Chapter 1: Chapter One: Hearing the Immortal

August 3rd.

The autumn rain of the White Dew season was good weather for the small county of Fenghuai at the edge of the deep mountains—heat had faded, crops had ripened, deer and rabbits in the hills were plump, and stream fish waited in nets, marking a few quiet days before the harvest.

Pei Ye’s spirits had been decent these past two days; now he carried a fishing rod and basket, his straw sandals slapping “pā jī pā jī” as he crossed the stone bridge beside the county town. Just as he stepped off the last stair, a wrinkled, rat-faced old man shuffled over: “Little Pei, catch anything fine?”

Pei Ye kept walking, glancing sideways: “Mm.”

It was Old Xiangzi, the eccentric widower next door. This time Pei Ye couldn’t help a second look—the filthy forehead bore a crude, unfamiliar symbol drawn in blue-green pigment, clearly traced by his own trembling, weak hands, strange yet oddly amusing.

Seeing the boy notice his work, Old Xiangzi seemed rewarded, his spirits soaring as he leaned close, tilting his head back and forth: “Hehe… hehe…”

Pei Ye couldn’t help smiling, looked away, and asked out of kindness: “What do you want?”

Old Xiangzi’s face lit up with excitement. He straightened his back, opened his mouth—then clapped a hand over it, bent low, scanned the surroundings, and whispered into Pei Ye’s ear: “Become a immortal.”

“….”

“Become a immortal! Become a immortal!” Old Xiangzi’s eyes gleamed—he clearly longed to share, “I’ve found a way to become a immortal. Little Pei, help me out. We’ll become immortals together, free of sickness and disaster…”

“...” Pei Ye ignored his new round of madness, “Go do it yourself.”

Old Xiangzi had been acting mad for days, not just one or two.

He’d lived alone for years, childless, managing all his eating, dressing, housing, and travel by himself, his mind never quite right. A few years ago he’d still been seen chasing neighborhood girls through the streets; now that girl had grown up and married, avoided him, and he spent his days tinkering with ghosts, gods, and Buddhas.

Old Xiangzi wasn’t a devout believer, nor did he rely on incense offerings—he simply cast a wide net: today he worshipped Buddha, tomorrow he bowed to Dao, he’d burned incense to mountain spirits, river gods, dragon kings, even Yama and city gods. Strange sects and deities he’d heard of from every corner found a place in his home.

And he understood none of their doctrines—he made it all up himself. When neighbors finished plowing and urged him to get to work, he’d lie in bed saying, “My land doesn’t need plowing.” Asked why, he’d say, “This year I’ve taken Buddha as my master—he’ll do my work for me.”

This joke spread widely in the eastern part of town; Pei Ye’s attitude toward him was obvious.

Old Xiangzi saw his indifference and grew frantic: “No, no, this time it’s real! Believe me—I slept in that ruined temple east of town yesterday, heard it with my own ears: the big-eared beggar under the big willow tree, the immortals enlightened him—he’s already become one!”

“Oh.”

“Ah, why won’t you believe me? You’re sick, I’m sick—if we become immortals, we’ll both be cured!”

“I’m not sick.”

“Eee—chicken chicken chicken!”

“You’re avoiding the truth. It’s not sickness—it’s injury. Unhealable.”

“Who cares what it is! Can’t immortals heal it? Tonight, maybe the immortals will descend again—if we don’t hurry, there’ll be no place for us!” Old Xiangzi pleaded earnestly, “I saw it with my own eyes—the big-eared man’s already become a immortal, over a zhang tall, clad in armor, majestic!”

“Then if he’s become a immortal, doesn’t he have to ascend to heaven?” Pei Ye, still walking beside him, replied vaguely.

“Exactly! He ascended!”

“….” That answer surprised Pei Ye slightly. “He’s not under the big willow tree begging anymore?”

“No! No one can find him—only I know—he…” Old Xiangzi hesitated, glanced furtively around, then whispered even lower: “Little Pei, I’ll tell you secretly—he drank immortal water, and became a immortal.”

“Then you drink it too.”

“Gone!” Old Xiangzi slapped his thigh. “There was only a drop left in the cup—I was afraid of the pain, so I gave the immortal water to the cat. The cat became a immortal! Fire won’t burn it, blades won’t cut it. Little Pei, you’re strong—you don’t bleed when cut, right? Let me test—”

He reached for the dagger at Pei Ye’s waist. Pei Ye, utterly speechless, pushed his hand away: “I’ve heard this before. Aunt Zhang said she saw you carrying a dead cat—was that the one you claimed became a immortal?”

