An unnamed barren mountain.
A dilapidated Taoist temple.
Broken tiles, peeling walls.
"Master—!"
A childish wail shattered the mountain's peace.
A little Taoist boy of about seven or eight crouched in front of the stove, his face and clothes smeared with soot.
He held half a firewood stick in his hand and gazed pitifully at the old Daoist lying in a rocking chair.
"We're out of rice!"
"We're really out of rice!"
"Yesterday, you just had to drink. You traded the money for rice for those two taels of swill. What are we going to eat today?"
Hearing the boy's complaints,
the old Daoist smacked his lips and wiped the wine stains from his beard.
"What are you yelling about?"
"If you're hungry, it's because your heart isn't calm. Settle down, and you won't be hungry anymore."
The little Taoist boy puffed out his cheeks in anger. "Then stop sneaking the roasted sweet potatoes I hid!"
"I clearly hid them behind the statue last night, and when I got up this morning, all that was left was the peel!"
The old Daoist's face flushed red.
He sat up straight and glared. "The affairs of a cultivator can't be called stealing... I thought the Patriarch had worked a miracle..."
The little Taoist boy rolled his eyes.
"Anyway, I can't stand being hungry any longer. If you don't come up with something, I'm going down the mountain tomorrow. I heard that Widow Liu's family down there is hiring laborers..."
"Hey! You little brat!"
He was about to leap up and teach the rebellious disciple a lesson
when suddenly,
the old Daoist froze. His eyes, usually cloudy and languid, became unfathomably deep in an instant.
He slowly turned his head.
His gaze passed through the dilapidated courtyard wall and the layers of clouds.