Borrowing a Touch of Rosy Cloud Light

In a low-earthen-walled thatched cottage in the village below the mountain, an old woman was making homemade earth incense.

Just like Song You in the temple, she had a wooden incense table about the size of a single desk. On it lay a flat plank roughly a foot wide, where an awl pierced a stack of red paper about three fingers wide and a foot long, used for rolling incense. Below was a trough filled with incense materials. Looking closely at the mixture, one could vaguely identify several familiar ingredients, ground into millet-sized granules, showing a greenish-yellow hue.

The old woman scooped up the incense material with a bamboo strip about as long as the red paper, poured it into a neat, long line on the paper, then took out a bamboo stick, folded the top of the red paper a few times to seal it, and with a twist of her hand, expertly rolled the entire stick of incense.

After sealing the bottom of the homemade incense, one stick was complete.

From start to finish, it took about ten seconds by the count, and the old woman's movements were so fluid, every bit of force just right, that watching her was a pure pleasure.

Song You stood quietly by the side, not making a sound.

The old woman, her hair silver-white, was completely focused.

The room was filled with the fresh scent of herbs. Light slanted in through the window, and fine incense dust floated in the air, giving both of them shape in that moment.

Even the Three Flower Cat's heart was still.

Thirty sticks of incense were quickly rolled.

The old woman carefully counted them, tied them up with straw, and handed them to Song You:

"Young Mister."

"Thank you, ma'am."

Song You accepted them with utmost respect.

Each stick of this incense was as thick as a finger, much thicker than the fine incense in the city. Holding thirty of them in one hand was quite a handful, yet they cost only six coppers, and the most expensive part was the rough, low-quality red paper.

Song You paid a little extra as thanks for the old woman's earlier advice on the incense ingredients, then took his leave.

Cheap as this incense was, unable to fetch a high price, many of the Taoist priests Song You had dealt with in various temples preferred using such homemade incense, and most especially liked using incense they had personally mixed and rolled themselves.

Only what one has poured their heart into can reach the spirits and gods.

Leaving the village, Song You walked onto the main road and then turned back to the village shrine. Of the thirty sticks of incense, he kept only three for himself, placing the rest before the statue of Wang Shangong.

Give and take, receive and return.

With his heart at ease, he continued on his way.

Now, he had gone from being alone to being one man and one cat.

At first, the Three Flower Lady behaved herself—perhaps because she wasn't yet familiar with Song You. She simply followed behind him, keeping a steady, unhurried distance. But soon, her nature broke free. She would occasionally dash ahead a few steps, then turn back to look at Song You. Sometimes she stood still, lowering her head to sniff at the wild grass by the roadside. Other times, she was drawn to a butterfly or a bird in the air, pausing to watch until Song You had walked far ahead, then she would scurry back to catch up.

With her antics, the journey was no longer so dull.

Before long, they came across a checkpoint. Song You presented his Monk Certificate and passed through without issue.

As mentioned before, traveling merchants and wandering martial artists each had their own methods, and people like Song You had their own special travel permits.

In this world, religion was also under the control of the imperial court, with different dynasties having different rules. In the case of the Great Yan, religious management was actually much stricter, with the biggest difference from previous dynasties being the reduction of privileges for ordinary temples and monasteries.

For example, they were no longer exempt from various taxes.

Still, this was a world where gods and spirits existed, and respect was due to those cultivators with true Daoist skill.

Thus, the Great Yan had two levels of Monk Certificates.

The ordinary certificate was just a piece of paper, inscribed with talismans, bearing the issuing institution, temple, and personal information, stamped with a large seal. It had to be kept pressed in a box to avoid damage. Any legitimate monk or Taoist could obtain this kind of certificate.

The other kind was a folded booklet.

Obtaining this booklet proved that you had some real skill, or that your master or elders had some, granting a certain tax exemption. Considering the frequent appearance of demons and ghosts in the world, and the necessity for some cultivators to travel far and wide to debate the Dao, this certificate also served as a travel permit, allowing the bearer to bring up to five disciples or attendants.

It was a privilege for accomplished cultivators.

