dried, pickled, and steamed into the so-called “Steamed White Dry,” it was a rare treat in these mountain lands.

After a fair bit of bustling about, Chen Yu finally set a bowl of green-black, uneven cold dish on the table and took his seat. Though called “White Dry,” it was hardly white—after drying, it turned nearly black, but after steaming, it gained a certain pure, ink-like quality.

At this moment, the dish before him fit the description of “Azure Sky’s Black Jade.” Without delay, Chen Yu served himself rice, ladled a thick bowl of rice soup by his side, then picked up a piece and brought it to his mouth, chewing lightly before scooping a mouthful of rice.

“Raw-tossed tastes better,” he muttered, “after drying, it always seems to lose some freshness.”

Though not entirely satisfied, it was still better than dried pickles. He focused, raising his chopsticks with renewed vigor to soothe his rumbling stomach.

...

Qingtai Mountain lay south of the great river, near the Lancang River notorious for its dangerous shoals and treacherous waters, winding for over a thousand miles. The mountain itself was encircled on three sides by the river, with the only gap opening onto a dense wilderness—teeming with snakes, insects, and beasts beneath a canopy of ancient trees and thick forest, so lush not even from the summit could one see its end.

Though the rivers were perilous, the mountain itself was modest—a small peak, almost delicate, dwarfed by the towering mountains all around. It was neither majestic nor beautiful. Even the presence of a Taoist temple atop it was hardly notable, for such temples were everywhere.

Travel east, north, or south, within thirty or fifty miles one could find countless temples honoring various deities. Lacking any uniqueness, it attracted few pilgrims or benefactors, and as for wandering poets, even fewer paid it a visit.

In reality, most Taoist temples in Xizhou were like this, with little distinction between them. The Yunhe Temple had neither grand tales nor famous Taoist masters, and among the dozen or so temples nearby, it was always mediocre—rarely spoken of or remembered.

Still, it had something different, or it couldn’t have lasted five generations, especially in these turbulent times. Over forty years, the emperor below had been replaced time and again—at least seven or eight rulers, and the gilded crown in Jianye City had adorned countless heads.

The world was in chaos, and people placed their hopes in spirits and gods. Temples rose daily, but their fortunes ebbed and flowed, like rootless duckweed tossed by the wind and drifting amidst the turmoil. With powerful men and bandits everywhere, few temples endured decades.

Yet, all this happened below the mountain, with little relevance to Yunhe Temple, now sustained by its lone master atop Qingtai Mountain.

After lunch and tidying up, Chen Yu stretched his limbs, strolling to aid digestion. He circled the temple grounds twice—first visiting the vegetable garden, cultivated since the previous master’s time and tended to this day, then the half-acre field he’d weeded and tilled that morning for spring wheat sowing.

The garden thrived, spring bringing a vibrant energy after the winter’s retreat. The modest terraced plot was crowded with vegetables—familiar beans and greens, as well as unique local produce like Jade Wormweed, White Stalk, and Orchid Courtyard Fruit.

Ah, yes—Jade Wormweed was the main ingredient for Steamed White Dry.

He saw that the corner where lush green shoots should be sprouting white was now stripped bare—the sprouts were all picked, the stalks cut unevenly. Chen Yu didn’t mind; this plant was much like chives in his memory, resilient and quick to regrow after harvesting.

He just had to time the picking, lest it grew too old and went to seed—then it would be tough and unpalatable.

After a while, his stomach settled, and he didn’t rush to dig the irrigation channels. Instead, he went to his bedroom, fetched a yellowed scripture, lay on a wooden chair in a comfortable posture, and turned to the bookmarked page, reading intently.

Once digestion set in, it was time for a midday nap.

Chen Yu read, even though he’d seen it before, still engrossed, eyes never leaving the page. The script, though different from Han characters, was similarly square and bold. Since the body’s former occupant had recited it from childhood, the inherited memory made it familiar.

His gaze shifted to the cover, where two characters were written: “Long Wind.”

The “Scripture of the Long Wind,” one of only five Daoist texts in Yunhe Temple, was well known even in this world’s Taoist circles—most Taoist students had heard of it in some form.

Of course, its fame didn’t come from rarity, but from its widespread circulation. In other words, it was everywhere—few temples lacked a copy.

Chen Yu didn’t mind; Yunhe Temple was but a humble place, so how could he expect it to possess a priceless divine scripture?

Besides, if the inherited memory was correct, this world lacked the supernatural techniques of fantasy literature. There were martial arts and pugilists, feats like leaping rooftops and breaking bricks, but no extraordinary powers to move mountains or the immortality-defying alchemy of golden core immortals.

Even internal energy, the Three Treasures, and the primordial spirit were not evident here. Nowadays, Taoist arts were much like those of ordinary martial artists—training strength, or else cultivating the mind through breath and meditation.

Both methods remained within the realm of the mundane, requiring time and effort. Thus, the value of scriptures depended more on content, history, and author than any mystical efficacy.

Even the rarest Daoist text couldn’t grant instant enlightenment or transcendence at a glance.

So, reading any scripture was as good as reading another.

Moreover, its widespread popularity meant it had earned the approval of most Taoist disciples. Chen Yu considered the “Scripture of the Long Wind” excellent in content—its statements on constructing a material worldview and spiritual faith were worth pondering, and its language had a certain charm.

Some passages nearly made him think he was reading the famous “Classic of the Way and Virtue.”

Perhaps, in seeking the deepest truths of heaven and earth, certain thoughts and insights inevitably converged.

With that in mind, Chen Yu turned to the first page and glanced at the author.

Mingxia Gong.

He remembered that a porcelain statue of this figure stood in the temple’s main hall, second only to the statue of the Celestial Lord.

Indeed, those who could write such words were truly remarkable.