The Wisdom of the Ancestors / Geographic Location
In these chaotic times, with the bodies of the starved scattered across the land, this was more than food. It was hard currency—and, more starkly, human lives!
Qing He Miao took in everyone's reactions.
"The rice is right here."
He casually planted a foot on the intact sack of rice and swept his gaze over the starving people before him, a faint smile playing on his lips:
"Today's work is simple. Clear away every weed, stone, piece of rotten wood, and scrap of garbage within the grounds of this ruined temple! I'll be right here watching you work!
"You'll eat two meals here. When work ends tonight, bring your slips over to be checked and collect your rice. Then we'll be square. Young or old, everyone gets a fair deal! You can start."
With rice as an incentive and force as a deterrent, no one questioned him.
The desire to survive and the hunger for grain outweighed everything else.
Almost as soon as Qing He Miao finished speaking, the crowd burst into action.
They scrambled toward every corner of the ruins and began working hard to prove themselves, afraid that if they were even half a step too slow, that gleaming white rice would slip through their fingers.
Dust flew in front of the ruined temple as the work got underway in earnest.
Qing He Miao went some distance away, out of most of the dust, and found a relatively clean boulder to sit on.
Without watching the workers, he closed his eyes and rested. After releasing his stand to keep watch, he crossed his legs, circulated the Bingbing Ritual, and began cultivating by circulating energy through his body.
During this time, Huang Liu slipped away without a sound.
Qing He Miao noticed him leave but paid him no mind.
He merely pondered in silence:
I wonder how much of it those local powers believed...
Chapter 35: The Wisdom of the Ancestors
"How much of what he said do you think is credible?"
On another mountainside, separated from the ruined temple that had just been named the Wind Spirit Moon Shadow Temple by a refugee settlement and several mountain ridges.
There stood the Huang Family Fort, built against the slope of the mountain.
In a secluded training ground inside the fort stood a man somewhere between twenty-five or twenty-six and thirty years old. He wore leather-and-fur hunting clothes that allowed easy movement, and his lean, sturdy frame had arms like an ape's and a wasp waist.
He held a powerful bow steady, his eyes sharp as a hawk's as he aimed at a target fifty paces away. Without looking back, he addressed the person behind him.
Huang Liu, who had returned to report, stood a few paces behind and to the side of the man, his hands lowered. Hearing the question, he pondered for a moment and raised three fingers.
"Only thirty percent is credible?"
The archer caught sight of the gesture from the corner of his eye and grinned, seemingly amused, though the bowstring in his hand did not move an inch:
"Then he's undoubtedly a fraud."
"You jest, Wulang."
Huang Liu smiled as well and explained:
"I only meant that perhaps thirty percent of the information this man disclosed was true. But that doesn't mean what he has is fake."
He paused, then began laying out his analysis point by point, displaying his seasoned ability:
"His accent is strange, unlike the local mandarin of the Central Plains. It's very peculiar. He can't ride a horse, which is unlike someone who has spent years traveling the jianghu. He knows nothing at all about the layout or staffing of a Daoist temple.
"Although he speaks plainly, the literary grace in his words can't be concealed. That suggests he must have received a considerable education."
Most importantly, he had observed him closely.
The skin on Qing He Miao's hands was delicate, without a single callus from rough labor or years of practicing martial arts. It was even considerably softer and smoother than the skin of many women.
Either he had led a pampered life, or his internal martial arts were exceptionally advanced.
More likely, both were true.
Even if he wasn't some family's young master, he was definitely some family's young master.
"And there's his attitude toward grain."
At the mention of grain, Huang Liu's tone grew grave:
"I made a point of examining the rice. It was only the most ordinary low-grade rice, and there wasn't much of it. But the way he treated rice as if it were nothing was truly frightening. He's definitely someone who's eaten well and seen plenty.
"Also, he seemed somewhat stiff in his dealings with people, not very good at exchanging pleasantries, as though he lacked experience in that regard. Yet when managing people and affairs and laying down rules, he was quite methodical. None of that is something a person who hasn't seen the world could pretend to have."
Every trade had its specialty.
One shouldn't challenge another person's livelihood with one's own limited knowledge.
People like Huang Liu dealt with all sorts from the three teachings and nine schools year-round. These were the skills they relied on to make a living.
In a brief encounter, many things about Qing He Miao that defied the common sense of this era might have fooled him.
But the understandable details that showed on the surface did not escape his eyes.
For instance, perhaps as a common failing among transmigrators, Qing He Miao really was only relatively good at dealing with the types of people he had known in his previous life.
