Chapter Twenty: It's Still Not Too Late to Change Your Mind

“Jiulang, are your two strings of cash almost spent?”
As Wu Ning paused to catch his breath, Sixth Uncle brought up the matter of money again.
“These past two months, you’ve really been keeping busy.”
Previously, Wu Changlu had sent over two more sacks of grain, and it happened to be the season for summer vegetables in the village, so Wu Ning hadn’t spent much on food lately.
Otherwise, Sixth Uncle figured that even just covering meals would have eaten up those two strings of cash.
But even so, with all the work Wu Ning had put into this courtyard, he must have spent quite a bit.
“There’s still a few hundred coins left over at my place. Tomorrow I’ll bring them over for you, just to tide things over. After all, all this bedding in the house must have cost a fair amount.”
Wu Ning grinned widely. “No need, I still have plenty left.”
“Don’t try to be tough!” Sixth Uncle said, his expression stern as he glanced around the courtyard. “Who knows, maybe this business could really turn into something.”
After helping Wu Ning for two months, Sixth Uncle’s attitude had completely changed. He no longer thought Wu Ning was just messing around with his inn—there seemed to be some promise to it.
To put it plainly, if he didn’t think so, Sixth Uncle wouldn’t have offered up his hard-earned savings to help Wu Ning through a pinch.
People in this era were honest and down-to-earth. Neighbors all hoped for each other’s well-being, and those who could help, would lend a hand.
“Really, there’s no need,” Wu Ning felt a warmth inside.
He’d grown up in a city in later times, where people were distant from one another—he’d never felt this kind of village kinship before.
“To tell you the truth, Sixth Uncle, I still have two whole strings of cash.”
“What?” Sixth Uncle was taken aback.
“Didn’t you only have one string left a while ago? What happened? Did Fourth Uncle give you more money?”
“No,” Wu Ning decided to be straightforward.
Pointing at the courtyard’s furnishings, he said, “Just look for yourself, Sixth Uncle—which of these things was bought with money?”
All the courtyard’s decorations were castoffs gathered from various households, and the furniture inside had all been repaired or remade by Sixth Uncle from old junk. Even the imposing golden nanmu tea table before them had been discarded by someone else—Wu Ning had hauled it back himself, not spending a single coin.
So, with the one string of cash left from before, Wu Ning had only spent two hundred coins on a bucket of tung oil.
“Then how did it become two strings?”
Sixth Uncle could still do the math—even if Wu Ning hadn’t spent much, how could another string appear out of nowhere?
“Did you forget, Sixth Uncle? I still have that soup stall.”
That soup stall had never stopped running. When Wu Ning had time, he watched over it himself; when he was busy, he let Huzi keep an eye on it. In just over two months, it had earned him more than a string of cash.
“…This kid’s really something!”
At first, everyone thought he was just fooling around—how could he open an inn with so little money?
But now, not only had he done it, but who could have imagined that such a large courtyard, inside and out, had cost only a single string of cash?
And even more unexpected, his little soup stall was so profitable—it had made a string of cash in just two months.
“Not bad! Well done!”
Since Wu Ning wasn’t short on money, Sixth Uncle was no longer worried.
“So, when will your inn open for business?”