But over the years, this kind of certificate had inevitably become widespread, and by now, it didn't mean much anymore.

After passing the checkpoint, the scenery along the road changed significantly. The mountains on the left were no longer gentle but had become towering and steep, while the right side remained as before. The road wound through the mountains alongside a stream, and every time the Three Flower Lady wanted to see the mountain peak, she had to tilt her head all the way back.

"So high!"

said the Three Flower Lady.

"Has the Three Flower Lady ever seen mountains this high before?" Song You asked, sitting on a rock and eating a steamed bun.

"No."

The Three Flower Cat turned her head to look at him.

As if just remembering, Song You quickly tore off a small, untouched piece from the steamed bun in his hand, bent down, and offered it to the Three Flower Cat's mouth.

But the Three Flower Cat only stared at him blankly.

Just then, a buzzing insect flew past her face. The Three Flower Cat simply raised a front paw and caught the flying bug firmly in her palm. Then, she brought her paw to her mouth, and by the time Song You could see clearly, only the insect's translucent wings were visible at the edge of her lips.

The Three Flower Cat ate while glancing at Song You.

"..."

I was the one being clueless.

Song You silently withdrew the hand holding the steamed bun.

"Do you want to eat?" the Three Flower Cat asked him. "The Three Flower Lady can catch two more for you."

"No need, I don't eat bugs."

"They're very tasty."

"I appreciate the offer."

"What about a mouse?"

"No need, thank you."

"Hmm..."

"Have you heard of the Three Flower Lady?" Song You asked while eating his steamed cake. "There's a place ahead called Hand Crawl Rock—extremely perilous, but the scenery is superb."

"What is Hand Crawl Rock?"

"It's a section of a path carved into the cliff that you have to crawl through."

"How do you know about it?"

"I heard some wanderers talking about it a few days ago when I stayed at the temple."

"I rarely listen to them talk."

"It's quite interesting."

"Are we going there?"

"I want to."

"Hmm..." The Three Flower Cat suddenly leaped up again, precisely catching an insect. This time Song You saw it clearly—it was a locust—and it only said to him, "Anyway, the Three Flower Lady will follow you."

Song You nodded.

The sun slanted westward.

By the time Song You asked the third local household, he had finally arrived at the foot of Hand Crawl Rock.

An old man weaving lanterns, wearing a bamboo-woven conical hat, stood at his doorstep and pointed high to the left at a cliff that pierced the clouds, saying to Song You, "Up there is Hand Crawl Rock."

The man and the cat looked up together.

A thousand-foot sheer cliff seemed to press right before them, so close that for a moment, nothing else was visible beyond this towering precipice.

"Hand Crawl Rock is indeed a shortcut, but hardly anyone takes it anymore. The path is dangerous—slippery and wet—and the mountains often have hauntings and ghosts. Every night, there's wailing and howling. People do go up to play, but they go during the day and come back during the day; no one dares to stay overnight up there." The old man kindly said to the young Taoist priest, "It's too late now. If you want to see the scenery, go up tomorrow. If you're heading up there, you must be back before dark."

"May I ask, elder, how long does it take to climb up?"

"An hour to climb up, another hour to come back. If you go down the other side all the way to the bottom, it takes two hours."

"An hour..."

Song You calculated—there was still time.

But the old man glared at him disapprovingly. "You want to go up tonight? You'll have to walk in the dark. There really are ghosts on this mountain."

"It's no trouble."

When people die, they become ghosts, and ghosts are inherently weaker than humans.

"Even if you're not afraid of ghosts, walking at night is still dangerous," the old man continued. "Over the millennia, countless people have fallen to their deaths up there."

"Elder, sell me a lantern."

"I only have lanterns here, no candles."

"That's fine, that's fine."

"You Taoist priests never listen to advice!"

Song You just smiled, spent sixteen coppers to buy a simple lantern from the old man—common in shape, with a light and delicate bamboo frame, covered in a layer of rice-white paper slightly yellowed, with no other decorations.

The man and the cat followed a small path up the mountain.

"Overcast rain, ghosts wail at night..."

Song You murmured, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

This was how the world described Hand Crawl Rock.

