One year

The green rice seedlings stretched their bodies, the distance between every plant absolutely identical, perfect beyond measure.

From any angle, the seedlings formed perfectly straight lines; even their reflections on the water showed not the slightest deviation.

Even the finest farmer in the mountain village could not have achieved this.

Looking at the sight, Liu S sui could not close his mouth for a long time.

A breeze brushed past, and the green seedlings rose and fell, a lovely sight.

Standing on the ridge, the White-Clad Youth nodded slightly, somewhat pleased with his handiwork, then turned back, lay down in the bamboo chair, and closed his eyes.

Liu S sui glanced at the daylight and said, "Young master, shall we go chop firewood next?"

Because the White-Clad Youth refused to admit that he was an immortal master, the villagers had discussed it and decided to address him as young master.

"That will be all," the White-Clad Youth said with his eyes closed.

Not understanding what he meant, Liu S sui asked, "Or shall we cook first?"

The White-Clad Youth ignored him.

Only then did Liu S sui understand what he meant, though he did not understand why he had changed his mind so quickly.

"I only wanted to learn. I don't enjoy it."

The White-Clad Youth said, "Even if becoming mortal truly has merit, it doesn't suit me."

Liu S sui did not understand, and merely followed up by asking, "Why?"

The White-Clad Youth said, "Because I'm lazy, and I'm not good at it."

Somewhat excited, Liu S sui asked, "Then what are you good at, young master?"

In the little mountain village's tales, the immortal masters of Great Green Mountain were divine beings who could summon lightning with a wave and send flying swords into the sky.

The White-Clad Youth said, "Severing."

Everything in the world had its weak points.

What he did best was find those weak points, then break them apart.

Law Treasures, for instance, or mountain peaks, or something else.

Liu S sui had not expected such an answer and could not help feeling a little disappointed. Scratching his head, he said, "No wonder you're so good at chopping vegetables."

A wind rose, and a leaf drifted down, its severed edge so smooth that it seemed to have been cut by a real sword.

A cicada began to sing.

It should have been the little mountain village's first cicada call that year.

The White-Clad Youth opened his eyes and looked toward the distant peaks hidden in cloud and mist.

Liu S sui picked up the fallen leaf, looked at his profile, and asked, "Young master, what exactly is your name?"

The White-Clad Youth was silent for a while before saying, "Jing Jiu."

"Jing Jiu?"

"Jing as in well. Jiu as in ninth."

"The jing in 'well water keeps clear of river water,' and the jiu in 'eight or nine things out of ten go against our wishes'?"

"You've studied?"

"There used to be a teacher in the village. He left last year. I heard he wanted to take the preliminary scholarly examination in the county town."

"I've studied too."

"Hm?"

"Ask me if there's anything you don't understand."

"Thank you, young master."

"Mm."

Liu S sui looked at the White-Clad Youth. He had been looking at that face for nine days and had built up some resistance, yet he still found it rather dazzling and unconsciously rubbed his eyes.

"Are you... in a bad mood?"

The White-Clad Youth gazed at the distant peaks in the mist for a long time in silence, then suddenly said, "It's hard not to get tired of doing the same thing over and over."

Liu S sui thought for a moment and said, "If... that thing were eating meat, though."

A year passed quickly, and late spring returned.

The villagers were divided into two camps over the White-Clad Youth who called himself Jing Jiu. One insisted that he was an immortal master from Great Green Mountain; the other believed that he really was not an immortal master, but rather a young nobleman fallen on hard times, from the prefectural city or perhaps even the capital, Chaoge. On one point, however, both camps agreed completely: they had never seen anyone so lazy.

Over that year, the villagers loved to stroll around near the Liu home-whatever Jing Jiu's true identity, they always liked looking at him. But whenever they went, they would find him sleeping. If it was sunny, he slept in the bamboo chair in the courtyard; if it was overcast, he slept on the bed indoors; if it was too hot, he moved the bamboo chair beneath the tree beside the pond to sleep; if it snowed, he moved back inside, yet insisted on leaving the window open.

After those first nine days, no one ever saw Jing Jiu do even the simplest household chore again. Making his bed, folding his bedding, dressing, and eating were now all attended to by Liu S sui. Even the bamboo chair he slept in was carried back and forth by Liu S sui.

Still, the villagers maintained their heartfelt respect for Jing Jiu, because he occasionally offered a few pointers when the village children were studying. According to the children, the immortal young master's learning was more than three hundred times greater than their former teacher's.

Most importantly, Jing Jiu was very rich and very willing to spend, though at first the villagers had not dared accept his money at all. The repairs to the village's ancestral hall and immortal temple had been funded entirely with his silver. Now even the new road from the mountain village to the county town was more than half finished. How could the villagers not be grateful to him, not respect him?

"Young master, be careful while you're resting. Mind you don't fall into the pond again."

Carrying branches he had gathered on the mountain on his back, Liu S sui looked at Jing Jiu lying in the bamboo chair, somewhat worried.

It had happened once before, and his father had given him a harsh scolding for failing to attend properly to the immortal master.

Lying in the bamboo chair, Jing Jiu murmured an acknowledgment, though whether it was in response to him or because resting in the shade was too comfortable was unclear.

It was probably the latter. His long fingers tapped the bamboo chair in a loose, utterly irregular rhythm that gave a languid impression.

After hesitating for a while, Liu S sui set down the branches on his back.

He sat down against the large tree, hugged his knees, and stared at the bamboo chair, not daring to relax for even a moment.

He was eleven now, but was still called S sui-ten years old. Jing Jiu showed no sign of changing his name; to his mind, it was probably because the young master was too lazy.

Whatever his name, he remained just as honest and trustworthy. Since he had promised his father to take good care of the young master, he had to do it.

