Chapter 31: The Old Daoist

The old ghost was an old Daoist priest.

The kind who had a temple.

But the Daoist had already died, the temple had collapsed, the statues of the Three Pure Ones were shattered with a gaping hole, now a nest for snakes and rodents.

Yet the old Daoist never left, guarding his ruined temple in this desolate place.

The old Daoist believed he had attained the realm of a ghost immortal and achieved great freedom.

But Yu Youcai held this in great contempt.

He was merely an ordinary old ghost; if this counted as a ghost immortal, then there would be countless ghost immortals in the world.

Yet this was only Yu Youcai’s private thought—he still held deep respect for the old Daoist.

On one hand, though the old Daoist was eccentric, he truly possessed broad knowledge.

On the other hand, the old Daoist was Yu Youcai’s elder; when Yu Youcai was still a child, his grandfather had brought him to visit the old Daoist, and the two had been close friends, the old Daoist having greatly favored him.

The old Daoist was also capable—he endured countless ups and downs in life and remained long-lived, living until Shen Jianjun was born, at which point he passed away at the age of one hundred and thirty-five.

And Shen Jianjun was now over fifty, so the old Daoist had dwelled in this mortal world for nearly two hundred years.

That was why Yu Youcai called him the old ghost.

When Yu Youcai found the old Daoist, he was seated cross-legged beneath a bodhi tree, meditating and contemplating the Dao, with his ruined temple of broken walls and fallen rafters behind him.

No one knew why he still clung to this place and refused to leave.

Seeing Yu Youcai, the old Daoist was greatly surprised.

“You haven’t come to see me in a long time. Why are you here now? Have you finally let go of your attachments and decided to depart?”

Yu Youcai shook his head. “No, I’ve come to ask you for advice, Old Daoist.”

“Oh? You’re already dead, and still have questions for me?”

The old Daoist rose, his body floating as if weightless, landing lightly atop the bodhi tree—white hair and long beard, wide sleeves fluttering, his appearance magnificent; under the moonlight, he truly looked like a celestial being.

After striking this pose, the old Daoist spoke again: “Speak. What is it you wish to ask me? See if I can resolve your doubt.”

Yu Youcai, accustomed to the old Daoist’s theatrics, replied: “It’s about my nephew’s grandson—I met him on the road today, and he could actually see me.”

“Huh?” The old Daoist gasped, floating gently down from the bodhi tree.

“He couldn’t see you before?”

Yu Youcai nodded.

“Are you certain you’re not mistaken?”

“How could I be mistaken? I haven’t seen him for the first time since I died—I visited him a few years ago, stayed at his home for several days…”

“So he suddenly gained the ability to see you?” The old Daoist frowned deeply.

Yu Youcai nodded again. “I’m worried something’s wrong with his body—he’s still young, hasn’t even married yet.”

His face was filled with worry, all of it for Shen Siyuan.

“Either he’s gained some rare opportunity, or his time is short.” The old Daoist murmured.

A person whose body is failing and near death, whose three fires are about to go out, might see ghosts—or even foresee their own death.

“That’s exactly what I fear. And I didn’t see his three fires dimming, yet his essence and spirit were full—he doesn’t seem like a dying man.”

Upon hearing this, the old Daoist was even more astonished; he swept his wide sleeve and floated forward.

“Come. Take me to him.”

Yu Youcai hurried to follow behind.

Watching ahead, under the moonlight, the old Daoist’s wide sleeves fluttered as he sped swiftly through the wind.

Yu Youcai began to doubt whether the old Daoist had truly cultivated to the point of becoming a ghost immortal.

For before he died, the old Daoist hadn’t looked like this—he had been frail, ancient, on the verge of death, just as Yu Youcai was now.

Yet now his back was straight, his movements fluid, showing not a trace of age, like a cicada that had shed its shell.

Yu Youcai knew the saying that one’s appearance reflects the heart—he had seen many ghosts, their forms twisted by karmic bonds and unchecked desires.

He didn’t know if the old Daoist was the same, but others grew worse—how did he grow better?

Shen Siyuan naturally knew nothing of this—he had returned home, eaten dinner, and was chatting with his father.

He couldn’t speak directly of his uncle’s ghost, so he probed indirectly.

“Dad, today when I returned to Yu Family Village, I walked around and passed by where my uncle used to live. The house is ruined, overgrown with weeds. Should we repair it?”

“Why fix it? Your uncle had no children; after he died, the land reverted to the village.” Shen Jianjun said.

“Oh, I see.”

Huang Huijuan peeled an orange and handed him a segment. “Are you thinking of returning to your hometown to live? If you really want to, live at Linjiapo—the house doesn’t need rebuilding. Besides, after your grandmother passes, her house will surely go to you…”

“That’s not what I meant.” Shen Siyuan tossed a segment of orange into the air.

“I just remembered my uncle.”

The couple fell silent; they were not ungrateful people—they remembered their uncle’s kindness well.

“Can you tell me about my uncle? I was young then, and I don’t remember much.”

“He’s dead. Why bring up useless things?” Shen Jianjun said.

“I want to know.” Shen Siyuan said seriously.

“A man must never forget his roots. This is right of Shen Siyuan.” Huang Huijuan said.

Hearing this, Shen Jianjun finally spoke, telling Shen Siyuan about his uncle.

“When your uncle was young, he was a very capable man—he ran businesses, sailed ships, served in the army, fought in wars…”

“Your father is just like him—neither of them are quiet people; they both love stirring things up.” Huang Huijuan added.

Shen Jianjun didn’t deny it; he nodded. “They say nephews resemble uncles—it’s true.”

“When I was little, your uncle treated me well. Rural life was hard then, but your uncle always found ways to get food to fill your grandmother’s and my stomachs, while he starved himself to skin and bone…”

“Then what about my aunt? Why did she die so young?”

“Complications in childbirth. Medical care was poor back then—she and the baby both died. It was the greatest sorrow of your uncle’s life; after that, no one dared mention it, so they said your aunt died of illness…”

As they spoke, Huang Huijuan rose and brought out a rusted iron box, its paint flaked off in large patches.

“These are all your uncle’s belongings. After he died, we couldn’t bring ourselves to throw them away, so we kept them.”

Hearing this, Shen Siyuan took it curiously.

Opening the box, the first thing he saw was a bundle of neatly folded letters.

Alongside them were a teacher’s badge, several silver yuan coins, a few bullets, a medal, and various other small trinkets.

“All letters from his comrades,” Shen Jianjun glanced and said.

But Huang Huijuan, hearing this, replied: “Not necessarily.”

“What do you mean?” Shen Siyuan was surprised.

Shen Jianjun looked at Huang Huijuan, displeased: “Why tell the child all this?”

Huang Huijuan shrugged. “Shen Siyuan’s grown up—he’s no longer a child. If he wants to know about his uncle’s past, tell him everything.”

Huang Huijuan turned to Shen Siyuan: “After your aunt died, your uncle did consider remarrying. There was a young girl who greatly admired him…”

“Then why didn’t he marry her?”

“Because of the generational gap—he didn’t want people gossiping about him.” Shen Jianjun said.

PS: New book reads and monthly votes are truly vital—only when they reach a certain number will we get the next recommendation. So I beg you, if you have monthly votes, please cast them. Thank you~