The town now resembled a sand-table map made for a Great Li general—the battle had ended, the board was to be discarded, and a black cloth thrown carelessly over it.
Chen Ping'an lit an oil lamp in his own house and began to take stock of his possessions. Three pouches of gold copper coins: one pouch each of offering coins, spring-welcome coins, and lucky coins. One pouch had been gifted by the Great Sui prince—a token of thanks for letting him glimpse the golden carp. The two pouches Gu Can left behind were payment for the loach.
As for the two pouches Chen Dui had originally offered as thanks, Chen Ping'an had earnestly requested her to pass them along to Liu Xianyang during their journey out of the mountains. Chen Dui had been puzzled but did not refuse. Perhaps surprised by the alley boy's choice, or perhaps still buoyant from her successful ancestral rites, she smiled for once—a rare expression—and spoke words from the heart, assuring him that the promise of a direct-line heir of the Yingyin Chen clan was worth far more than two pouches of gold copper coins. Chen Ping'an half-believed her and half-did not. But when Ning Yao heard the phrase "direct-line heir of the Yingyin Chen clan," she privately told him to put his mind at ease.
Mr. Qi had gifted him four seals in two installments. The first two—"Still the Mind, Grasp the Meaning" and "Chen Eleven"—had been carved from snake-gall stones in his personal collection. The later two were carved by Mr. Qi from the snake-gall stones Chen Ping'an had given him, each shaped to the stone's natural form—one in seal script, one in clerical script. By a happy coincidence, the two seals could be fitted together to form a single landscape of green mountains and flowing water. One seal was sturdy and solid, the other slender and graceful. Mr. Qi had inscribed the characters "Mountain" and "Water" on them respectively. In Ning Yao's words, they could be called a matched pair of "landscape seals."
Chen Ping'an laid Daoist Lu's two prescriptions—three sheets of paper—on the table.
Ning Yao had once disparaged Daoist Lu's calligraphy as bland and flavorless. No human warmth, no literary flair, no worldly smoke, no immortal grace—nothing at all. She compared it to the standardized examination script practiced by the juren and xiucai of secular dynasties: rigid, obsequious, soulless.
Chen Ping'an naturally could not discern the depth or subtlety in the young Daoist's brushwork, nor would he belittle the three sheets simply because Ning Yao's assessment was unflattering. Besides, Daoist Lu had said plainly before departing that buying books and learning characters in this town was no easy thing. If Chen Ping'an wished to learn to write, he could begin with these prescriptions.
Now Chen Ping'an carefully picked up the last sheet. He had seen the four vermillion characters at the end—"Lu Chen's Decree"—but had given them little thought at the time. Now that he himself owned four seals, those small characters struck him as especially adorable, almost dear. He imagined that one day, when his pockets held spare coins and he had bought a book to add to his private collection, he might press the "Chen Eleven" seal in vermilion on the title page or the colophon. At the thought, he could not help but grin.
But soon a complication arose. Seals required seal paste. Next to the pastry shop on Qilong Lane—the New Year Shop—there was a general store selling all manner of odds and ends, bearing a sign with the two characters "Straw Head." Song Jixin and his servant girl Zhigui were frequent customers there. The so-called four treasures of the study and desk ornaments had all been purchased from that very shop.
Chen Ping'an hesitated. He decided to wait until he could read, and until he happened upon a book that struck him like love at first sight, before buying a paste box.
There was also the burlap sack of carefully selected snake-gall stones—seven or eight of them, each a different hue. Even after being pulled from the water for so long, their colors had not faded. The sack sat open on the table: stones as large as a man's palm, as a child's fist, as a pigeon's egg, nestled together in cheerful variety.
Chen Ping'an had originally intended to give them to Liu Xianyang. Song Jixin, though a sharp-tongued bookworm, had said something rather wise. The gist: the same small trinket, placed in the hands of a street vendor outside Mud Vase Lane, might fetch a few copper coins after a great deal of effort. But placed in the display case of the Straw Head shop, it would start at three or four taels of silver—take it or leave it, and if you have no money, move along.
The speaker had not meant much by it, but the listener took it to heart. Chen Ping'an thought Song Jixin's logic was sound. Snake-gall stones held by him, staying in this town, would probably fetch a pittance at best. But given to Liu Xianyang, who would travel to the great world where the Yingyin Chen clan resided—even if someone swindled or low-balled him—he would still receive far more than Chen Ping'an ever could.
As for whether he himself held onto a single thatched cottage or his friend won a mountain of gold and silver—which was better, which was worse—Chen Ping'an did not need to consider it.
Otherwise, what was the point of being friends with Liu Xianyang?
