Chapter 78: Rotting Grass Becomes Fireflies, Wheat Transforms into Butterflies (Requesting Monthly Tickets)

In dreams, sometimes one’s body transforms into a crane;

In the mortal world, countless blades of rotting grass become fireflies.

A young man in a loose Daoist robe stood there, the air freezing cold, yet his garments thin; the Daoist was strikingly handsome, and as he recited poetry, he carried an air of transcendent grace.

The literati could not help but rise on tiptoe, craning his neck to look—though also a man, he was moved by such ethereal bearing.

The Daoist smiled as he walked calmly through the crowd, like a celestial being cast down to earth, and said:

“If I ask you all, where do fireflies come from?”

“You all know the saying: rotting grass becomes fireflies.

“Left to decay long enough, grass turns into fireflies.

“But tonight, this city holds no shortage of discerning minds—surely you understand? The notion that rotting grass becomes fireflies is merely a romantic fantasy of the ancients!

“Fireflies are born from fireflies, with parents of their own—just as kittens come from cats, puppies from dogs. That is the true way of the world. How could rotting grass turn into flying insects?”

The young Daoist spoke casually, as if chatting idly, yet his words carried charm and allure—even mere speech drew many to listen.

Yet as he spoke, he reached into a basket slung over his donkey’s back and pulled out something—amid the darkness, lantern light glimmered, revealing a handful of rotting grass.

“How could grass become fireflies?”

“Besides, fireflies appear only in summer nights—now it’s early spring, freezing cold—where could fireflies possibly come from?!”

“Hahaha…”

He laughed with effortless grace, like an immortal of the mortal realm.

He rubbed the rotting grass in his palm and scattered it into the sky.

Instantly, the heavens shattered into countless stars, dancing with flowing light.

Tens of thousands…

Had there been no sound, one might have thought a handful of golden-yellow sparks had been flung into the air.

Fireflies fluttered through the air; not a single blade of rotting grass fell to the ground.

The Tang literati’s eyes flew wide open.

The night was thick with fireflies, some flying past his face—he could clearly see their bodies, their fluttering wings, and the faint glow trailing from their tails.

The crowd ahead erupted in gasps.

Countless naive children, countless secluded maidens, countless youths who revered Daoist arts—all now stared wide-eyed at the sky full of fireflies, lost in wonder.

It felt like a dream.

The Daoist in the dream laughed freely, as if this were his most natural state, his most beloved act, then asked again:

“Do you all know—

“How do butterflies come to be?”

The Tang literati stood frozen, recalling ancient texts.

“Wheat turns into butterflies…”

He whispered the words involuntarily.

“Wheat turns into butterflies!” the Daoist said almost in unison, “But can such a thing truly exist?”

Yet even as he spoke, he scattered wheat ears into the sky.

Beneath the night’s veil, they became butterflies.

The Yuan Yuan Lantern Festival’s countless colored lanterns now reflected countless beautiful, fluttering wings—butterflies danced alongside fireflies, weaving a dreamlike scene in this festive night.

These were not insects meant to fly in this season.

The Tang literati was utterly spellbound.

Without doubt, even after visiting the capital and witnessing countless strange and bizarre performances, this remained the most magnificent, most wondrous illusion he had ever seen—and what enchanted him most was the young Daoist’s divine bearing.

Only now did a companion beside him explain: this was the high cultivator who had purged demons from the city several months ago.

But the explanation came too late.

The Tang literati had already decided—

This was true Dao.

In collections of strange tales, in legends—even in the capital—there were often high cultivators who performed Daoist arts on the streets for various purposes, but how many could rival this?

…

Around him, cries of astonishment rose, countless wide-open eyes—youths and children, middle-aged and elderly, impoverished commoners and noble officials, even some unusual figures among them.

They surrounded him on all sides.

Lin Jue felt something different.

In his eyes now reflected a sea of lanterns, but most lanterns were held low, illuminating many legs and the ground—most faces remained dim and indistinct.

Thus, demons and spirits could easily hide among them.

Thus, even the poorest and most desperate could share joy with the wealthy and generous, marvel together at the wonder of arts, laugh together openly. Even the shy and self-conscious could now freely express any emotion—whether laughter or silence—no one could see, so one needed only to be at ease.

Speaking of which, even Lin Jue himself had been awed by Seventh Senior Brother’s arts.

The arts themselves were minor; it was the bearing that mattered more.

The atmosphere now was wildly festive, as if no sorrow existed.

For a moment, Lin Jue seemed to understand what Seventh Senior Brother had said—

Daoist arts need not be used for combat, nor only to subdue demons and purge evil; bringing people moments of joy is also worthwhile.

Just as it was now.

When he came to his senses, he saw Seventh Senior Brother’s smiling face.

“Oh…”

Lin Jue snapped back and hurriedly said:

“Good people, we are Daoists from Yishan, not entertainers. We are not here to perform tricks for money.

“Our friend from Jian Dao Peak on Yishan has completed his cultivation and fulfilled his merits—he has just received heavenly approval to become a local deity. We have come to the city to raise funds for his temple, to bring you joy and draw your attention. If you wish, leave your name and donate some silver.

“In the future, should similar incidents occur—like the rat demon’s theft—just light an incense stick at Jian Dao Peak, beneath the Four Aunt Temple, and your troubles will be resolved.

“No need to give much.

“Your sincerity matters most.”

The crowd murmured in response, many discussing among themselves.

