Old Age and Poor Sleep

Shen Hui followed his master into the eastern parlor.

The room was small, with simple furnishings.

A wooden bed, a long table, a few chairs, and a bronze brazier in the corner where charcoal burned brightly, making the place warm and cozy.

The Old Taoist sat down on the edge of the bed, unstrapped the long, narrow case from his back, and leaned it against the headboard.

Shen Hui poured a cup of tea and handed it over. The Old Taoist took it, took a sip, and set it down.

"Speak. What else are you hiding from This Old One?"

Shen Hui hesitated for a moment, then made up his mind in an instant.

There was no hiding it. His master might be old, but his eyes were sharp as ever.

He decided to be straightforward. "Reporting to Master, your disciple has cultivated all the spells within the Lesser Five Elements Art."

The Old Taoist's eyes widened, his teacup freezing mid-air. "All five?"

"Metal, Wood, Water, Earth—I've only just begun each, nowhere near my Fire technique." Shen Hui answered honestly.

The Old Taoist stared at him, his gaze complicated.

He looked Shen Hui up and down for a long while, then suddenly spoke. "That Metal Qi you used last night—did it travel through your Middle Rush?"

Shen Hui was startled. He looked down at his hand and nodded. "Yes."

"The Middle Rush connects to the Pericardium. Metal Qi taking that meridian is fitting." The Old Taoist muttered to himself.

Then he asked, "So, have you reached the middle stage of Qi Refining and opened all the meridians in your body?"

Shen Hui hesitated, then nodded again. "I broke through two days before coming down the mountain."

The Old Taoist was stunned for a long moment, not even noticing the tea in his hand had gone cold.

After a long while, he slowly nodded and said only three words: "That's good."

With that, he set down his teacup and lay down on the bed fully clothed.

"Sleeping," the old man said.

Shen Hui was a bit surprised.

He had thought his master would meditate instead of sleeping, so why was he lying down?

He glanced at the Old Taoist, who had his back to him, wrapped in the blanket, motionless—whether asleep or not, he couldn't tell.

He didn't dare ask. He blew out the lamp, went to the outer room, sat cross-legged, and began his usual meditation practice.

The room was very quiet, broken only by the occasional crackle of charcoal in the bronze brazier.

But the Old Taoist tossed and turned quite a bit, the bed boards creaking for half the night before finally falling silent in the later hours.

Shen Hui thought to himself, Master is getting old after all—he can't sleep well in a new place, or maybe the elderly just don't sleep well in general...

Nothing else happened that night.

The next day, just as the sky began to lighten, Shen Hui finished his practice, got up, and went out to fetch water.

There was a well in the backyard of the station, its rim covered in a thin layer of ice. He drew a bucket, carried the wooden basin back to the room.

Speaking of this Old Taoist, he was quite an interesting character.

Back at the Temple, he never liked being waited on—he dressed and ate by himself.

If any disciple tried to fuss over him, he'd wave them off, saying, "I'm not some cripple who can't move; I don't need anyone's service."

But once he stepped out the door, down the mountain, and into the mortal world, he changed completely, immediately putting on airs.

When Shen Hui pushed open the door, the Old Taoist was still lounging on the bed, eyes half-open, looking like he hadn't fully woken up.

Seeing him enter, he said nothing, just slowly extended a hand—the meaning was clear: he was waiting to be served.

Shen Hui didn't waste words. He summoned a flame into the water basin to warm it to the perfect temperature, then soaked a towel, wrung it out, and handed it over with both hands.

The Old Taoist slowly sat up, took the towel, and meticulously wiped his face, then his hands—finger by finger—as if they were caked with some terrible filth.

Finished, he draped the towel over the basin's edge and still said nothing.

Shen Hui then brought him mouth-rinse water and attended to him as he rinsed.

All this fussing took nearly half an hour.

The Stationmaster sent someone to ask when they wanted breakfast. Before Shen Hui could answer, the Old Taoist spoke first, uttering two words flatly: "No rush."

The messenger stood at the door, unsure whether to stay or go, and looked to Shen Hui.

Shen Hui shook his head slightly, signaling him to withdraw.

Only then did the Old Taoist slowly get out of bed, pace to the window, push it open to look at the sky, and mutter to himself, "A fine day today."

Shen Hui responded with a simple acknowledgment, saying nothing more.

He had figured out the old man's temperament by now.

Outside, this was how he was—when others spoke to him, he'd ignore them, as if not doing so would fail to project his immortal, otherworldly air.

After attending to his master's preparations, the two of them went to the front hall for breakfast.

As soon as he stepped through the door, Shen Hui's eyes brightened.

The simple few dishes from last night were gone; the table was now laden with food—sweet and savory, hot congee and cold platters, sixteen varieties in all, cramming the large round table so tightly there was no space left.

A middle-aged man in a green official robe was attending to them from the side. Seeing them enter, he hurried over, his face full of smiles: "The Taoist has arrived, please sit, please sit."

Shen Hui glanced at his attire.

A green robe without a silver belt, a simple headwrap—this should be the stationmaster of the post house, a ninth-rank official.

Yet at this moment, this ninth-rank imperial officer was no different from a servant boy in an inn, running around at Scholar Li's beck and call.

"This congee is cold. Bring a fresh hot one."

Scholar Li crossed his legs, tapping the tip of his chopsticks against the bowl in front of him, his tone as casual as if he were ordering his own servant.

The stationmaster quickly acknowledged, picked up the bowl with both hands, and withdrew.

"This side dish is too salty too. Change it."

"Yes, yes, yes."

Shen Hui frowned slightly but said nothing, sitting down beside his master.

He wasn't very hungry, so he only ladled a small half-bowl of congee, picked up a couple of bites of vegetables, and ate slowly.

His gaze inadvertently swept over Scholar Li.

The other man had changed into clean clothes today, his hair bun freshly tied, restoring that arrogant demeanor from yesterday.

Several plates were already piled in front of the scholar, each tasted only once and then pushed aside—too salty, too bland, too cold, too hot—his mouth never stopped complaining.

Faming Monk sat across from him, eyelids lowered, drinking only the congee in front of him, deaf to everything around him.

Shen Hui withdrew his gaze and glanced at the Old Taoist.

The old man drank his congee slowly, taking the time of half a cup of tea to finish one bowl, but he had a particular fondness for the plate of pickled radish, picking up several bites in a row.

Shen Hui silently pushed the radish dish closer to his master.