Chapter 15: Reflections in the Pavilion

A pot of white porridge sat on a small stove, still steaming, releasing a tempting fragrance into the mountain night.

Lin Jue had little experience lodging or staying at inns in this world, so he observed more and spoke less; after setting down his books, he followed those around him, each taking a coarse bowl and lining up for porridge.

The same monk who had guided them served the porridge, holding a long-handled gourd ladle, scooping only half a ladle each time—just enough for one bowl.

Beside him stood a younger monk, who, after each ladle was poured, added a few slices of pickled radish and a piece of fermented tofu to every bowl, instantly submerged by the broth.

“Thank you, Master.”

Every traveler and merchant said the same.

When it came to Lin Jue, he held out his bowl before the pot as well.

The monk smiled faintly, then dipped the ladle deep, slowly scooping upward—this time, the contents were clearly different from the previous clear porridge, thick with solids.

“Thank you, Master!”

Lin Jue was stunned, quickly offering his thanks.

“Amitabha…”

The monk bowed with one hand, smiling warmly.

The same few slices of pickled radish and one piece of fermented tofu rested atop the porridge, untouched by the broth.

Lin Jue continued thanking him, then carried his bowl outside, where many others sat on stone steps beneath the eaves; seeing someone make room for him, he sat down.

Most travelers clearly carried dried rations; Lin Jue still had a few boiled eggs and several tāguǒ in his books, and a few fruits left from Third Aunt’s gift—but before he could reach for them, a merchant promptly offered him dried meat and tāguǒ, politely urging him to try some.

“Thank you, thank you…”

“We should be thanking you, young sir.”

“No need for such courtesy—I did nothing, merely traveled a stretch with you… Here in this temple, we eat meat and fish—is that acceptable?”

“No problem at all—it’s always been this way, and besides, we’re sitting outside.” Someone said.

“We’re not monks—we don’t need to fast. As long as we hold no disrespect for the Buddha, eat when you must. With daily travel, how can you survive without meat?” Another added.

“I see.”

Lin Jue said no more, lowered his head, and began eating.

It was early summer, the sixteenth night; rain had cleared, revealing a full moon overhead, casting pale ink-silk clouds and a halo of colored light. The air had turned refreshingly cool, and the sounds of eating in the courtyard settled Lin Jue’s mind, weary from two days of constant travel.

Pickled radish, fermented tofu, white rice porridge—though plain, they were far more comfortable to eat and digest than the dry rations on the road.

He even found himself enjoying it.

Beyond the food, the atmosphere was pleasant too.

Having seen ghosts and traveled by night, now safe, even strangers felt strangely familiar; they chatted casually, and many came to share food with Lin Jue.

“How much does a mule cost now?”

“More than that! That was last year’s price—this year, it’s already over twenty strings!”

“Why’s that?”

“The west is transporting military grain—short on mules and horses!”

“…”

At that moment, the short middle-aged man with three strands of beard approached, glancing around; travelers pointed him toward Lin Jue, and only then did he spot him.

He had come to thank him for the gift.

“Benefactor! Thanks to you, we saved our family’s means of livelihood. A small token—please accept it, as travel expenses along the way!”

He handed over a string of copper coins.

The other travelers saw it and guessed it was nearly a hundred coins; they had traveled with Lin Jue and now considered him an acquaintance. Though they had no objection to his returning the mule, they hoped he’d receive more gratitude, and someone joked:

“How much was the mule worth? And how much is this?”

“Brother, you’re too frugal.”

The man flushed with embarrassment.

Lin Jue said nothing, accepted the coins without refusal, smiled, reached out, and took them, adding his own thanks.

He had gained something, at least.

The man had been right—

Lin Jue truly lacked travel funds.

Immediately, the others clamored for him to recount how he got the mule and how he frightened off the demon. Unable to refuse their questions, he answered honestly.

Soon after, the monk who had first opened the gate for them returned, clasped his hands, chanted a sutra, then said: “So many guests came tonight to lodge—we simply don’t have enough beds. Everyone will have to squeeze together for the night. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

“No problem! Just somewhere to sleep is fine!”

“At least it keeps out wind and rain.”