Besides, the sound of Young Master Jing Jiu tapping the chair was interesting. He did not know how to describe it in words; he only felt his heart growing calmer and calmer.

The mountain breeze brushed the water, the sunlight gradually faded beneath its touch, and the night deepened.

"You exhaled too early the last two times."

Slightly startled by these words, Liu S sui came to himself and said, "Understood."

Jing Jiu opened his eyes and looked toward the pond.

The night breeze had vanished without a trace, and the water lay still as a mirror.

Looking at the face on the water, he said nothing for a long time.

That face was beautiful.

That face was perfect.

If its brows and eyes were a painting, the painter must have been the finest in tens of millions of years.

Even in the cultivation world, with its countless handsome men and beautiful women, he had never seen such a lovely face.

Starlight fell on that face and on the water, the faint movement of the light lending the face a dreamlike, illusory quality.

This was not the first time he had seen this face of his.

When he had seen it beside the pond back then, he had finally understood why the villagers had reacted as they did on the day he first arrived, and why they had afterward been so firmly convinced that he was an immortal master.

No one could have been dissatisfied with possessing such a face, not even Jing Jiu.

He merely felt that one part was a little odd.

Looking at himself on the water, he raised a hand and touched his ears.

They were a pair of prominent ears, round in appearance. Interestingly, they did not look ugly with this face, but instead added a touch of cuteness.

He understood why this was, but he still was not quite used to it.

The night breeze rose again, scattering that perfect face on the water and scattering his thoughts as well.

Everything was like dreams, illusions, bubbles, and shadows-Junior Sister Lian of the Water-Moon Convent seemed to have said that.

Jing Jiu lay back in the bamboo chair and wanted a drink of water, but discovered that the kettle was in front of the chair, which would require him to sit up again, so he glanced at Liu S sui.

Squatting beneath the tree, Liu S sui was teasing a hopping green insect with a grass root. Feeling the gaze on him, he looked up and only then understood what was wanted. He sighed, rose, walked over to the bamboo chair, picked up the kettle, and held it before Jing Jiu.

Jing Jiu drank a bowl of water and closed his eyes again.

Liu S sui did not leave. He crouched beside the bamboo chair, propped his chin in his hand, and stared at Jing Jiu's face in a daze, thinking, How can he be so good-looking?

He had looked at it so often that, unlike the other villagers, he knew this face had actually changed over the past year-not its brows or eyes, but its... bearing?

The young master was no longer as vacant as he had been at first. His eyes were much livelier, and he had much more vitality. In fact, he spoke much more than before as well.

Jing Jiu closed his eyes, then opened them again three breaths later.

Liu S sui was rather surprised. All year, whether the young master was sleeping soundly, taking a short rest, or merely dozing, he had never opened his eyes again so quickly.

"What are you doing?"

Looking at the stars in the night sky, Jing Jiu said, "I'm working out the next three years."

Liu S sui scratched his head, thinking, Then what are you doing when you sleep all day, every day?

Jing Jiu seemed to know what he was thinking and said, "I'm working out the next three thousand years."

Liu S sui's eyes widened. "Three thousand years?"

Jing Jiu asked, "If you racked your brains, exhausted your mind, and spent countless hours writing an excellent essay, believing you could never write another so fine in this lifetime, only to let the manuscript fall carelessly into the stove and burn to ashes, how would you feel?"

Liu S sui froze for a moment before taking it in. Pressing his right hand to his chest, he said, "I don't dare imagine it. Just thinking about it hurts my heart."

"Not an ache. Agony." Jing Jiu fell silent for a while, then said, "It's agonizing."

No one who had not experienced it could understand that agony.

Agony that made life unbearable.

Yet once the pain had settled and one reflected upon it, what else could one do but write that essay all over again?

Sympathetically, Liu S sui said, "That person can only rewrite it."

Jing Jiu said, "Yes. What else can they do but rewrite it?"

Something occurred to Liu S sui, and he said worriedly, "But what if you can't remember the wonderful phrases in the original essay, or those exquisite allusions?"

"If you can't remember them, then naturally they weren't important. How could those phrases and allusions be called truly wonderful?"

Looking toward the peaks in the night mist, Jing Jiu said, "Written again, it will surely be an even finer tapestry of words."

Liu S sui thought about it, unsure whether this made sense. Recalling their earlier conversation, he asked curiously, "Young master, what did you work out? How will the rainfall be over the next three years?"

Jing Jiu's gaze settled on a patch of woods not far away. "All I worked out was that the time has come."

Tonight.

The night breeze stirred. Plain robes fluttering, a middle-aged cultivator with a distinctly otherworldly air drifted to the ground, a longsword strapped to his back.

Startled, Liu S sui hid behind the bamboo chair.

The middle-aged cultivator's gaze fell on Jing Jiu, and his swordlike brows lifted slightly, as though he was somewhat surprised.

(I won't reveal the theme this early, but rewriting an essay really is a very important part of the first half of this story. For us writers, this is pain we have felt in our own flesh. Because of computer crashes, power outages, cats, wives, and all sorts of reasons, some so bizarre that readers mock us for them, we really have lost quite a few manuscripts. I believe the vast majority of writers have experienced this. Those are our most agonizing moments, and the degree of agony rises in proportion to the word count of the lost document-geometrically, at that. At such times, there is nothing to do but comfort one another. Over the past few years, whenever my friends and I have encountered this, we have used Jing Jiu's words in this chapter to console ourselves and cheer ourselves on. We mean them sincerely-if we cannot remember a plot point once it is lost, that plot point has no right to remain in our novels. What we can remember is what is good, and rewriting will surely produce better writing. These are sincere words, only... may no writer in the world ever have to experience such a thing. Kisses.)