Old Xiangzi froze. “Yes—no! Not yes! The cat died because it didn’t draw this!”

He extended one index finger from each hand, pointing to the crooked blue-green symbol on his forehead: “See? See it? I’ve realized it! To become a immortal, first draw this. That day, the big-eared man had this mark on his head. With it, drink the immortal water, and you become a immortal. Little Pei, draw one too—we’ll get the immortal water together, become immortals together, and your illness will be cured!”

Pei Ye said nothing. He had passed the alley leading to his home—he knew Old Xiangzi wouldn’t follow far.

He’d dealt with Old Xiangzi before—he knew the more you indulged him, the worse he got.

The giant catfish was the river god, the widow on the city wall was the Queen Mother of Heaven, the stone he picked up by the stream was the stone that mended the sky—now came immortal water. Old Xiangzi wasn’t lying on purpose—he genuinely couldn’t tell fantasy from reality.

Old Xiangzi kept babbling after Pei Ye, but Pei Ye acted as if he didn’t exist. Finally, the old man stamped his foot in frustration: “You don’t believe me! Then I’ll go find it myself! When I become a immortal tonight, I’ll come first to annoy you!”

As he left, he stomped through the puddles with loud “pā jī pā jī” steps.

But within moments, the “pā jī pā jī” returned. The old man yanked open the bamboo basket: “Give me one fish!”

Pei Ye rolled his eyes: “Didn’t catch any.”

…

Free of Old Xiangzi, Pei Ye headed west toward town.

Since two years ago, Pei Ye no longer dared to enjoy the coolness of rain—but on rainy days, even wrapped in quilts indoors, his chest and abdomen pain flared eight or nine times out of ten.

A few of Qian’s Pulse-Protecting Pills remained, but the strong liquor he took with them was gone. He knew this weather would trigger the pain again—he needed to buy more wine.

But as soon as he reached the west side of town, a familiar face spotted his wine gourd and called out: “Going to Old Zhang’s for wine? He’s closed up! Sold his shop a few days ago and moved to the prefecture to enjoy his fortune. If you want wine now, go to Old Lu’s in the north!”

Pei Ye turned north instead. This detour took him past the big willow tree—he glanced deliberately, and indeed, the tall, lame, big-eared beggar wasn’t there. Two constables stood nearby, asking questions.

It was said the big-eared man had once trained in martial arts, but an error had left him crippled, and enemies had come to break his legs. His family suffered repeated tragedies—relatives died one after another—until he sank into utter despair.

Fortunately, he himself had never been arrogant in the martial school. Pei Ye chuckled bitterly, stepped past the willow tree, and headed straight for Lu’s wine shop.

Soon, the wine flag fluttered into view. Pei Ye quickened his pace to the door.

He lifted the curtain—immediate noise and warmth flooded his ears, steam mingling with wine scent, sharply dividing the small tavern from the cold rain and mist outside.

In idle seasons, crowds gathered. Pei Ye sidestepped men slumped in drunken heaps, stepped over legs sprawled carelessly on the floor, and placed his gourd on the counter.

“Uncle Lu, fill it up.”

“Got it.” Lu Youcai, in his forties, eyebrows sharp as carved blades, uncorked the gourd and walked to the wine barrel. “Little Pei, since you moved, you’ve come less and less.”

“What can I do? Without the money from selling my house, I’d lose half my life.” Pei Ye smiled.

“Ah, fortune brings loss of wealth, misfortune brings loss of self. You’ve had fortune, Little Pei—look on the bright side, or life has no hope.”

“True. I have nothing to complain about.” Pei Ye took the gourd. “Still four qian?”

“Nonsense!” Lu Youcai’s brow furrowed. He slammed the full gourd onto the table. “Did I ever charge you before? Now you’re a beggar—why pretend to be rich?”

Pei Ye laughed, still counted out four copper coins, and firmly pushed them toward Lu Youcai: “Precisely because I’m a beggar now, I must account for every coin.”

Lu Youcai sighed, took the coins. Pei Ye was about to leave when Lu suddenly said: “By the way, you’ve been outside the city again? Be careful these days—rumor says someone was eaten by tigers or wolves beyond the walls.”

“No problem—I don’t go deep into the mountains.” Fenghuai relied on the mountains; it was common for herbalists and hunters to get lost, though not frequent. Pei Ye paid little mind.

