Seeking Immortality

Two months later, the autumn air was crisp and clear.

At dusk.

At the small village at the mountain's foot, a few wisps of cooking smoke drifted lazily upward. Two or three children ran and played through the village, while by the roadside and in the fields, farmers were cutting rice. Big Yellow Dog lay languidly outside a house, sniffing the scent of dinner drifting from within as the sunset bathed him.

The sound of hooves grew from distant to near, shattering the village's tranquility. Big Yellow Dog startled upright, arching his back and warily eyeing the dust cloud in the distance.

A black horse and a white one galloped in, slowing to a trot at the village entrance. They raised their heads to gaze at the mountains nearby.

The sunset glow painted the peaks, where faint clouds and mist blushed crimson. Jagged rocks jutted against the sky, wrapped in rosy haze like a celestial realm fallen to earth.

At the mountain's foot, a shepherd boy rode an ox, his flute playing a leisurely tune that made the rustic scene even more peaceful.

"Just like they said—this place really does have a bit of an immortal feel." On the white horse sat a boy of fourteen or fifteen, with rosy lips and bright teeth. His long black hair was neatly tied in a warrior's bun with a silver band, the ends cascading like black satin, giving him a carefree, dashing air. His bright eyes fixed on the mountains, filled with anticipation.

On the black horse was a young man in brocade robes, four or five years older. Their faces bore a resemblance, easily marking them as brothers. The difference was that the elder had sharper, more angular features, looking far more stern and serious.

Long oilcloth bags hung from both saddles, with cold spear tips peeking out from the openings, glinting faintly.

Hearing the boy's words, the young man didn't reply. He just quietly watched the distant shepherd boy, silent for a long while.

"What's wrong?" the boy turned to ask.

"Nothing." The young man snapped out of it and smiled. "Just that the tune sounds like nothing I've ever heard—fresh and far-reaching, soothing to the heart."

The boy nodded in agreement. If the setting had only been five or six parts celestial, the shepherd's flute added a full seven or eight.

He didn't dwell on it, laughing, "There are countless fine tunes in the world; we can't know them all. Brother, have you suddenly taken a liking to music and song?"

The young man chuckled and shook his head. They slowly guided their horses into the village.

By the roadside lay the rice paddies, where farmers sweated as they cut the grain. The young man rode past slowly, his eyes fixed on the fields, his expression growing more and more serious.

The boy looked around. Some rice had been harvested, some still stood, a messy patchwork at first glance. Seeing his brother's solemn face, he asked curiously, "What are you staring at now..."

"Look more carefully, from a distance."

The boy focused, widening his view across the paddies. He felt as if the harvested sections formed the shape of a Taiji yin-yang fish. Not perfectly, but the shape was unmistakably Taiji!

Was it an illusion?

Suppressing his surprise, the young man reined in his horse and cupped his hands. "Excuse me, Old Man..."

The farmer looked up, saw the obvious nobility of the two, and his face crinkled like a chrysanthemum. "Looking to enter the mountains and seek immortals? It's getting late—how about staying at my place for the night? Very cheap..."

"..." The lofty image shattered instantly. The young man's eyes flickered, but he still spoke politely, "I am Li Qinglin, and this is my younger brother Qingjun... Might I ask, Old Man, is there any special meaning to cutting the rice in this shape?"

"Meaning?" The farmer scratched his head in confusion, mud smearing into his hair. "Little Qin taught me these simplified numbers, six and nine. He said putting them together makes some kind of 'style'? I don't get it either. I just remember the number shapes and cut along them..."

So that was it? The brothers exchanged a glance, let out a relieved, amused sigh. Though the number forms for six and nine were unheard of, it was far easier to accept than a farmer crafting a Taiji yin-yang fish in his field.

The farmer added, "My place is the most comfortable—warm kang, warm milk, only three coppers..."

"No need." The two smiled and rode on.

"Hey, hey, hey..." the farmer called after them. "Don't go into the mountains so late. There's poisonous miasma and a strange tiger—very dangerous!"

The boy, Li Qingjun, patted his spear case and turned with a grin. "Facing danger head-on shows sincerity. How about we kill that tiger for you?"

The farmer glanced at their spears, hesitated, then just said, "Be careful."

