The First Night After Transmigrating

Shen Hui had just lifted his head from the water vat when the young apprentice sidled up and guided him into the temple.

"This way, this way."

The apprentice pushed open a side door, revealing a narrow, elongated courtyard.

Tender moss sprouted from the cracks between the bluestone slabs. Against the wall sat several chipped clay pots, their contents—some unknown plants—with leaves wilting and curling at the edges. In the corner of the yard stood a well, the hemp rope on its pulley worn and frayed.

"This is the east courtyard. Our quarters are over there."

The apprentice spoke as he walked. "My monastic name is Qing Shi. My lay surname is Wang, given name Shi. Master named me, said I'm... well, honest."

He chuckled twice, a little embarrassed.

Passing through the east courtyard, Qing Shi led Shen Hui through a moon gate.

The view opened up into a slightly larger yard, with an old peach tree at its center, its branches gnarled as if cast in iron. Beneath the tree sat a stone table and stools, a thin layer of dust covering the tabletop. Facing them was a three-bay hall, its door left ajar, the interior dark and shadowy, with the faint outline of a deity statue visible, its paint mostly peeled away.

"That's the Three Pure Ones Hall. Morning and evening lessons are held in the front courtyard, sometimes in the hall. Master also gives sermons there."

Qing Shi didn't pause, leading Shen Hui through the corridor beside the hall.

The corridor's pillars were mottled with peeling red lacquer, the carved wooden patterns on the railings blurred beyond recognition. Beneath the corridor were piled odds and ends: a broom with a broken handle, a cracked wooden bucket, a few rolls of old reed mats. The air carried a musty smell, faintly mixed with the scent of incense.

Passing through another narrow door, they entered an even smaller yard, with only two rows of low houses to the north and south, looking older still.

Qing Shi walked to the door of the northern room, fished a copper key from under a broken tile on the windowsill, and jiggled it a few times before the lock gave way.

"Creak—"

The door swung open, releasing a wave of stale, damp air.

The room was tiny. Against the wall stood a plank bed covered with a straw mat. A wobbly wooden table, a square stool, and a chipped clay basin in the corner—that was all the furniture. The window paper was faintly yellowed, with holes in places, hastily patched with rough straw paper.

"You'll stay here. I'll bring you bedding later."

Qing Shi placed the key on the table. "Don't mind it. Though simple, it's still better than a broken-down temple."

Shen Hui paced a few steps inside, looking around, and said, "How could I mind, Reverend? This place is already far better than a ruined temple."

Qing Shi waved a hand and led him back out, pointing to a small shed at the west end of the yard. "That's the latrine."

Then he guided him to the southeast corner, where a stone trough stood, with a gourd ladle hanging by its side. A bamboo pipe connected it to a spring in the back mountain.

"For washing up and laundry, use the water here. If you need hot water, you'll have to go to the kitchen and boil it yourself."

Having explained all this, Qing Shi carried his large rattan box toward the southern row of houses.

"I'll go settle in. Make yourself at home."

Shen Hui returned to the small room and sat on the edge of the bed for a while.

The room was so quiet he could hear his own breathing, along with the faint rustle of pines in the distance.

He stood up, picked up the clay basin, and went out to the water trough.

The icy mountain water splashed against his face, jolting him alert.

He washed his face carefully, then smoothed down his messy hair with the water.

The trough reflected a blurry image of him, clearer than in the vat, but still gaunt. Yet the panic in his eyes seemed to have faded a little.

He carried half a basin of water back to the room, intending to wipe the dirt off his body. But just as he set the basin down, a knock came at the door.

Qing Shi was back, carrying a wooden tray.

On the tray were a large bowl of steaming vegetable porridge, two coarse grain steamed buns, and a dish of dark, murky pickled vegetables. Draped over his other arm were two sets of folded gray cloth robes, two sets of white coarse-cloth undergarments, and a pair of shoes and socks each.

"Here, have something to eat for now. The robes are old, but they've been washed. Change into them. The shoes and socks are new; I guessed the size based on my own feet. See if they fit."

Qing Shi placed everything on the table, adding, "Tomorrow's morning lesson, remember to get up at the third quarter of the Yin hour. Master hates lateness."

Shen Hui looked at the steaming bowl of porridge, his stomach clenching, and thanked him again.

Qing Shi reached the door, turned back, and hesitated. "Um... you do know what time the third quarter of the Yin hour is, right?"

Shen Hui paused, then shook his head.

Qing Shi's eyes widened as he looked him up and down. "Your clothes are strange enough, but you don't even know the hours..."

He shook his head, as if finding it hard to believe. "Never mind. I'll come get you at the Mao hour tomorrow... uh, when the sky's just starting to lighten. Don't sleep too soundly."

One foot already over the threshold, he remembered something, pulled it back, and lowered his voice again. "One more thing: don't wear too many layers to morning lesson. The hall... well, it's not that warm, but if you dress too thick, you'll get drowsy. Master has sharp eyes."

With that, he finally left, his footsteps fading away on the stone slabs.

Shen Hui closed the door and slid the bolt into place.

There were no candles or lamps in the room, only the faint light of the sky filtering through the window paper.

He sat down in the darkness, picked up the bowl of vegetable porridge that was still a little hot, and ate it slowly, bite by bite, with some pickled vegetables.

The porridge was made of coarse rice mixed with some unknown wild greens, and the steamed bun was so dense it was a bit choking.

But he ate it all cleanly, even scraping the rim of the bowl carefully.

Once full, his body finally felt a trace of warmth.

He washed himself in the dark, changed into the coarse cotton underclothes, then rolled up his old tattered rags into a bundle and stuffed them under the bed.