That was why, no matter how Liu Baqiao of the Wind-Thunder Garden professed brotherhood, Chen Ping'an never took it seriously—and never played along.
Finally, Chen Ping'an picked up the jade hairpin. Mr. Qi had said it was a gift from his own master in earlier years—an ordinary thing, no rare treasure.
Eight small characters were carved into the jade-green surface.
Ning Yao had once explained the line: "A gentleman—he is warm, like jade."
*Gentleman.*
Chen Ping'an had never read a book, but even he felt the word carried tremendous weight.
Ning Yao's voice came from the doorway: "Why don't you wear the hairpin? If someone gave it to you, naturally they want you to make use of it."
Chen Ping'an, lost in thought, looked up and smiled. "How did you get here?"
Ning Yao sat across from him at the table and glanced at the hairpin in his hand. "I examined it carefully. It really is just an ordinary hairpin—no hidden secrets. At first I thought it might be a small cave-heaven."
Chen Ping'an was baffled. "What?"
Ning Yao looked over the collection of Chen Ping'an's "heirloom treasures" spread across the table and explained: "You've heard the saying 'a cave within a cave,' yes? Common folk think it's just a literary flourish. But there is real substance behind it. Cave-heavens come in two types. The first is the Lizhu small chiliocosm we're standing in—one of the Ten Great Cave-Heavens and the Thirty-Six Lesser Cave-Heavens. The very 'cavern-heavens and blessed lands' you hear about. Some are vast beyond imagining, stretching thousands of li in every direction. Legend holds that the Dao Ancestor possesses a Lotus Cave-Heaven. Though it counts among the thirty-six lesser cave-heavens, a single lotus leaf upon its surface is larger than the entire capital of your Great Li dynasty."
Chen Ping'an started. "That can't be true."
Ning Yao laughed and thrust her thumb toward her own chest with absolute confidence. "I don't believe it either. So one day I'll go see it with my own eyes and come back to tell you whether it's real!"
Chen Ping'an said softly, "A place that strange—surely not just anyone can enter."
Ning Yao chuckled. "And who do you think I am?"
Chen Ping'an quickly changed the subject. "Miss Ning, tell me more about the cave-heavens."
Ning Yao casually picked up a delicate peach-colored snake-gall stone and rolled it in her palm. "Any Great Cave-Heaven—one that connects heaven and earth, brimming with spiritual energy—those are true immortal abodes. Cultivators within progress at twice the result with half the effort. The master of a Great Cave-Heaven must bear immense fortune. They have long been seized by the finest among the Three Teachings and Hundred Schools. No outsider may encroach. The Thirty-Six Lesser Cave-Heavens are more like hidden realms—a beauty half-concealed behind a pipa. Among them, the Peach Blossom Cave-Heaven has the most beautiful scenery, the Gale Cave-Heaven the most perilous and wondrous heights, and the Lizhu small chiliocosm—"
Chen Ping'an asked eagerly, "What about ours?"
Ning Yao's lips curled upward. She held up two fingers and rubbed them together. "The smallest. Just this tiny bit—a mere pellet of land. Not worth mentioning."
Chen Ping'an settled cross-legged, slouching lazily over the table. He raised one fist and extended his fingers one by one, smiling softly: "But I met Mr. Qi here. Old Man Yang. Liu Xianyang. Gu Can. And of course, you, Miss Ning."
Ning Yao smiled too. "There is another kind of small cave-heaven—one that holds objects. The Buddhists speak of Sumeru in a mustard seed. The Daoists say the universe fits in a sleeve. Each school has its own formulation, but the principle is the same: the vast world within a square inch. A small object can hold a great many things. Compared to a true cavern-heaven, these treasures bearing the name 'cave-heaven' cannot hold living creatures. My mother's most valuable dowry was a jade bangle—the cave-heaven inside was roughly the size of this room."
The straw-sandaled boy, ignorant of the world beyond, was disappointed. "That small? Look—the Dao Ancestor's single lotus leaf is the size of an entire city."
Ning Yao flushed with indignation. She leaned forward and swung at his head. Chen Ping'an jerked back and dodged.
When her swats failed, inspiration struck. Her hand, still holding the peach-colored stone, made a feint as though she would throw it.
"Don't throw it, don't throw it!" Chen Ping'an panicked. "If a corner chips, I'll lose a fortune!"
Ning Yao pouted and set the stone down—but then whipped her hand up in a sudden motion.
Chen Ping'an squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the sight.
Slap. She slammed the stone onto the table and burst out laughing.
"Miss Ning," he said helplessly when he opened his eyes, "can you stop being so childish?"
Ning Yao arched one slender brow and swept her elbow across the table. The stone tumbled off the edge.
Chen Ping'an clutched his head with both hands, face twisted in misery.