Going up through the forest, following a two-foot-wide cliffside path that slanted upward, reaching the very top was the famed Hand Crawl Rock itself.

This section of cliff was perpendicular to the ground, and the path was entirely carved along the cliff's natural cracks and man-made chisel marks—a narrow trail less than a person's height. In wider spots, it might be three or four feet across; in narrower spots, only one person could press against the cliff and edge past dangerously. The whole way required bending over, or else using both hands and feet.

The Three Flower Lady had it easy—it didn't affect her at all. Song You had to struggle much more.

He had to stoop as he moved, all while worrying about losing his footing and falling.

To those who brave the mountain's height and distance, the landscape rewards them with the most extraordinary views.

From this angle, the ravine below was covered in green shade like a dark blanket. Occasionally, unknown trees clung to the cliff, their roots anchored who-knew-where, stubbornly growing against the rock, bent in one direction by years of mountain wind, as if welcoming brave climbers.

What was astonishing was that on such a perilous spot, people of the past had not only carved this path but also chiseled countless cliffside inscriptions above and on the rock face.

There were scriptures for liberating the dead, and divine images to suppress evil spirits. Many were beginning to blur, with time trickling over them. For a thousand years, they had witnessed batch after batch of people passing through here, wondering if they could endure another millennium.

Song You walked slowly—not just out of caution, but also to savor the steep scenery below, or to look up and meet the gazes of the gods in these carvings.

These cliff inscriptions spanned a wide range of eras, so they had different styles. Some gods were depicted in eerie ways, some in gentle forms, while others deliberately emphasized strong physiques. These were the fantasies of the common people about divine images, reflecting the social atmosphere and folk preferences of different periods, from which one could roughly judge which dynasties these carvings came from.

The oldest ones were probably over a thousand years old.

Song You studied them closely—not just the brushwork and craftsmanship, but also the brows and eyes of these deities, as if he could glimpse a corner of those bygone eras through them.

Perhaps in some age, when this road had not yet been abandoned and people still traveled it often, countless demons and ghosts truly did use the terrain to block the way and claim lives, while these stone-carved gods, empowered by the people's faith, genuinely held the mountain's monsters and fiends in check.

Suddenly a thought arose in his mind: perhaps the need to crawl on hands and feet, bent at the waist, was not only due to the difficulty of carving, but also to force those who passed here to bow before these statues that suppressed evil spirits, maintaining a measure of reverence.

The sky grew darker and darker.

Song You stopped at the highest point, sitting right on the edge of the cliff, his legs dangling naturally, letting the mountain wind blow over him, resolved to spend the night here.

Today there was no overcast rain; instead, the setting sun was like blood, the red clouds filling the sky.

In this era, no small number of people loved travel. Many scholar-officials and men of letters were passionate about natural landscapes. According to the old man at the foot of the mountain, people were often drawn by the perilous beauty of Hand Crawl Rock, climbing it fearlessly for fun, yet very few dared to spend the night up there.

In Song You's view, they were truly missing out.

But even more beautiful than the sunset was the dreamlike color that appeared at the edge of the sky after the afterglow of the setting sun had faded, when the sky overhead had already dimmed.

A blue that was not quite blue, a purple tinged with red, a pink that blended into white, gradually shifting into the gentle evening Rosy Cloud Light.

The darker the sky grew, the more beautiful the horizon became.

Song You stared blankly, utterly entranced.

In this world, pure natural scenery and divine ghosts and magic were among the few things that could truly captivate him, for only these rare elements made him feel that this world was not entirely dull and tedious compared to another.

"Taoist priest, aren't we going down?"

"No."

"It's dark."

"Mm."

The mountain wind grew cold.

Song You still sat on the cliff's edge, admiring the colors of the horizon and the silhouettes of the mountains below. Suddenly, as if remembering something, he reached out and picked up the newly bought lantern. Raising it with one hand, he stretched the other toward the distant sky, pinched a bit of nothingness, and cast it into the lantern.

In an instant, the lantern lit up with a light as dreamlike as the sky at that moment.

Borrowing a touch of Rosy Cloud Light, to dispel the long, cold night.