Chapter 607: How Have You Been?

“Senior brother, why not ask Old Sky Weng about the method of changing one’s destiny?” the junior sister asked in confusion.

Lin Jue shook his head.

Although their connection with Old Sky Weng was limited, someone like him, at his age, had no real qualms about teaching any disciple who sought him out—whether friend or stranger, if he knew something, he would answer.

“I’m nearly enlightened.”

“Then why not ask Old Sky Weng about how to become a Saint?” the junior sister asked again.

“I have some vague knowledge of this matter—it has nothing to do with Dao cultivation or magical powers,” Lin Jue said. “Let’s go back.”

“Let’s walk back.”

“Alright.”

Lin Jue waved his hand, dispersing the thunderclouds.

The two exchanged a glance, as if in silent accord, then pulled out a sheet of paper, whispered “Donkey, manifest,” placed it on the ground, and it transformed into two gray donkeys.

The two immortals laughed and mounted the donkeys.

Wang Ran, seeing this, froze for a moment, then pulled out his own paper donkey.

“Ding ding dang…”

The river mist was cold and clear, the moonlight hazy; the bell’s chime drifted over the river’s surface as the three rode their donkeys slowly homeward.

Time truly flies in the eyes of immortals.

Even though Lin Jue had not spent time in the Yuanqiu Immortal Realm, where one day there equaled a year in the mortal world, still, in his leisurely idleness, years slipped past before his eyes like rushing water.

Aside from sending his three disciples and Wan Xinrong to assist Southern Heaven Master, later, his junior sister’s disciple Zi Yun achieved true immortality and was summoned to heaven to aid Southern Heaven Master in exorcising demons and purifying evil; only when particularly powerful malevolent spirits and demons brought great suffering to the land did Southern Heaven Master come to Lin Jue and his junior sister for help—otherwise, they rarely interfered in the conflicts between the Nine Heavens and the mortal realm.

Each generation produces its own talents, each leading the fashion for centuries.

In times of turmoil, as the winds and clouds shift, heroes of this age rise naturally, writing their own legends upon the world and turning the page of history once more.

Though he had not become a Saint, he possessed great power and was immortal and indestructible; to this day, he saw no “calamity” capable of threatening him.

Thus, in quiet ease and freedom, he watched the changes of the mortal world.

…

In a small county of Qinzhou, it was New Year’s Eve.

Though the city was small, the festive atmosphere on this day was so thick it seemed ready to overflow; most faces bore deep joy.

“Ding ding dang…”

A paper donkey carried a Daoist priest slowly down the bustling main street, followed by a white fox stepping lightly behind him.

Suddenly, a large crowd gathered ahead, buzzing with activity.

Thinking it might be a magic show or street performance, the Daoist felt intrigued, turned to the white fox behind him with a faint smile, and joined the crowd.

Then he heard a voice from within the crowd:

“In the final years of the previous dynasty, a man from Nanshan named Cheng Che passed the imperial examination as top scholar and later became governor of a prefecture in Zhongzhou. It was said his ancestors had a divine connection and once unlocked immortal arts, which they passed down through generations. On the first day of each month, he could travel from the county to the imperial court. The emperor, puzzled that he never rode a carriage or horse, ordered spies to follow him.”

The voice was ordinary, not like a storyteller’s.

Lin Jue pushed forward to look closely and saw a young man in blue robes, sitting at a corner stall, having bought a jar of wine, with a wine bowl, inkstone, brush, and paper laid out on the table.

Beside him hung a banner with four characters: “Stories for Wine.”

On his table lay a thick stack of handwritten notes and rough drafts.

Opposite him sat a middle-aged man recounting his tale, while the blue-robed scholar recorded it as he spoke:

“The spies reported that whenever Cheng Che neared the capital, a pair of wild ducks would fly from Nanshan. The emperor, cruel and foolish, ordered men to lie in wait and shoot the ducks down as they appeared—yet they only shot down one shoe. When officials examined it, they recognized it as the very shoe the emperor had once gifted to the top scholar.”

“I heard this story from a eunuch who escaped the palace—I don’t know if it’s true or false, but in the final years of the previous dynasty, there truly was a top scholar named Cheng Che who served as governor of Xiu Prefecture in Zhongzhou.”

“Please, drink your wine!”

The blue-robed scholar set down his brush, poured wine for the man, and asked:

“Do you know what became of Cheng Che afterward?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know which immortal his ancestor befriended on Nanshan?”

“It was Master Lin, I think,” the man said. “When I traveled through Nanshan for business, I heard legends: centuries ago, bandits ran rampant there, until Master Lin passed through and enlightened them. Since then, the people vowed their descendants would never steal or rob again, but instead study hard—and so many officials emerged.”

“That’s a new story, isn’t it? Would you like another bowl of wine?”

“Of course…”

Over the years, Master Lin’s name had not faded, but to the common folk, it had become an ancient legend.