"Oh?"
After hearing this detailed analysis, Huang Wulang's expression grew serious as well.
He slowly relaxed the fully drawn bowstring, but instead of putting down the bow and arrow, he turned to look at Huang Liu intently:
"Uncle Six, in your opinion, who exactly is he? What does he intend to do?"
Huang Liu frowned and slowly shook his head:
"I can't make him out. I really can't quite make him out."
He carefully weighed his words:
"He may really have a Daoist master, but he himself is by no means a pure Daoist. He may truly have seen, or even be able to mobilize, enormous amounts of grain, but at present he seems rather strapped for resources. Even his Daoist name may be false, and his aim may not be to build a Daoist temple at all."
After a pause, Huang Liu began to make something of it and offered a judgment:
"He feels... more like a young master of extraordinary birth who's had little hardship since childhood and has run away from home. One who can't bear to see suffering in the world."
"Then do we know which direction he came from? Did you find any clues?"
Huang Wulang pressed.
"No. After I came back, I made a point of asking the lads who have been guarding the nearby mountain passes these past few days. They all said they'd never seen him."
Huang Liu shook his head:
"With such conspicuous, outlandish clothes, if they said they hadn't seen him, they probably really hadn't. I'm afraid he truly did come by some path through the wild mountains, just as he said."
"Then let's leave it at that for now."
Huang Wulang pondered for a moment and made his decision:
"Send someone to keep an eye on him. Pay him visits more often and see what he's really trying to do. If he truly only wants to be a Daoist and live in peace, let him be for now. Later, write a letter and ask Father to make inquiries in the county as well."
As he spoke, he nocked an arrow again in one fluid, almost instinctive motion, his gaze locking onto the distant bull's-eye once more.
"Don't forget. Send a gift over later in my name."
Huang Wulang's fingers held the bowstring steady as he added:
"Whatever happens, we mustn't neglect courtesy. Consider it a housewarming gift and a gesture of neighborly friendship. Someone so obviously extraordinary might prove useful someday."
It was still unclear whether this man's arrival was a blessing or a curse.
But at least so far, the two sides' places in the local order did not directly conflict.
Huang Wulang and his people were typical local powers of a chaotic age, building a fort against the mountains and controlling the surrounding area.
Qing He Miao, on the other hand, claimed, at least on the surface, that he merely wanted to build a Daoist temple and was not involved in anything else.
To a certain extent, the existence of these two kinds of people could even be mutually dependent, with both sides living in peace.
This was traditional wisdom accumulated over hundreds of years.
As Huang Wulang spoke, his gaze suddenly sharpened like a blade.
With a soft twang, the bowstring vibrated.
The arrow became a blur too quick for the naked eye to follow. With a thud, it buried itself with perfect accuracy in the bull's-eye of the distant target, its fletching still trembling faintly.
"Good!"
Huang Liu cheered from the side.
In the depths of winter beyond the pass, there seemed to be an invisible boundary.
Once the power of the biting wind and ice and snow accumulated past a certain threshold one day, the outdoors became a forbidden zone altogether. Breath froze in the air, and dripping water turned to ice.
Unless it was necessary, no one was willing to stay outside for even another quarter of an hour.
Fortunately, the homes beyond the pass had heated kang beds.
Once enough coal was fed into the stove pit, flames licked through the flues beneath the kang. Heat flowed steadily through its thick surface of earthen bricks or masonry, warming the entire bed until it was scorching hot.
The warmth then spread from the edges of the kang and through heat conduction, making the whole room cozy and warm—a world utterly different from the bitter cold outside.
The surface of the kang in particular was so hot that, even with socks on, standing on it too long could burn one's feet.
At that moment, Qing He Miao was standing on the warmly heated kang in his home, facing a wall.
He could feel two currents of heat rising straight up from the soles of his feet.
The previous generation's interior decorations were nowhere near as fancy or elaborate as those of later years.
The most common things on walls were pictures of chubby babies with various auspicious meanings, crudely printed landscape paintings, and the like.
There were also portraits of certain great figures or propaganda posters.
Besides those, there was another quite practical decoration: a huge map of China, often very large.
One such map hung on the wall of Qing He Miao's home.
It was about two meters long and over a meter wide. The paper had yellowed somewhat, and its corners and edges were slightly worn.
But the print was still fairly clear.
The outlines of the provinces, major cities, mountain ranges, and rivers were marked in different colors, with place names densely labeled across it.
Chapter 36: Geographic Location
In earlier years, when someone in the family needed to travel far, they could even consult a map like this beforehand to check the route.
It could be useful.