Early in the morning, the sun had yet to rise over the horizon.
The villagers carried the coffin up the mountain for burial, their large straw-sandaled feet crushing the plantains beneath them. The Bamboo Spring Temple group followed along as well. What had happened yesterday evening had been somewhat uncanny, and the villagers were afraid. Having an old monk and a gray-white-haired boy present put them at ease. Once on the mountain, some villagers asked Old Hui Xian how the feng shui of the burial ground was. Old Hui Xian merely smiled and said little. There were people in the countryside who made their living reading feng shui; he could not break the rules and cut off another's livelihood.
Feng shui changed with time. Rivers shifted their courses, mountainsides collapsed, and even a wildfire could alter it.
Ordinary people should not hope for a Feng Shui Treasure Land; something slightly better than average was enough. Yet everyone wished to go to a good place after death and hoped their descendants would live better lives. How could they possibly accept the ordinary? Thus, Old Hui Xian rarely read feng shui for others.
The unbroken chain of verdant mountains was rare indeed. Vegetation flourished thick and lush, streams ran everywhere, and the land possessed far more vitality than other desolate places.
They followed the customary rites and buried the coffin, keeping it simple and swiftly finishing the task.
The sun rose. Having completed the funeral rites, the villagers hurried down the mountain to tend to their own work. Life was always busy.
On their way down to the village, they unexpectedly encountered a group of cold-faced government officials dressed in fine clothes. Sixteen of them rode demon horses capable of running along mountain paths: ten guards with vigorous Qi and Blood carried