The Village Temple Has Spirits

The Great Yan's commodity economy was the most developed of any dynasty, and as the Cuiyun Corridor served as a major thoroughfare, tea stalls and inns lined the route. Tea stalls were the most numerous.

Tea shops were a necessity on the official post roads.

The closer one got to Yidu, the more there were.

These tea stalls not only provided a place to rest and drink water; some also offered simple food, which was always better than carrying dry rations. The tea itself came in different grades—the cheapest was just salted water with maybe a hint of tea flavor, while for a bit more coin, one could drink the same boiled tea sold in the cities, though the taste depended on the shopkeeper's skill and conscience.

Song You hadn't walked far before he spotted a tea stall ahead with quite a few people. The steam rising from the steaming baskets was a strong temptation for any traveler on the mountain paths. He went over, sat down, and ordered a bowl of tea and two steamed cakes. Only then did he open the money pouch the merchants had given him.

Inside were all bits of broken silver, impossible to tell the exact weight.

A rough estimate put it at around ten taels.

Silver as a common currency in this world had only started in the current dynasty; before that, commoners rarely used silver for trade. This was convenient for travelers like Song You. Still, most people still used Great Yan Tongbao, copper coins, and when using silver, they converted it to coinage.

Last time he came down the mountain, one tael of silver exchanged for nearly twelve hundred coins.

Yesterday, when he left, he'd nearly emptied the temple's savings, bringing a total of nineteen taels of silver and a little over one string of copper coins. That old Daoist wouldn't be able to come down the mountain to buy meat for a while.

All together, it seemed like a decent sum.

But the Great Yan's commerce was thriving—there were many things to buy, many places to spend money, many wealthy people, and many jobs, even average wages were higher. Once he left the mountains around the temple and the small villages and towns below, this money wouldn't last long.

Song You hadn't brought much when he left; he'd have to acquire everything on the road. Once he had more things, he'd probably need to buy a horse or a mule.

Song You planned to buy one when he reached Yidu.

Although the tea-horse trade in Yizhou was controlled by the government, and private transactions were illegal by law, buying horses or mules in Yidu was still better quality and cheaper than elsewhere. He'd heard that a decent southwestern horse cost only around twenty thousand coins, and mules were even cheaper.

A horse or a mule wouldn't be bad...

As he was thinking, the tea arrived.

A bowl of the shop's best tea, with all sorts of things mixed in, and two steamed cakes, bigger than a fist, a pale yellow dough, steaming hot.

Song You took a bite of the steamed cake, then a sip of tea, while glancing at the other customers.

Most of the people sitting here were merchants and travelers, along with some wandering martial artists. They might be silent while walking, but once they sat down, they'd start chatting.

Some talked about the recent tea-horse market, some about the upcoming autumn examinations, some about which temple had shown divine power, which mountain path had monsters, some mentioned temple fairs, and the martial artists discussed grand gatherings in the jianghu—all as chaotic as this bowl of tea, sketching out a corner of the world.

Song You ate and drank slowly, listening quietly.

The tea table had a patina from years of use, dappled with spots of sunlight.

The tea at this time wasn't clear-brewed; the liquid was thick and murky. With the two steamed cakes, Song You was nearly full after finishing. He called the shopkeeper to settle the bill.

It came to a little over ten coins; the tea was more expensive than the cakes.

Song You counted out the money and asked casually, "Shopkeeper, how far is it from here to Yidu?"

"Nearly four hundred li, passing through four counties."

"Four hundred li..."

From Song You's own sense, one li in the Great Yan wasn't as long as a li in his previous life—four hundred meters at most. With good footing, covering eighty to a hundred li a day wasn't a problem.

"Is there an inn ahead?"

"The nearest post station is sixty li toward Yidu. If you've got good legs, you can make it." The shopkeeper took the money from his hand, having watched him count it, so he just pocketed it without recounting. "But there are two temples along the way, both empty. To be honest, that post station isn't necessarily a better place to sleep than those temples."

"I see."

In this era, many temples accepted lodgers, especially Buddhist temples, which had a strong functional role far beyond just worship and incense.

But empty temples by the roadside...

Song You glanced at the two tables of martial artists nearby.

Probably their first choice.

Thanking the shopkeeper, Song You continued on his way.

Gradually, the sun passed its zenith. The weather today was as good as yesterday, and the Cuiyun Corridor under the sunlight was almost unrealistically beautiful.

If one had the leisure, walking through it was a pleasure.

Song You followed behind a group of porters for a while, matching their pace. Having someone ahead to lead the way saved mental and physical energy.

Sometimes he followed them to find a stream or spring by the ancient road, watched them cup water to drink, and did the same. Sometimes when they stopped to rest, he'd use his Daoist robe to strike up a brief conversation, asking about the road ahead, listening to the local customs and dialects—all of it was a gain.

In the afternoon, the sun grew scorching, cicadas droned incessantly, showing no sign of yesterday's heavy rain and fog, or the ghosts that had appeared in that fog.

When Song You stopped to rest, he couldn't help but doze off for a while.

When he woke, the group of dark, wiry porters was long gone, leaving only the empty ancient road of green stone, dappled with forest shade and spots of light. A string of small pits ran down the middle of the flagstones, stretching deep into the shaded ancient road—the direction the porters had gone, with no end in sight.