“It’s not cold tonight—wherever you sleep is fine. Thank you, Master.”

As they spoke, each pulled coins from their pouches—some ten or so, others twenty or thirty—and handed them to the monk.

“For the oil lamp offering…”

The travelers murmured.

Lin Jue watched nearby, understanding clearly—

This was both a temple and an inn; lodging without payment was unthinkable, yet they disguised it as an offering for oil lamps—euphemistic, tasteful, and proper.

Lin Jue quickly took the string of copper coins given by the short man, untied it, grabbed a dozen or so, and offered them.

The monk smiled, accepted them, thanked him, then paused before him, bowing slightly: “I see you are a scholar, young, yet sharing space with these seasoned merchants—perhaps uncomfortable. Fortunately, we have a long-unused pavilion. If you dare stay there, I will clean it for you.”

As soon as the monk finished, a merchant interrupted:

“Hey Master! If there’s a pavilion, why not let us stay there, and only give it to this young sir?”

“Amitabha.” The monk chanted again, politely: “You do not know—our rear pavilion is reserved only for those of virtue and scholars.”

“Master, are you looking down on us?”

The monk smiled silently, lowered his gaze, and looked again at Lin Jue.

“Why not?” Lin Jue indeed disliked sharing space with strangers, especially a crowd; he also wanted a quiet place to read ancient texts. “But if you’re going to open it specially for me, I won’t let you clean it—just give me a broom and a feather duster.”

“You are a reasonable person.”

The monk clasped his hands and bowed to him.

Lin Jue quickly rose and returned the bow.

The moonlight grew clearer; after eating, everyone returned to their rooms. Lin Jue followed the monk to the pavilion.

Besides the books on his back, he now carried a broom and a feather duster.

“Thank you.”

After thanking him, Lin Jue took the oil lamp and entered the pavilion.

In the lamplight, the first floor was cluttered with miscellaneous items on one side and a wooden staircase leading to the upper level on the other—both covered in dust and spiderwebs, clearly unused for a long time.

Lin Jue would sleep upstairs.

But since they had kindly offered lodging, how could he clean only his own sleeping space? So he set down his books and began sweeping from the bottom.

Dust rose with each step, the oil lamp climbing higher.

Arriving at the second floor, Lin Jue placed the oil lamp on a high shelf, turned—and froze.

Below, dust and webs covered the floor; one might even eat the grime. But upstairs—spotless, immaculate, furnishings neatly arranged. Paintings adorned the walls and floor: bamboo, lotus, pine, willow.

Even poems were inscribed.

“?”

Lin Jue looked around, puzzled.

Had a monk secretly come here to rest or play?

Or was there a ghost in the temple?

Uncertain, Lin Jue went downstairs, brought up his books, then carefully examined the upper floor again.

There were few items: a long bed, about two men’s length, touching both walls, wide enough for two to sleep foot-to-foot; a small tea table stood in the center.

Against the wall stood wooden bookshelves, mostly empty, holding only a few common Buddhist sutras. One had been recently opened—its pages fell open to a marked spot, with a bamboo leaf tucked as a bookmark.

Perhaps there had once been more objects, but someone had cleared them away, stacking them out of sight atop the shelves.

Still, it was clean, quiet, serene.

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“Since I’ve come, I might as well settle in.”

Lin Jue took several books from his satchel, placed them on the tea table, then took two garments, folded them into pillowcases and blankets, and laid them at the far end of the bed.

He even measured it with his hands.

The bed was about two or three feet wide—easily enough for one person. Its design inherently allowed for sleeping: if he lay at one end, his feet would rest beneath the tea table; the other end could hold another person—many scholars, when discussing late into the night in their study or pavilion, would sleep this way, feet touching, a custom born of intimate, all-night conversation.

Rolling over was inconvenient.

But he couldn’t complain—it was still better than cramming into a room below, possibly sleeping on the floor or leaning against the wall.

So Lin Jue brought the oil lamp to the tea table, glanced around the room, flipped through a few books, and opened the wordless ancient text in the middle.

No new page appeared.

Lin Jue fell into thought.

