Chapter 22: Angling (Comments Welcome!)

A fine place.

Chen Yu glanced around, and the beauty of the landscape lifted his spirits. He found a large stone in the stream, smooth enough not to bruise him, and placed it beneath himself before squatting down. After fastening the fishing line tightly to his rod, he threaded the worms shaken out from a bamboo tube onto the hook and cast it toward the inner part of the pond.

He had specially cut two nails and ground them into sinkers; the float was fashioned from white feather grass—a wild plant that, once dried, resembled feathers, plentiful in the woodland behind his courtyard. He had pulled some, twisted and woven them into a long stalk, and threaded it onto the line.

Plop.

The bait sank into the water.

Eyes fixed on the float, Chen Yu gradually relaxed. His mind drifted, recalling all that had happened recently. Ever since he had used the Spirit Engine to catalyze the mutated white root that produced spiritual energy, he hadn’t had a chance to properly sort through everything. Today, with the idle time afforded by fishing, he could finally gather his thoughts and ponder the connections.

The Spirit Engine arose from the sea of consciousness—a chaotic space he had stumbled into three months ago, vast and boundless, its surging waves seemingly manifestations of the mind, ceaselessly stirring wind and rain.

He suspected the sea’s magnitude and agitation were linked to the countless light points drifting within it. Their origin was still unclear; perhaps it was the result of his transmigration. Most vanished instantly upon appearing, but a rare few were gathered by some mysterious force, condensing into solid silver-white particles—the Spirit Engine.

He named it thus, partly because it felt tied to his soul and consciousness, and partly because his initial experiments revealed its miraculous power to trigger evolution in living beings.

The appearance of the Spirit Engine intrigued him, especially its ability to affect external objects. So began his experiments, aiming to understand its effects: integrating the light particles into both dead and living things, until recently he finally made progress.

The mutated white root changed shape and developed a hollow chamber within, which housed another force derived from the Spirit Engine—spiritual energy.

He had to admit he was still somewhat hopeful then, wondering if this strange gas might truly be the fabled spiritual energy, perhaps even leading him onto the path of cultivation.

Yet repeated tests and the use of spiritual energy, spiritual liquid, and spiritual source soon made clear their differences; these were entirely separate things.

The spiritual energy he grew was simply a supplement—nothing more.

Still, mysteries remained: the principle behind spiritual energy fusing with well water to form spiritual liquid, the reason why spiritual liquid enhanced physical strength and martial arts, even helping people break through.

Of course, the biggest question loomed: what exactly had happened to his own body?

The change after drinking spiritual liquid might not be a bad thing, but Chen Yu didn’t want to muddle along as some pill-popping master—he wanted answers.

But as he had realized recently, these tangled matters could be unraveled slowly. He was young, time was on his side, so long as he didn’t get stuck in dead ends.

A bit of stubbornness was nothing; if he happened to figure something out, perhaps he’d gain some unexpected rewards.

Just then, the float trembled. Chen Yu’s eyes sharpened, and his hand darted to the bamboo rod.

Splash!

He raised the rod, sending water flying.

A slender fish tail was pulled by the long line, leaping from the water—a black fish, about the size of his palm. The next instant, its mouth opened wide, spitting out the hook, then it twisted and bounced back into the water.

Plunk!

Holding the empty hook, he was somewhat helpless, though his expression remained calm. Losing a fish was quite normal.

Fishermen often experienced such things.

He glanced at the worm on the hook, half-bitten, only a stub left. Without replacing it, he made do and tossed it back in, calming himself and breathing in the fragrance of the surrounding vegetation, awaiting the next fateful catch.

The environment here was truly wonderful; if not for it being too far from the temple, he’d want to come here daily to practice martial arts. Even without punching, a session of breathing exercises would do him good.

Of course, that didn’t mean practicing in the mountains was superior to other places. In truth, martial arts, like reputation, were forged through fighting.

Practice without combat never led to great achievement.

The previous abbot, an old priest, had earned his skills mostly in the towns below, traveling far and wide, mastering the Crane Step to perfection, outwitting countless wanderers of the martial world.

No wonder the former self, influenced by such tales, always dreamed of going down the mountain.

Chen Yu neither affirmed nor denied this. Though the body was the same, their thoughts were worlds apart.

Even with basic martial arts, and now a grasp of internal strength, he dared not claim greatness.

Third-rate, second-rate, first-rate, elite, grandmaster.

Those were the titles recognized by the martial world, more for fame than actual levels. The rank attached to one’s name indirectly hinted at their skills.

But that meant little. Martial artists were always proud, never bowing to anyone—not even the emperor. No one accepted another’s superiority, so in the end, it always came down to a fight.

Chen Yu lacked any desire for such contests. He only wanted to live quietly on the mountain, tending his own patch, uninterested in the struggles below.

Not out of cowardice, but because it all seemed too troublesome.

His memories held countless examples: someone beats the young, then the old come for revenge, sons and grandsons forever, endless cycles—just thinking about it was exhausting.

Blood feuds were built up bit by bit.

Chen Yu fancied himself a gentle soul, not one for scheming, so after much thought, he decided the life of a mountain recluse suited him best.

Besides, he had plenty to do. The Spirit Engine could catalyze so many things—he planned to test them all, no time to brawl with brutes.

"Better to cultivate the Dao," he sighed.

The float trembled. Chen Yu, still musing, bent low to pull the rod.

Splash—the water rippled, and a fish head poked out.

Then, with a thud, as he lifted the rod high, he saw a jet-black fish tail wave at him before slipping beneath the surface.

“...”

He felt the fish was familiar.

It seemed to be the same one that had escaped earlier.

No choice but to keep waiting.

He put a fresh worm on the hook, not thinking much, assuming his first two casts had landed in the fish’s den.

So he shifted position, casting in another direction.

The brook flowed gently, its soft sounds lingering in his ears. By now, the day was bright, nearing noon, though his stomach wasn’t hungry yet. He planned to catch a fish and then settle lunch.

He waited another two hours.

Splash!

The black fish leapt, its fins shimmering in sunlight.

Just like Chen Yu’s own expression—black and shining.

“???”

Why is it you again!

How does it always slip the hook?

Gripping the empty hook, his breath rose and fell, a sense of frustration lodged in his throat, needing release.

That familiar plunk echoed.

The palm-sized black fish bounced back into the water, its tail raised high, like a returning victor.

In the end, Chen Yu could only sigh, searching for a new spot.

The deep pond was neither small nor large; after searching all around, it seemed either only this solitary black fish lived here, or the worms enhanced by spiritual liquid simply failed to attract other fish. Whatever the reason, after much effort, Chen Yu was exhausted from running up and down, yet not a single fish was caught.

Instead, he encountered that familiar black fish more than ten times.

By dusk, with nearly all his worms gone, he rose to pack his things.

His expression was calm, but his heart had grown numb.

He suspected it was a problem with the hook, or perhaps with the worms, or maybe there were just too few fish in this pond—anything but his own fishing skills.

Chen Yu had never seen a fish bite over twenty times, only to slip the hook every time as soon as it was pulled from the water.

Looking back, the evening light painted the surroundings crimson.

He glanced at the nearby pond; a black fish surfaced, spat out some bubbles, then sank beneath, just as it had appeared that morning.

Chen Yu, expressionless, gathered his gear, stepped through the water onto the path, and began his journey home.

March 23rd, clear.

The pond is deep, and cold.

No catch.