Yet their murmurs were all alike: repeatedly, people told those nearby of the rat demon that had plagued the city, of the Daoist who had fought demon-worshippers in the street, defeated them, dragged the demon-worshipper to the county magistrate’s office—that very Daoist was now the one entertaining them with magic tonight.

One man stepped forward first.

He wore ordinary clothes, yet carried an air of distinction; many merchants in the city did not know who he was, but they recognized the attendants beside him as the County Magistrate’s personal guards.

He dropped a piece of silver, bowed, and left.

Instantly, many rushed forward, some dropping a few coins and retreating, others crowding around to leave their names.

Several literati squeezed in among them.

Only after a long while did the crowd quiet down.

Lin Jue was speaking with his junior sister, telling her to practice her writing well so she wouldn’t have to shout and record everything herself, when suddenly, outside, commoners called out, asking them what other Daoist arts they could perform.

How could one refuse under such circumstances?

Lin Jue stepped forward amid the crowd’s anticipation, imitating the old entertainers: first he bowed respectfully to the audience, then swept his sleeve:

“Peng!”

A great burst of fireworks shot out!

The night instantly blazed bright!

Countless eyes reflected this fire—brighter than all the lanterns of this night.

He swept his left sleeve again—another burst.

Lin Jue no longer needed to spit fire—he could summon spiritual fire at will.

And spiritual fire differed from ordinary fire: ordinary fire lasted but an instant, extinguishing without fuel; spiritual fire sustained its flame indefinitely.

Coupled with his fire-controlling technique—

A pillar of fire danced through the sky, swirling with each sweep of his sleeve, like a dragon of flame gliding through the night. It was the New Year, the Yuan Yuan Festival—most hearts already carried joy; this spectacle of fire only ignited louder cheers, a roaring tide of celebration.

It added yet more festivity to the people of this festival night.

The flames faded. He looked around—still a sea of diverse faces, yet now many eyes gleamed with smiles and wonder.

In the haze, he glimpsed a tall, imposing young man in colorful robes standing at the very back of the crowd, smiling at him.

Lin Jue suddenly remembered the entertainers from last year’s temple fair.

Back then, the streets had been packed with spectators, countless astonished eyes—including his own, marveling at their impossible feats. Yet now, barely a year later, by chance, he had switched roles—had he become one of those wonders in the eyes of the crowd?

As he pondered, he stepped back.

In the end, even his junior sister took the stage, asking the crowd to bring stones—not to perform chest-breaking feats, but with her slender hands, effortlessly turning the stones to dust.

Gradually, night deepened.

The performance ended; the audience dispersed.

Lin Jue and his junior sister sorted through the Qian Cai, their eyes wide as they stuffed it into the basket slung behind the donkey.

The haul exceeded all expectations.

In less than one night, they could build an entire temple.

Even with plenty left over.

“See? Only I could pull this off,” Seventh Senior Brother said casually. “If they’d gone one by one, asking for donations, it would’ve taken months.”

“Senior Brother is amazing.”

Lin Jue paid a compliment.

“Pity, this largest piece of silver came from the city’s Department Magistrate—likely given out of regard for Young Master and our Daoist temple, and since it’s from an official, we can’t be sure of its purity; it’s unsuitable for building a temple for Fourth Auntie. But officially, it’s meant for her temple, not ours, so we can’t just take it and spend it freely. Hopefully we’ll meet him soon and return it to his sleeve.”

“Hmm.”

Some on the street remained spellbound, unwilling to leave; others bowed from afar to show respect and admiration. Seventh Master returned their bows.

The constable named Pan Yi also departed.

“Let’s go.”

Seventh Master, leading the donkey, said: “No point thinking of an inn tonight—it’s surely full, and we shouldn’t disturb others. Let’s stay at the Spirit Shrine instead. By the way, it should be called the Divine Lord’s Temple now. Since you’ve mentioned it several times, let’s go see what this Divine Lord Yi Li looks like.”

Lin Jue followed him forward and still saw many young boys and girls standing by the roadside, lingering with reluctance as they watched them.

For the first time, Lin Jue felt the immense allure of illusion arts.

Too bad, chaotic times are coming.

Ahead, the donkey’s hooves clattered, echoing through the deep chill of night. Lin Jue gathered his thoughts and walked down the string of colorful lanterns.

The street was still crowded.

Common folk, high officials, literati, talented scholars and beauties, and some figures whose shadows seemed to drift faintly, others dressed in especially splendid and imposing attire—many had just been among the crowd watching their magic performance, and now all cast glances toward them.

They soon arrived at the Divine Lord’s Temple.

It was still the same small temple, but the sign had been changed, repainted and decorated, giving it a fresher look—yet no government officials managed it anymore, and for now, there was no temple keeper.

Lin Jue pushed open the door—and

Before him stood a tall, imposing Divine Lord, clad in a mountain-patterned armor beneath a five-colored divine robe, standing on the altar much taller than an ordinary man, his expression radiating an aura of inviolability, surely enough to frighten off demons.

Some incense sticks lay nearby, free for anyone to take.

Lin Jue found the figure familiar, and froze.

He had seen this man just now in the crowd.

Could the Divine Lord himself be admiring the lantern festival?

Regardless, since we’re borrowing the temple for lodging, we should offer a stick of incense.

Lin Jue followed Seventh Master’s lead, picked up three incense sticks, brushed his fingers over their tips, and they ignited. He bowed three times with utmost reverence before placing them in the holder.

Younger Sister copied him exactly, her movements identical.

Smoke curled upward, blurring the divine face. In a momentary haze, it seemed he smiled again.