Near the village's end, at the mountain's foot, the mist grew thicker. The last few houses were barely visible. A woodcutter strolled by with a load on his pole, as if moving through the clouds, humming a song:

"All men know that immortals are fine, but fame and rank they can't forget. Where are the generals and ministers of old? In a heap of graves, grass overgrown.

All men know that immortals are fine, but gold and silver they can't forget. All day they fret their hoard's too small, till their eyes close and that's all..."

The brothers stared and listened, their horses slowing to a halt.

Everywhere in this place felt different. Even a woodcutter's song had such depth—no wonder people said this mountain held immortals. There was some truth to it.

"Excuse me, Old Man..." Li Qinglin stopped the woodcutter. "Who composed that song?"

The woodcutter grinned. "The Qin Family Kid's song. Pretty interesting, isn't it?"

Interesting? This was Immortal Trace Mountain, where seekers of immortality had come for generations. Hearing such a song here carried deep meaning.

"And where does this Qin Mr. live?"

The woodcutter pointed into the mist. "Last house at the village end, the one with the medicine-drying racks. You'll recognize it."

The courtyard was easy to spot. Racks crowded the small yard, layered with bamboo trays covered in various herbs. A faint, pleasant herbal scent lingered in the air.

A youth sat in the center of the yard, holding a club as he pounded medicine in a stone mortar. His manner was relaxed, as if unaware of the visitors.

The two watched from their horses for a while. Their initial expectation of meeting a sage faded. The youth was too young—sixteen or seventeen at most, not much older than Li Qingjun. Hard to connect him with any reclusive master. Besides, from their martial arts perspective, he was merely a martial artist, weaker than themselves.

Still, the youth was intriguing. In coarse clothes and straw sandals, slightly thin, he looked refined and quiet, more like a scholar than a village boy. As he pounded the medicine, he hummed an unfamiliar tune. The "thump, thump" of the pestle drifted through the silent dusk, carrying a soothing rhythm that brought out the tranquil, rustic feel.

Given his songs and numbers, he'd probably read some odd books or had a family tradition? If it was family, the farmers only called him "Little Qin" or "Qin Family Kid," so his elders were likely gone.

What was amusing was his "pestle"—a Wolf Tooth Club, thicker than his thigh, its vicious spikes gleaming in the sunset, a ridiculous contrast to his delicate appearance.

Was this his martial weapon?

"Hey!" Li Qingjun watched for a while, then couldn't help laughing. "Can you pound medicine with a Wolf Tooth Club? The front's all spikes, isn't it?"

The youth stopped his work, glanced at them, and focused on the two gun cases slung over their shoulders. Instead of answering their question, he said, "It's not convenient to go into the mountains at night. You two should be careful. There's a strange tiger at the summit—don't go near it. If you accidentally provoke it, run immediately. It won't chase."

Li Qinglin asked, "Little brother, your surname is Qin?"

The youth replied casually, "Qin Yi."

Li Qinglin introduced himself again and continued, "My brother and I are entering the mountains to seek immortals. We heard a woodcutter singing a tune with profound meaning. They said it was composed by Brother Qin?"

"Oh, I heard it from a wandering Daoist years ago. Nothing to do with me."

"..." Li Qingjun had long felt that this youth, about the same age as herself, couldn't be some lofty sage. At this, she said, "Sorry for the trouble," and prepared to head up the mountain.

But Li Qinglin suddenly spoke up, "Brother Qin, from the look of you, are you an apothecary? Do you have any antidotes? We'd like to buy a few pills."

Li Qingjun shot her brother a puzzled look. They had prepared everything thoroughly—why buy medicine on a whim?

"No variety. One pill cures all." Qin Yi casually tossed over a cloth pouch. "Two pills inside. Ten taels of silver."

Li Qingjun caught the pouch and peered at the two date-sized pills inside. She let out a scoffing laugh. "How can there be a pill that cures all poisons? What kind of pill is this?"

Her voice was crisp, and that scoffing laugh softened much of her spear-wielding, steely aura, lending her a touch of playful charm.

Qin Yi stared at her for a moment, then suddenly grinned. "It's called the Eat-a-Date-and-Be-Done Pill."