Chap 8

At this moment, the Daoist in front of him lit up with a spark of inspiration. Closing his eyes quickly, he raised his voice and recited:

"Rice halls bustling with noise, mortals are ruled by human desires. Reputation here is but a ripple on water, moving only with the wind!"

The young boy and girl evidently heard the Daoist's words, but unfortunately, they showed no intention of stopping.

The Daoist peeked through the slit of his eyes, noticing he was about to lose potential customers. Reluctantly, he slapped the table and raised his voice louder:

"A top scholar is a mortal from this world; a prime minister is still but a man. With unmatched learning that echoes through the city, confidence and spirit soar like a star!"

Song Jixin and his maidservant Zhihui continued walking forward.

The Daoist, visibly disappointed, murmured under his breath, "Days like this are hard to get by."

The boy, without looking back, casually tossed a coin toward the young Daoist and called out with a bright smile, "I'll borrow your auspicious words!"

The Daoist quickly caught the coin and opened his palm to examine it. His expression soured—it was merely the smallest denomination.

Even so.

The young Daoist gently placed the coin on the table.

In an instant, a sparrow swooped down, landing on the table. It lowered its head, tapped the coin lightly, and then picked it up in its beak. The sparrow then looked up at the young Daoist with lively, intelligent eyes, almost human-like.

The Daoist spoke softly, "Go now. This place is not meant to stay."

The sparrow darted away and vanished.

The young Daoist glanced around before his gaze settled on a tall, distant building bearing the plaque with the words "Rising to the Skies." With a sigh, he said, "What a shame."

Finally, he added, "If I could take it out and sell it, it would easily fetch eight hundred or a thousand silver taels."

Song Jixin, accompanied by his maidservant Zhihui, walked to the shade of a locust tree. Under its sprawling branches, they found a crowd of nearly fifty people seated on benches brought from home. Children tugged along their elders, joining the lively scene.

Standing side by side under the tree, Song Jixin and Zhihui noticed an elderly man beneath its shade. The old man held a large bowl in one hand, with the other behind his back. His expression was animated as he spoke loudly, "I just explained the general path of the dragon vein. Now, let's talk about the True Dragon. Ah, such a mysterious tale! About three thousand years ago, an extraordinary immortal figure emerged. He cultivated in a hidden haven, achieved enlightenment, and wandered the world with only his sword. With its three-foot blade, he exuded an unmatched aura, defeating dragons wherever he went. Over three centuries, he hunted down and vanquished every last dragon in the mortal realm. Only then did he stop and disappear from the world. Some say he ascended to debate the Dao with ancient deities. Others claim he ventured to the distant Western Pure Land to debate with Buddha. And yet, some believe he guards the gates of the underworld, keeping demons and spirits at bay..."

The old storyteller's passionate recount was met with blank stares from the villagers, their faces filled with confusion.

Zhihui whispered curiously, "What does 'a three-foot aura' mean?"

Song Jixin chuckled, "It just means a sword."

Zhihui huffed, "Young Master, this old man loves to flaunt his knowledge, but there's really nothing impressive about it."

Song Jixin glanced at the old man and smirked, "In this small town, not many people can read. That storyteller might as well be winking at the blind."

Zhihui asked again, "What about those so-called 'hidden havens'? And can anyone really live to be three hundred? Also, isn't the underworld only for the dead?"

Song Jixin was stumped by her questions. Unwilling to lose face, he brushed it off casually, "It's all nonsense. He probably read some low-quality books and is just here fooling country folk."

At that moment, Song Jixin keenly noticed the old man glance at him—just a brief, fleeting look, like a dragonfly skimming the surface of water. It was so quick that Song Jixin dismissed it as a coincidence.

Zhihui looked up at the locust tree, where delicate rays of light filtered through its leaves. She instinctively squinted her eyes.

Song Jixin turned to look at her and was momentarily stunned.

Only now did he notice that his maidservant had a side profile that was beginning to shed its childishness. She looked so different from the skinny little girl he remembered.

According to local customs, a bride-to-be would have a woman blessed with children shave the soft hairs from her face and shape her hairline, a process called "opening the face."

Song Jixin had read about another custom not practiced in their town. When Zhihui turned twelve, he bought the finest fresh wine in town, poured it into a beautifully glazed porcelain bottle, and carefully sealed it with clay before burying it in the ground.

Suddenly, Song Jixin spoke, "Zhihui, though they say the Chen family is rotten wood that cannot be carved and mud walls that can't be plastered, they did accomplish one meaningful thing in their generation."

Zhihui didn't respond, her eyelashes trembling slightly as she lowered her gaze.

Song Jixin continued, as if to himself, "Chen Ping'an is not a bad person. He's just too rigid. He works hard, but his inflexible nature means he'll never craft anything with true spirit. That's why Master Liu, the old potter, despises him so much. His disdain isn't unfounded. 'Rotten wood cannot be carved,' as they say. And as for 'mud walls that can't be plastered,' it means that no matter how fine a robe you dress Chen Ping'an in, he'll always be a country bumpkin at heart."

Song Jixin smirked bitterly, "I suppose I'm worse off than Chen Ping'an."

Zhihui didn't know how to comfort him.

In this small town, Song Jixin and his maidservant were among the wealthier residents, thanks to Song Jixin's "honorable father," Song the official.

The town had no prominent figures or major events, so the imperial government's appointee overseeing the kilns was naturally regarded as a great figure. Among over a dozen kiln supervisors throughout history, Song the official was the most beloved by the people.