Lying on the bed, the straw mat was hard and lumpy, but beneath him was solid ground, and above his head was a roof with tiles.

Outside the window, the mountain wind swept over the ridge of the house, making a low whistling sound, like a car speeding down a late-night road.

The third quarter of the Yin hour... He closed his eyes, calculating in his mind.

Around 3:45 in the morning? In this place without clocks or watches, he couldn't distinguish time precisely and had to rely on others to wake him.

In the darkness, he listened to the wind, felt the hard wooden boards beneath him, and the warm, solid food in his stomach, and fell into a deep sleep.

In a daze, Shen Hui had a dream.

In the dream, he had become a renowned master of his generation, moving mountains and boiling seas, casting his sword to transform into a dragon, his cultivation reaching the pinnacle.

One day, the heavenly tribulation finally arrived; pass it, and he would become a true immortal.

He stood beneath the ninefold heavens, looking up, and saw a brilliant bolt of lightning suddenly explode across the sky.

Shen Hui let out a long roar and leaped upward.

But as the lightning reached him, he realized the blinding white light was actually a large truck with its high beams on, hurtling straight toward him.

Shen Hui jolted awake, springing up from the bed.

In the darkness, he gasped for breath several times, and it took a long moment before he could make out the simple outlines of his surroundings.

There was no sky pressing down with thunderclouds, no glaring beam of headlights—just the window patched with torn paper, letting in a sliver of pale moonlight, casting a faint frosty color on the ground.

"Damn high-beam bastard..."

He cursed in a hoarse whisper, his throat dry and tight.

He wiped his face with his hand; a fine layer of cold sweat covered his forehead.

He lay back down on the hard wooden bed, but all traces of sleep were gone.

The chill of late autumn seeped in through the thin straw mat and the holes in the window paper, threading into his very bones.

He curled up, grabbed the other gray cloth robe, and threw it over himself haphazardly.

Qing Shi had said he would bring bedding, but he must have been too busy and forgotten.

He stared at the blurry roof beams above.

In the silence, the wind in the distant mountains became clearer, sobbing and moaning like the breath of some enormous creature.

Occasionally, a very faint chirp or rustle came, whether from an insect or a bird.

His thoughts drifted involuntarily, back to a world now separated by an unknown span of time and space.

His parents' faces were already a bit blurry; he only remembered that when they left, he was young, crying his heart out.

It was his grandparents' calloused hands that pulled him up from the mud, feeding him mouthfuls of rice soup and gruel until he grew up.

Later, he got into university and left that small place, but before he could bring them out to enjoy life, the two old folks, as if by agreement, passed away one after the other within a year.

He didn't cry at the funeral; he just felt a huge hollow in his chest, and when the wind blew through it, it was cold and empty.

After that came graduation, finding a job, renting a small single room, commuting on the subway every day, working overtime, eating takeout.

Life was like a wound-up clockwork, going through the motions, but still empty.

Until that late night after overtime, riding his secondhand electric scooter, he turned into a quiet intersection with no streetlights—the blinding light swallowed everything, and the next second, he became a human speed bump...

He let out a soft sigh, forcibly driving those images from his mind.

The past was already on the other shore; thinking about it was useless.

He began to sort out the present.

When he first arrived in this world, he had seen farmers' clothes and the shape of houses from afar outside the village—roughly similar to ancient times, with low productivity and a hard life as the norm.

But... it seemed there really was such a thing as "cultivation"?

The water ghost in the creek, the yellow talisman on its back, and the old Daoist's solemn tone when he mentioned "a Golden Core True Person who condenses Qi and refines Sha"—it didn't seem like an act.

Seeking immortality through Dao... eternal life... He wasn't fervently obsessed with it, but as someone steeped in modern science, he was at least curious about such a system of power beyond the ordinary.

Moreover, right now, it might be the only chance he could grasp to change his situation.

Just as he was letting his thoughts wander aimlessly, his heart suddenly stirred without any warning.

It was as if an extremely fine string had been gently plucked, or as if some dormant corner within him had sensed a subtle shift in the outside world.

He couldn't explain or articulate it, but he simply knew—the third quarter of the Yin hour had arrived.

He felt no surprise, only calmly accepted this fact, turning over and sitting up.

He pulled on the gray cloth Daoist robe and fastened the belt made of the same material.

The inner garment and the robe's fabric rubbed against his skin—rough but thick, barely fending off the bone-piercing chill of early morning.

He tried moving his limbs; the new cloth shoes were a bit tight, but after a few steps, he adjusted.

Picking up the chipped earthenware basin in the corner, he pushed open the door and stepped out.

Outside, the sky was still a deep blue-black. On the eastern horizon, only a faint, pale line of fish-belly white was dimly visible, setting the mountain silhouettes against it like ink-washed shadows, their shades perfectly balanced.

The courtyard was even colder than inside the room. The air was crisp and biting; one breath felt like washing the lungs in ice water.

By the stone trough, the spring water dripping from the bamboo pipe had formed a thin, transparent layer of ice crystals at the bottom.

He used a gourd ladle to break the ice, scooped up the bone-chilling spring water, and splashed it onto his face.

The cold instantly dispelled the last remnants of drowsiness and the haze left by dreams.

Using the water, he roughly rubbed his teeth with his fingers.

After washing up, he carried the basin back inside and poured the water onto the muddy ground outside the door. Then he stood in the center of the small courtyard, waiting quietly.

Between heaven and earth, all was silent. Shen Hui looked up, watching that line of fish-belly white slowly spread across the ink-blue sky, tinged with the faintest orange-gold.

One by one, the stars were fading.

The time for morning lessons was almost here.