Reasoning with Miss Ning was simply impossible.
Ning Yao giggled and extended her other hand from beneath the table. There, resting in her pale palm, was the very stone that should have crashed to the floor.
Chen Ping'an still held his head, looking pitiful.
Ning Yao stopped teasing him. Her expression turned serious: "What will you do from now on?"
Chen Ping'an thought and answered honestly: "After I finish the heavy work for Master Ruan, I want to go into the mountains to make charcoal. I can also gather herbs and sell them at Old Yang's shop."
Ning Yao hesitated. "But what about the mountain-moving ape from Zhengyang Mountain? The woman from the Xu family of Qingfeng City? True Lord Liu Zhimao who severs rivers? And Yunxia Mountain and Old Dragon City behind Cai Jinjian and Fu Nanhua? What will you do if they come for you? Where will you flee?"
She did not wait for his reply. Her voice dropped: "That is why Daoist Lu told you, no matter what, to cling to that forge. It was the right path."
Chen Ping'an frowned. "But what if it brings a heap of trouble to Master Ruan?"
Ning Yao's laugh was cold. "A sage who governs the operations of a small chiliocosm—would he fear such troubles?"
Chen Ping'an nodded. "Then I'll ask Master Ruan. I'll tell him everything and see if he still wants me as a long-term apprentice."
Ning Yao rested her chin in one hand and sifted through the snake-gall stones with the other. "In this town, there is nothing one pouch of gold copper coins cannot solve. If there is, then use two."
"It hurts to think about," Chen Ping'an said mournfully.
Ning Yao glanced sideways. "When you were about to hand everything over to Liu Xianyang, where was the pain then?"
Chen Ping'an shook his head. "That's different. You can't compare."
Ning Yao rolled her eyes. "Some poor woman, unfortunate enough to become your wife, will probably want to slap you dead every morning."
With perfect gravity, Chen Ping'an replied: "Once I have a wife, that's another matter. I'm not stupid. I wouldn't let my wife suffer."
Ning Yao's face was a picture of disbelief, drenched in mockery.
The charcoal-dark boy crossed his arms and sat tall, a rare flash of swagger in his expression. He snorted: "If my wife is wronged, forget the old ape of Zhengyang Mountain—even if it's the Dao Ancestor you talk about, I'll hack him to pieces. Whether I can kill him or not is one thing—but I'll hack first and worry later!"
Ning Yao stared, stupefied.
She had always thought Chen Ping'an was not hot-tempered—leaving aside the killing of Cai Jinjian and the battle with the mountain-moving ape, of course. In daily life, he seemed perpetually even-tempered, never quite angry, never obsessive. A mild, gentle disposition through and through.
If someone like Fu Nanhua or Song Jixin had said it, Ning Yao would have found it unremarkable. But from Chen Ping'an's lips, she could scarcely believe it. "Why?"
Chen Ping'an grinned. "My father only ever fought one person in his life—and it was for my mother. Someone on Qilong Lane had insulted her, and my father couldn't let it go. He went and got into a proper brawl. When he came home, my mother scolded him for ages. But my father told me privately: whether you can win is one thing, whether you fight is another. A man who won't protect his wife—what's the point of bringing her home?"
Ning Yao was puzzled. "Hmm?"
Chen Ping'an scratched his head, cheeks reddening. "My father was brilliant at making porcelain but terrible at fighting. When he came back, his face was a bruise-blackened mess. He got beaten badly."
Ning Yao pressed her hand to her forehead, unable to speak.
After a silence, she rose. "Let's go. Back to the forge."
"Shall I walk you to the mouth of Mud Vase Lane?" Chen Ping'an asked.
"No need," Ning Yao said flatly.
Chen Ping'an did not insist, but he walked her to the courtyard gate.
Ning Yao did not turn her head, yet she knew the boy stood there still, watching.
A good person who is not a fool—their human heart burns all the more warm and radiant, like a sun-facing flower or tree.
That in itself was a beautiful thing.
The orphan boy of Mud Vase Lane, whom those outsiders called mud-legged, lowborn, a worm digging in the dirt for scraps.
But the boy had his own life to live, and he wanted to live it well. Not out of greed for comfort—in truth, he had been a child who could endure hardship since birth. He simply wanted his parents, could they see from beyond, to be at ease. Even though the Chen family now consisted of only Chen Ping'an alone, one person living well meant the family his parents had passed down was still a decent one—even if only one remained.
Even if he had to hang the Spring Festival couplets by himself, with no one to tell him whether they were crooked or straight. Even if the fu character on the doorframe required him to set up a ladder alone, with no one to steady it.
A person lives one life, answers for his own life and death, and begs nothing from heaven.