“Very soon,” Wu Ning replied.
“Old Taoist Xiao did well—he kept his word. He’s already announced that starting on the first day of next month, the Temple of Seeking Immortals will only divine fortunes at dawn and dusk.”
“The first of next month… the first day of the eighth month…” Sixth Uncle muttered, “That’s only a few days away.”
He glanced at the tree roots before him, “We’d better hurry up with this.”
---
Lately, Taoist Xiao had been uneasy. Previously, he’d been certain that even if he changed the times for fortune-telling, Wu Ning’s shabby inn would never attract any guests.
But ever since word got out that, starting from the first of the eighth month, the Temple of Seeking Immortals would only cast lots at dawn and dusk, the number of patrons bringing him money had dwindled day by day.
At first, Taoist Xiao hadn’t thought much of it—Fangzhou was only so big, and even counting a radius of hundreds of miles, how many people could afford his services?
But as the eighth month approached, in the past few days, no one had come to seek a fortune at all. Only then did Taoist Xiao sense that something was wrong.
Why was there no one? No matter what, there shouldn’t be several days without a single visitor.
What’s more, the strangest thing was that two wealthy families from Xiangfan had sent their visiting cards a month ago, arranging to come to the Temple of Seeking Immortals for a reading in mid-July.
But now, well past the twentieth, they still hadn’t shown up.
It wasn’t until two days ago, when the wealthy merchant Qin Wenyuan in town suddenly fell ill and his family suspected demonic affliction, that they invited Taoist Xiao to their home for a ritual.
And there, at the Qin residence, he ran into those two guests from Xiangfan. Upon inquiry, he learned that they had arrived in Fangzhou mid-month, but had simply been staying at the Qin household, not bothering to go up the mountain.
Taoist Xiao couldn’t make sense of it—if they’d come all this way, why not visit? What was the point?
When he asked further, the answer made him even more uneasy.
It turned out, after arriving in Fangzhou, the two heard that the Temple would change its rules on the first of the eighth month, so that Taoist Xiao would be harnessing the yin and yang of dawn and dusk, channeling the spirits of heaven and earth into his divinations.
Since they’d traveled such a long distance, naturally they wanted the most effective and accurate reading possible, so why not wait a fortnight more?
“Damn it!”
Taoist Xiao nearly slapped himself in the face—he’d been outsmarted by that brat Wu Laojiu.
Thinking over the declining business lately, Taoist Xiao finally understood what was going on.
So, all those who planned to have their fortunes told were waiting, waiting for him to infuse the power of heaven and earth into his readings!
On the first of the eighth month, how many people would flood the Temple of Seeking Immortals?
If they couldn’t make it back to town in time in the morning or evening, there’d surely be a few who couldn’t bear roughing it outdoors and would end up patronizing Wu Ning’s inn!
“That little rascal! If I’d known it was a trick, I’d never have gone along with his suggestion.”
But thinking it over, Taoist Xiao comforted himself—after all, it was a shabby little inn opened with just a bit of money. Even if there were a lot of guests in the first few days and Wu Ning got lucky, once this initial rush passed, what would he do then?
So, no rush.
---
In the blink of an eye, it was the twenty-eighth of July, only two days until the first…
Taoist Xiao managed to remain composed. Even if he was uneasy, he didn’t rush over to Wu Ning’s house to see what was happening.

“Master, Jiulang’s courtyard is opening for business tomorrow. He invited you to come celebrate. Will you go?”
“No!” grumbled Taoist Xiao.
“What for? To watch that brat flaunt his success?”
“Hmph!” He snorted, muttering to himself, “Let him be pleased for a few days—we’ll see the truth in half a month!”
“Oh,” Meng Cangsheng replied, and then there was silence.
After a while, “Master, are you sure you don’t want to go and have a look?”
Taoist Xiao glared at him, “How many times must I say it!? I’m not going!”
Meng Cangsheng: “…”
After a long pause, “Master… what if—just what if…”
“What if you lose again?”
Smack!
Taoist Xiao tapped Meng Cangsheng on the forehead with his horsetail whisk. “What do you mean ‘lose again’? Have I ever lost?”
“No…” Meng Cangsheng lied through his teeth, grimacing.
---
“Cangsheng!” Taoist Xiao clasped his hands behind his back, pacing to the window.
“All these years, I still haven’t managed to rid you of that air of frivolity. Your heart belongs to the world, not to the altar of the Three Pure Ones.”
“That’s why you’ll never inherit my mantle.”
Meng Cangsheng was silent for a long moment, then said, “No matter what, I’ll keep my vow until I turn thirty.”
Taoist Xiao smiled faintly. “Perhaps you won’t have to. Once Jiulang becomes my disciple, your vow will be fulfilled.”
He turned to look at Meng Cangsheng. “When the time comes, if I pass my mantle to him, you won’t resent it, will you?”
“Not at all, not at all!” Meng Cangsheng shook his head so hard it nearly whistled.
With this decrepit temple, you can give it to whoever you like—I don’t want it!
Meng Cangsheng’s heart belonged to the world; he wanted to travel, to see and do more, to make a name for himself. Who would want to be cooped up here?
Still, remembering what he’d seen at Wu Ning’s house, Meng Cangsheng thought, “Can you really win, Master?”
He kindly suggested, “Master, I think if you change your mind now, it might not be too late.”