Qinghe Temple, Part One

July, 1182. Morning.

Rainwater dripped steadily from the eaves.

The drops struck the ground, shattered, and scattered—some spraying into the air, others landing on the brown wall at the corner.

Two people stood beneath the eaves beside the wall.

One was a thin young man, no more than ten years old, his face flushed red. He wore a faded blue Daoist robe, washed nearly white.

His long black hair was tied into a Daoist topknot, fastened with a brown wooden crescent crown. Rough, unpolished edges were still visible along the crown.

Standing opposite him was a beautiful woman wearing a veil, with bright eyes and fair skin.

She had a graceful figure and wore a plain white dress, its hem reaching only halfway down her thighs and exposing her pale skin. Brown leather boots rose to her knees, and a jade-green belt of leather and jade circled her waist.

"Rong Fang, I may be going to the Great Capital soon. I probably won't be able to visit you often after this." Her voice was gentle and clear, as clean as a mountain spring.

"Didn't you promise me you wouldn't go keep Du Ma Lan company anymore!?" the young man demanded through gritted teeth.

"I did promise you that." The woman nodded. "That's why the person I'm with now isn't Du Ma Lan."

She sighed softly and turned to look at the dense forest beyond the curtain of rain.

Among the dark green and brown woods, the wind swayed the branches without pause.

The rustling of leaves and the crackle of rain mingled together, impossible to distinguish.

"If you don't want people to bully you in this world, you have to claw your way upward by every means possible. Do you still not understand that?"

The woman spoke softly.

"I don't want this either. But other than this face and body, what else do I have to use as leverage? At the very least, I'm far luckier than those ordinary women. At least I still have hope of turning my life around!"

She opened the small pouch at the back of her waist, untied its flap, and took out something wrapped in pale yellow oil paper, offering it to him.

"Our parents died early. In this world, only you and I have each other, brother. Rong Fang, this is what I've saved over the past few years. Take it."

She handed him the oil-paper packet.

Over these past years, after coming to terms with it, the woman had finally sold everything she had to that man for a suitable price, buying safety for herself and her younger brother, along with food and clothing without worry.

And inside this packet was something her younger brother had wanted for a long time.

Thinking of it, the woman's other hand unconsciously pressed against the skin on the back of her thigh.

Even through her dress, she could feel waves of pain.

For that thing, she had abandoned her dignity and become someone else's plaything.

But it had been worth it.

With this money and that thing, it should be enough to cover her brother's food and clothing for years after she left. "Take it. Don't worry. I'll definitely let us live—"

Smack!!

The young man viciously slapped the oil-paper packet.

The packet flew away from the force, rolled into the rain, and tumbled several times over the muddy ground, spilling out a stack of banknotes of varying sizes and copper coins.

"Who the hell wants your filthy money!?" The young man abruptly raised his head and shouted. "You think no one knows just because you don't say anything? You think money can buy a good life!? You think nobody knows what you do all day!? Do you know what people say about you behind your back!?"

"You don't know anything! Being someone's plaything feels good, does it!? You have no shame, but I do!"

"How did Father and Mother teach us back then? Have you forgotten it all?"

"From this day on, I, Zhang Rongfang, will no longer acknowledge you as my elder sister!! Take your filthy money and get lost!!"

Smack! He viciously slapped the woman across the face. Then he turned and left, soon vanishing deep into the forest as rain poured over him.

The woman froze. Her Right Cheek had been slapped bright red and slowly began to swell, but she had no time to care about that. She hurried out from beneath the eaves, ran toward the packet he had struck away, and crouched down to pick up the banknotes one by one.

She picked them up carefully, but the rainwater and mud, along with their rolling across the ground, had still blurred and ruined most of the older notes.

The ruined, illegible ones could no longer be used. They were worthless. That meant more than half of what she had paid for before had gone to waste in an instant. As she gathered them, drops suddenly fell onto the back of her hand—but they did not seem to be raindrops.