Such a person may seem even-tempered, but their bones are extraordinarily hard. Their fate, too, will be hard.
The girl who had walked out of Mud Vase Lane felt a sudden pang of loss—and a flicker of guilt.
For leaving without a word.
Chen Ping'an returned to his house and stared at the oil lamp.
In a drowsy haze, neither fully asleep nor fully awake, he seemed to find himself at the southern end of the covered corridor bridge. He could recall only that the path had been pitch-dark—even he could not see more than a few feet ahead.
But the moment his foot touched the first step, heaven and earth blazed with sudden, boundless light.
Chen Ping'an shuffled along the bridge's corridor in a fog. Then, at the center of the passageway, a light erupted of almost unbearable whiteness—more blinding than the radiance that had come before, carrying a Daoist intent of loftier magnitude. Though his eyes stung and tears streamed down his cheeks, he could somehow see the strange scene before him with perfect clarity.
A towering figure, features blurred, stood in the middle of the bridge.
There was a resemblance to the first time Chen Ping'an had seen Mr. Qi in the alley—great sleeves drifting, clad in snow-white, like a god, like an immortal.
But in the untamed wilderness of his subconscious, Chen Ping'an was absolutely certain this figure was more ethereal, more insubstantial than Mr. Qi. As though he or she stood further removed from the mortal world altogether.
He moved forward slowly. Voices murmured at his ear like fox-spirits whispering, bewitching: "Kneel, and fortune shall crown your head."
Then another voice thundered with authority, shaking the soul: "Mortal wretch—kneel at once!"
A third voice, balanced and calm, spoke with measured indifference: "As worldly men, one must kneel to heaven, earth, sovereign, parent, and teacher. What harm in one more? In exchange, the Great Dao's summit awaits."
A fourth, old and hoarse, rasped: "This single kneel is the Bridge of Longevity crossed, the Ladder of Blue Clouds ascended, the Chasm between Heaven and Earth leapt. Do not hesitate. Kneel quickly. Heaven offers what you do not take, and you shall bear the blame!"
Then a familiar voice strained to reach him: "Chen Ping'an, stop where you are! Do not advance. Do not turn back. And do not kneel. Simply hold your ground for the time it takes an incense stick to burn. How much divine weight can a mortal frame bear? Do not defy heaven's course—"
It sounded like Old Man Yang's scolding and warning.
But the old man's voice grew fainter with each word.
At the same time, another voice spoke with warm gentleness: "Chen Ping'an, why not stand straight and take a few steps forward, just to see?"
That sounded like Mr. Qi.
Chen Ping'an straightened his back by instinct, halted, and stared around him in confusion.
He knew only that he had many questions he wished to ask Mr. Qi.
Voices overlapped and clamored: "This is Ma Kuxuan's destined opportunity! Boy, get out!"
"Even if Ma Kuxuan cannot claim it, it should fall to the celestial-born Ning Yao! Who are you?"
"Your branch of the Chen clan is rotting mud that cannot be lifted—your incense should have been extinguished long ago! How dare you covet divine treasure!"
"Chen Ping'an, don't you care about Ning Yao and Liu Xianyang? Turn around and go back. Leave the opportunity for your friends. Qi Jingchun has already traded his life for your peace. Why not live out your days as a wealthy man, take a wife, have children? Would that not be wonderful?"
"Take one more step and I will grind your bones to ash!"
Chen Ping'an took a step.
The bridge shuddered with a thunderous tremor.
Heaven and earth fell silent. Every stray voice vanished.
Sighs, terror, panic, reverence, lament—a tangle of threads.
After that single step, he naturally took a second. Only then did he realize that Mr. Qi walked beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
The entire bridge—and everything beyond it—was suddenly plunged back into impenetrable darkness.
The boy had stopped crying when the light first pierced his eyes. Now, for no reason he could name, a sob rose in his throat. Insight struck: "Mr. Qi—are you leaving?"
"Yes. There are too many people outside who wish me dead. The choice is not mine to make."
"Mr. Qi—then who are we going to meet?"
"Not 'we.' You. You are going to meet an... old man?"
A tremendous crack.
Mr. Qi seemed to have been struck and sent flying—but instead he laughed with open, ringing joy. At the last, his voice turned grave: "Chen Ping'an, the Great Dao is beneath your feet. Walk!"
Chen Ping'an drew a deep breath and raised his foot to take the third step.
From a place impossibly far, impossibly high, a voice pierced through layer upon layer of heaven and earth, smiling: "Three is the limit. That is far enough."
From the middle of the bridge came a cold snort.
Chen Ping'an jolted awake. He found himself slumped over the table, the oil lamp still burning. He turned instinctively toward the window.
Dawn had broken.