It was indeed so—

That strange feeling he’d had was a sign: the wordless ancient text was reacting, preparing to reveal spell pages.

As for tonight…

He recalled his two previous experiences.

Once, he inhaled smoke from a demon; once, an old man’s flame scorched his hair; once, he clearly saw the old man absorbing and swallowing fire energy—did he need to physically touch a spell, or witness its flow, to trigger the book’s response?

The cases are far too few to determine anything.

Lin Jue sat here, lost in thought.

“…”

It was merely idle speculation, of no real use.

Lin Jue shook his head, set aside his thoughts, and simply took out his travel funds from his book satchel, carefully counting them.

When a junior sets out to study, elders must prepare travel money.

Auntie had wanted to give him all twenty taels of silver he’d received from the Wang family of Heng Village, but Uncle had just recovered from a long illness, and the household needed cash to turn over; Lin Jue naturally refused, and after much pushing and arguing, he finally accepted a single silver ingot of about five taels that Auntie pressed into his hand, plus over two hundred copper coins.

Yet he quietly put that silver ingot back.

So in truth, he carried only over two hundred copper coins.

In this world, the gap between rich and poor was immense—even within a single village, there were illustrious, wealthy clans like the Wang family of Heng Village, and ordinary families like his own, too poor to afford medicine.

In terms of money, most common folk earned barely a few coins a year, and naturally spent even less—but once you stepped outside and actually needed to spend, money became painfully insufficient.

Lin Jue thought that if things became truly desperate, he could perform fire-spitting tricks in town to earn some travel funds; besides, it was early summer, and wild berries in the mountains were ripening—he could spend extra time searching, and even if he ran out of money, he’d hardly starve, though it would be hard.

Every extra coin at home meant less pressure on Uncle, and a faster chance for his cousin to marry and live his own life.

He owed them, not the other way around.

Thus Lin Jue was frugal all along the way.

After accounting for expenses, he’d saved exactly two hundred copper coins; tonight, after receiving the short middle-aged man’s gift and paying the temple’s oil fee, he had four hundred thirty-five coins left, bringing his total to six hundred thirty-five coins.

The sound of counting coins filled the room late at night…

Then came the sound of sighs filling the room…

Lin Jue carefully divided them into seven piles, stringing each with a separate cord—seven strings of one hundred coins each, and one of thirty-five, for easy access.

One had to admit, money in this age was heavy, and holding it truly gave a sense of possession.

Even if it was only a few hundred coins.

As for the donkey and horse he’d received tonight, Lin Jue had never once considered taking them to market to sell—

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Even a dog knows to return what’s borrowed—how could he be worse than a dog?

“Sigh…”

The young scholar tucked away his money.

Outside the window lay the temple’s lanterns, the mountain forest under the moon, the winding official road like a jade ribbon; wind stirred through the bamboo grove, bringing a chill.

Gradually, the temple lanterns dimmed.

The birds fell silent; apart from wind and insect chirps, not a single other sound could be heard.

It was a familiar summer night.

At some point, Lin Jue had turned his gaze to the window.

This was the world—

Without moonlight, this place would be utter darkness.

And there were few amusing things to do.

Lin Jue slowly lay down; perhaps because of the supernatural encounter on the road today, he felt no sleepiness at all, so he simply kept his eyes open, letting his thoughts drift.

If he’d been in his former life, he’d have loved such an environment—even sought it out deliberately—but now that he was here, time made it clear: the dazzling, dreamlike world of his memories was the result of progress.

Winters froze his hands and feet; summers swarmed with mosquitoes; he couldn’t eat well or dress well; a single illness could kill even a prince or imperial heir; everything was inconvenient, and few could endure such a life.

Fortunately, here there were spirits and demons, cultivation arts, and countless strange tales.

That was a rare blessing.

Buddhist teachings spoke of a universe with a thousand worlds—where, then, was his origin?

When would he ever reach it?

If he could come here, could he return?

Legends often spoke of immortal Daoists who lived forever; if this world were given a thousand years, what might it become?

Compared to pursuing official rank, these were what he truly wished to pursue now.

Lin Jue’s mind teemed with boundless imaginings.

Without realizing it, he fell asleep.