Song You had no choice but to shoulder his pack and follow those small pits, walking alone once more.

He had seen it just now—

Those porters leaned on their bamboo or wooden staffs, as if by tradition, each time striking precisely into those pits. It seemed they not only walked the same road as the porters from a thousand years ago, but even took the same size steps.

A thousand years of dripping water wearing away stone had created these indelible marks on the path. Wasn't that also a kind of inheritance?

Walking like this, he felt that every stone slab and every ancient cypress was a witness to time. As his gaze flickered, he recalled his master's words from the day before:

"Do you think that sitting in meditation, breathing exercises, reading, and practicing in these mountains is what cultivation is all about?"

Song You knew at once that she wanted him to go down the mountain.

This old Daoist had once traveled across the great rivers and roamed the four seas in her youth, and thus had gained considerable cultivation. She had never believed that sitting in meditation alone counted as true practice. Besides, Song You had long known that every generation of Fulong Temple had to descend the mountain for a journey—some long, some short, but never an exception.

Sure enough, he soon heard her say again:

"You should go down the mountain. Travel across mountains, rivers, lakes, and seas. See the world and human affairs. Seek out famous mountains and immortal masters if you wish, or encounter demons and monsters by chance. Go see the real world you cannot find on this mountain. On that road of ten thousand li, there lies both your cultivation and perhaps something that catches your interest."

So she already knew...

Down the mountain it was, then. Song You also wanted to see, besides demons and spirits, how many other interesting things this world held.

Before he knew it, dusk had arrived.

Song You stopped in front of a small temple by the roadside, shook his pack, and looked up at the couplet on either side of the temple gate. He read it aloud in a low voice:

"This road—who does not walk it? "That deed—I urge you not to do it!"

This was a village-built temple, a single room crammed with many deities—some from Buddhism, some from Daoism, and some local gods, mostly former virtuous and respected people who had become spirits after death. Behind each statue was written its name, and some even had brief biographies.

The village temple was not far from Cuiyun Corridor, and travelers often spent the night here.

Song You had already decided to sleep here tonight.

He stepped through the gate. Incense was still burning. He first bowed to the statues, said, "Pardon the intrusion," then found a corner far from the door, bent down to blow the dust off the floor, and sat cross-legged against the wall.

The ground was cold and cool, gradually warming beneath him.

Later, seven or eight more people arrived, just as Song You had guessed—almost all of them martial artists, carrying blades and swords.

They had no choice but to stay here.

Throughout the dynasties, to restrict population movement, commoners were usually not allowed to travel freely. But these rules only worked on honest folk. Merchants, martial artists, and cultivators like Song You each had their own methods.

Traveling merchants with legitimate needs had travel permits and took officially approved routes.

Some martial artists had permits, some didn't, but they all had their ways. The trouble was that they couldn't easily stay at inns along the way, so they had to fend for themselves.

Fortunately, the Great Yan had many temples. Whether occupied or empty, most would let them stay—as long as they didn't stumble into some licentious shrine or evil cult. There were plenty of bold, skilled martial artists who dared to sleep even in haunted, broken-down temples.

This temple by the official road was, of course, legitimate.

Perhaps because they were all disliked by the authorities, or perhaps because they valued social connections, these martial artists—whether they knew each other or had only heard of one another—would greet each other and soon be chatting away. Even those of a quieter disposition, when approached with a greeting, would immediately return the courtesy with proper respect, afraid of ruining their reputation if word got out.

They were noisy, talking late into the night.

Someone even came to bother Song You, but when they realized he wasn't one of them, they left him alone.

Song You wasn't afraid, though.

These martial artists, though they looked fierce, actually followed strict codes of conduct. And in this world, even bandits usually wouldn't trouble monks or Daoists.

Not only that—during the day, if Song You passed a tea stall and had no money, just wearing this robe, he could beg for a bowl of coarse tea with a high success rate. And if he ran into these martial artists, a few kind words might even get him a steamed bun.

They made a racket until midnight, then finally went to sleep.

The mountain night was utterly silent, save for the wind rattling the door planks and the snoring of the wandering martial artists nearby.

Before he knew it, Song You had a dream.

In the dream, it was still this temple. The statues and layout were mostly the same, but the martial artists lying scattered around were gone. Looking closely, one statue on the altar was missing—a local deity on the edge.

Instead, a man stood before him.

He was dressed like a merchant, but in colorful clothes. He had an honest face, red as a date, and his figure was both clear and hazy. His appearance matched the missing statue.

Before falling asleep, Song You had carefully examined all the statues, especially the local gods. He knew this one was called Wang Shangong, a local yin spirit.

Wang Shangong had been a man of the previous dynasty, from a wealthy family. When a famine swept the land, corpses littered the fields. He opened his granaries to feed the refugees. In the end, perhaps misjudging the famine's severity, his own family ran out of food, and he starved to death. The local people, grateful for his kindness, built a temple and statue for him. When the court learned of it, they even granted him an official title. Now he was a proper deity.

Before Song You could think further, Wang Shangong bowed to him first:

"I presume to disturb your honored presence. My respects."

"What business does the Honored One have with This Humble One in the dead of night?"