Tears blurred her vision, and muddy water stained her hands.

"Don't blame him. He's still young. He doesn't understand, doesn't know how important money is. Later, later he will—"

She did not continue. She merely wrapped the money and the item back into the oil paper, crouched there in the rain, her voice choked with sobs as she muttered words no one could make out.

...Great Ling, February, 1183.

Pingyu Road, Huaxin County, Qinghe Temple.

Cross-shaped red flowers swayed gently on the trees in the wind, and a dewdrop slid from the tip of a petal.

The dewdrop fell over ten meters from the tree, lightly shattering against a Daoist's cheek.

The Daoist rubbed his face, then, eyes still closed, lifted the yellow gourd in his hand and sniffed at its opening.

"One gourd of Spring-Drunk Begonia Isle; before a gourd is drunk, its fragrance has already seeped through. This wine truly deserves its fame as the renowned gourd wine of far and near. Just smelling it makes the whole body feel at ease!"

His face was full of intoxicated admiration. He tilted his head back with the gourd, miming a drink and imagining fine wine pouring from its empty interior.

Before him lay a square Daoist training ground marked with a black-and-white Taiji Diagram. White walls surrounded it, with flowering trees standing all around.

More than ten young Daoists sat cross-legged on the grounds, chanting scriptures.

"To mend split bamboo, use bamboo to mend; to embrace a chicken, use an egg to do it. All efforts against one's kind are futile labor; how can they compare to true lead containing sacred opportunity?"

The young Daoists recited the scripture in a sing-song melody. Beside them were two Daoists, one holding an imperial bell, a hand-shaken Daoist bell, and the other beating a small drum, their accompaniment answering one another.

In a corner, a somewhat thin young Daoist with slightly dark skin moved his lips, but no sound came out.

He was clearly only mouthing along.

He wore a dark blue Daoist robe and a crescent-shaped wooden Daoist Crown. His expression was wooden.

On the surface, he was chanting with the rest. In truth, his mind was a complete muddle.

It had been more than ten days since Zhang Rongfang arrived in this world, yet he remained dazed and unable to adapt to life here.

One night, he had simply closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was somewhere else.

Over more than ten days of observation, Zhang Rongfang quietly gathered all kinds of information and roughly figured out some of the circumstances here.

This was a vast nation called Great Ling.

And the place where he was now was a Daoist Temple of middling size, situated amid the mountains west of Great Ling.

The temple was called Qinghe Temple. More than a hundred Daoists lived within its square Dao Palace.

Zhang Rongfang was one of them.

Every day, the Daoists attended morning and evening lessons. Aside from chanting scriptures, they performed miscellaneous chores, and now and then he could see a few Daoists practicing Daoist Sect techniques.

But after carefully asking around, Zhang Rongfang learned that the Daoist Sect techniques of this world had no exaggerated effects. They had mainly been created for longevity and health.

There were no immortal arts, no bizarre magic treasures, and certainly no flying swords.

The sole benefit Daoists gained from practicing Daoist arts was good health and fewer illnesses. Occasionally, they could treat others' ailments as well—what common folk called qigong healing. After seeing several senior Daoists in the Dao Palace who were said to possess profound Daoist arts, Zhang Rongfang completely gave up hope.

Decades of cultivation had merely given those old Daoists healthy bodies, ruddy complexions, swift feet, and powerful voices. There was nothing else extraordinary about them.

After chanting the Qi Forging Scripture for the morning lesson, the Daoists sat in meditation for a while before rising one after another at the sound of the bell.

"Those heading to the fire room, move your feet faster! Important guests are visiting this morning, so show some spirit. Don't be as listless and lazy as usual!" the senior brother overseeing the morning lesson shouted, a fly-whisk in hand.

"Even if we go early, we can't get the fire going. We're nearly out of firewood, and no one's filled it in yet. Yell, yell, yell—he only knows how to yell all day. Master hasn't even said anything."