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At some point, the fox leapt onto Lin Jue’s shoulder and stretched its neck to peer over the crowd.

The man and the fox listened, then turned to look at each other.

They never imagined that so many years ago, a casual act by the roadside would, in time, be heard again—by chance, on another roadside—its outcome revealed.

Learning that the bandits of Nanshan had reformed, vowing their descendants would never steal again and instead produce many scholars and officials, they felt a quiet satisfaction.

When the middle-aged man finished speaking, drank his wine, and left, another man raised his voice:

“You scholar, would you like to hear the tale of Dong Wang Mu, Master Lin, and Master Fan, passed down through generations here?”

“Thank you, sir, but I’ve been here several days already—I’ve heard this tale, and recorded it in my manuscript.”

“If you compile it into a book, will you write our names?”

“Of course. I’ll note the time, place, and source of every story.”

“Then I’ve one you’ve never heard!”

Another middle-aged man stepped forward and sat down before the table.

Only now did Lin Jue gradually understand: the blue-robed scholar collected folk tales of gods, ghosts, and monsters, offering wine in exchange, compiling them into a book.

Such tales of immortals, spirits, and demons had always been popular; today, with the townsfolk idle, they gathered around, happily listening to free stories.

“What’s your surname, sir?”

“I’m Liu, name Shiyi—Liu Shiyi, originally from Huizhou.”

“Small world—I’m Tang, name Yunqi; my ancestral home was also Huizhou,” the blue-robed scholar smiled, then shook his head. “But my ancestors moved through Jingcheng and Yangzhou, and now I wander far and wide, gathering tales of gods, ghosts, and monsters to compile a book of marvels for future generations.”

“My story is from the final year of the previous dynasty, in Huizhou—I heard it from a spirit by the roadside.”

“Oh?”

The blue-robed scholar immediately perked up.

“He told me that whenever the world falls into chaos, spirits and demons multiply. Some of them lack great power, but live long lives, have wide connections, and keen senses—they know secrets ordinary people never hear. People sometimes seek them out as spirit mediums. I met one such being.”

“He told me that long ago, the Heavenly Emperor, lacking virtue, sent one hundred thousand celestial soldiers to attack Yishan…”

The man spoke vividly.

Lin Jue listened, finding it fascinating.

He thought of all the spirits and demons he’d encountered, all the gods and immortals he’d dealt with—wasn’t his own life a book of marvels?

He glanced at the scholar’s table.

How many of those thick stacks of notes recorded tales connected to him?

Suddenly—“Boom!”—a burst of flame erupted behind him, drawing the attention of Lin Jue, the fox, and the crowd.

Turning, he saw a man performing a trick.

A young man, bare-chested, chewed fireballs and spat flames, drawing cheers from the crowd, adding further heat to the New Year’s Eve festivities.

But soon another man arrived, sneering, claiming the fire-spitting art had two ranks—what the youth performed was merely the lower grade. Then, without oil or fireballs, he drew a breath of flame from a nearby brazier, stored it in his chest, and expelled it as fire—leaving the crowd astonished.

The youth was deeply embarrassed.

But then an old man stepped out from behind him and told the challenger: “Actually, fire-spitting has three ranks—your technique is more advanced than this apprentice’s, but since you draw fire from outside rather than generating it within, you’ve only reached the middle rank.”

Amid the challenger’s disbelief and the crowd’s clamor, the old man simply inhaled, then exhaled—and a roaring flame burst forth: the true upper rank, where fire is born within the body through qi cultivation.

The challenger was humbled; the crowd was awestruck.

Coins clattered to the ground.

Lin Jue stared, lost in thought.

He never imagined that after all these years, such tricks—two actors playing roles—still existed in this world.

“Gulu lu…”

A copper coin rolled to the Daoist’s feet.

Street performers earned hard-earned coins; even one copper piece was not spared. The original fire-spitter immediately rushed over with a tray.

The Daoist bent down, picked up the coin, and placed it in the tray.

In a moment of daze, he was transported back to his youth in that county town, to that same fire-spitting performance.

“Heh…”

The Daoist smiled faintly, shook his head, and led the donkey forward.

He passed through the bustling main street, exiting the city.

Suddenly, the fox prodded him, urging him to turn back.

He looked back: countless lanterns rose from the city, thousands upon thousands, forming a river of light leading toward the moon, half-obscured by Bai Yun.

The Daoist watched for a while, then continued walking.

Outside the city stood a small temple, with a bitter-chinaberry tree standing bare in this season; inside the main hall stood statues of Fuchi Shenjun and Master Fan, bearing the stories and faith of this town for centuries.

The temple keeper had gone to the lantern festival.

The Daoist led the donkey there and walked straight through the gate.

“Master Fan, how have you been?”

Lin Jue tossed the reins aside and smiled.