Rain had fallen in a lingering drizzle for four days. Waterfalls thundered through the mountain ravines, their raging torrents audible from far away.
The streams had swollen sharply, their swift currents sweeping dead branches and rotten leaves into narrow gaps between boulders, blocking the water and forcing it to change course.
Cold mountain water spilled through the breaches and onto the stone steps up the mountain, cascading down tier after tier, each step a tiny waterfall.
It flowed a long way before rejoining the stream valleys. The whole mountain resounded with rushing water.
The Azure Cloud Monastery appeared and vanished amid the white mist, but much of its usual laughter was missing.
Although the mountain guardian spirit beast had avenged their murdered fellow disciples, the gloom in the Daoists' hearts would not fade so quickly. An occasional glimpse of an empty room still left them silent.
That morning, the rain eased a little.
Several Daoists took wooden shovels and worked laboriously to clear the drainage channels along the edge of the Stone Terrace, clogged with gravel and dead leaves. Unless they cleared them promptly, the mountain runoff would flood the terrace outside the doors. Their wooden shovels scraped against the stone channels with dull thuds. No one spoke; they simply bent their heads to the work.
Before they had finished clearing the channels, many pilgrims came up the mountain path.
Several wealthy visitors rode in carrying chairs, bobbing with each step as their bearers carried them uphill, servants following beside them with umbrellas and boxes.
More idle people who had heard the rumors and come looking for a dragon. Even rain could not dampen their enthusiasm.
The pilgrims chimed in one after another, praising the abundance of spiritual energy on the mountain. Having nothing better to do, they drew deep,