“Not in the mountains,” Lu corrected. “This morning someone saw it—outside the ruined temple east of town, only a torn robe and blood remained. The body—bones and flesh—vanished. No one knows who it was.”

Pei Ye froze: “Where? The ruined temple east of town?”

“Yes. This beast dares come so close—people in the east are terrified it’ll come into town at night to eat them.”

Pei Ye remembered Old Xiangzi’s words and frowned: “Did you report it?”

“Of course. Constables were there by dawn.”

Pei Ye recalled the two officers by the willow tree—they must have identified the victim. He relaxed, bid farewell to Lu, stepped outside, picked up his fishing rod and basket, and walked home.

Pei Ye’s home stood beside Old Xiangzi’s crumbling courtyard—equally dilapidated.

He pushed open the gate, entered the yard, and opened the basket. Inside were herbs he’d gathered along the way.

He took several, crushed them finely in a stone mortar, then fetched clean cloth and walked to the corner, pulling a dark, furry bundle from a basket.

He lifted the small black cat, gazed into its jade-green eyes for a moment, then gently placed it on his knee to examine it.

On its small, soft belly, the bandage faintly showed bloodstains—he knew beneath it lay a fatal wound.

The black cat was found yesterday by the stream, its belly sliced open by something sharp, like a jagged stone.

It was hard to say whether it was a house cat or stray—many households kept cats here, and they mated freely, forming a loose population that scavenged between town and deep mountains.

Frankly, this cat was beautiful—pure jet-black, no streaks, fine fur, no scars or disease, lacking the cunning, vicious air of wild cats.

If cats had a society, this one would be nobility. While Pei Ye treated its wound, it never cried out or resisted—calm, composed, refined.

He removed the old bandage—the wound had clotted. He applied fresh herbs and rewrapped it neatly.

After tending to it, he went inside and wheeled out an old man who looked like a demon.

If he stood, the old man would be taller than Pei Ye—but Pei Ye knew that would never happen. The man leaned in a crude, rough wheelchair, utterly motionless, as if even breathing had ceased—like a dried, ancient log.

In the dim light, his facial details grew more monstrous—cheek scars writhed like meat centipedes, stretching into his scalp and neck. His eyes were gone, replaced by two black hollows. Sparse white hair revealed large patches of scalp.

“Grandpa Yue, I’m going to practice sword now. It’s just past Shen Hour—I’ll practice until You Hour and fifteen minutes.”

“Good. I’m listening…”

When the old man spoke, his neck stretched taut, chin lifted to the sky, back slightly arched from the chair—like a cormorant swallowing a fish, using all his strength. It looked both ridiculous and terrifying.

The so-called sword practice was the technique the old man had taught him after Pei Ye’s Dantian was damaged—“At least now you might learn it.”

The teaching process was painfully strange: the technique was invented by the old man after his paralysis—he’d never practiced it himself, nor could he see the boy’s movements. He judged only by sound: whether the motions were correct, whether the force was right.

Fortunately, the old man’s sword art approached the Dao—even so, he always pinpointed Pei Ye’s errors with precision. Still, sometimes he couldn’t hear or answer a question—then he’d say: “Just practice blindly. It’s not about this.”

But regardless, it was a profound sword art. Two years of practice had made Pei Ye’s forms increasingly refined, his understanding of sword principles deepening, his sword sense improving—he was already a master among swordsmen, yet he had never truly learned even a single movement.

Even the realization that he hadn’t learned it came only after his skill had advanced significantly. Before that, he’d believed mastering the forms perfectly was enough—he never saw the higher level.

“When you truly learn it, I’ll know,” the old man had said. “Even see it.”

But today was not that day. Pei Ye practiced his full time, wiped sweat from his brow. Perhaps from the sweat, his forehead itched—he wiped twice more.

Seeing the cold wind grow stronger, he wheeled the old man back inside, began preparing food, and brewed himself a warming herbal decoction.

Though rain had fallen heavily in the morning, the dark clouds had not dispersed—they grew heavier, now as if bursting under their own weight, drizzling again.

Bitter wind, bitter rain, the cramped, broken courtyard, the dry, gnarled jujube tree, the monstrous paralyzed old man, the rusted, faded sword—this was where Pei Ye had lived for two years.

Willow branches dipped into the yard brushed his face. The boy plucked one, hollowed out the core, and bit it between his lips, blowing a bright, cheerful whistle.

He looked up—the sky swallowed the last sliver of light.

Night had fallen.