A plump, fair Daoist beside him muttered under his breath.

The fat Daoist glanced at Zhang Rongfang.

"Lao Fang, how about you do mine too? I'll give you this much." He raised one finger.

"Ten copper coins?" Zhang Rongfang understood. "No. I have something to do today too."

"Oh, going to the Letter Room to collect a letter, right?" The fat Daoist was Pang Zhong. At this, he broke into a smile.

Yet there seemed to be another meaning hidden in that smile.

Zhang Rongfang ignored him.

After arriving in this world, he had inherited some memories from his Previous Body. He knew that both his parents had died, and that he had an Elder Sister. But she had gone to the distant Great Capital and they had lost contact.

And it seemed he had been the one to leave voluntarily, running to Qinghe Temple to become a Daoist, which was why their contact had been cut off.

He left the training ground and followed the side corridor toward the Letter Room.

The corridors formed a square loop, connecting three training grounds.

On one of those grounds, several pairs of Disciples in Daoist robes, their hands and legs bound with wraps, were engaged in Sparring Practice.

Zhang Rongfang glanced at them from afar. The Daoists on the field practiced nothing but ordinary fist-and-kick techniques.

There was no inner qi. Other than appearing slightly more forceful than ordinary people, there was nothing unusual about them.

An imperceptible dark line flashed through his eyes.

At once, lines of game-like attribute data appeared above the heads of the Daoists in the field.

Wang Yingshi — Life 11-15, Skill: Returning Spring Purifying Time Talisman Classic - Seventh Yue Type Talisman.
Xie Zhao — Life 12-13, Skill: Returning Spring Purifying Time Talisman Classic - Fifth Hunyuan Talisman.
Chen Dashi — Life 11-14, Skill: Returning Spring Purifying Time Talisman Classic - Seventh Yue Type Talisman.

Information on each Daoist surfaced before Zhang Rongfang's eyes.

He lowered his head and looked at himself.

Zhang Rongfang — Life 8-9, Skill: None. Available Attributes: 0.

Behind both his Life and Skill were tiny yellow Plus Signs. Clearly, just like the games he had played in his Previous Life, he could forcibly improve them with Attribute Points.

This ability looked much like a game, but Zhang Rongfang was more inclined to regard it as some kind of mutation.

That was because the ability had not appeared from the beginning. Rather, as he learned more about the outside world and gathered more information, it had gradually taken shape.

Names, Life, Skills—each had come about this way.

And this world did not seem like a game either, because it was real to an excessive degree.

After more than ten days of thought, analysis, data collection, and testing, Zhang Rongfang discovered that the only way to gain attributes was to eat.

The better he ate and the richer the nutrition, the faster he accumulated Attribute Points.

He had already tested it and gained one Attribute Point, which he added to Life. That was why his Life had risen from its original 7-8 to 8-9.

In Qinghe Temple, where ordinary Daoists all had Life ratings of 8-9, Zhang Rongfang had finally reached the average level.

Passing through the corridor, he soon found a small room.

It was a wooden hut built separately at the corridor entrance. It was piled full of letters and parcels, watched over by an old Daoist with half-lidded eyes.

The old Daoist reclined by the door with his back against the wall, smoking Dry Tobacco.

"Senior Brother Xu, I'd like to collect my letter." Zhang Rongfang clasped his fists in salute.

Old Xu reached behind him with a rustle, pulled out a parcel, opened it, and took out a somewhat rough pale yellow envelope.

Zhang Rongfang accepted it, clasped his fists again, then turned toward the row of single-story rooms where the Disciples lived.

As he walked, he tore open the Sealing Wax on the envelope and drew out the Letter Paper.

There was only one short line in the letter, along with a small-denomination banknote. It bore the number one hundred copper coins.

The sender was Xiaolong Residence, a Goulan.