Chapter 39: She Does Not Believe in Fate

Night had fallen. Lamps were lit.

At the back of the temple, in the courtyard pavilion, the old priest and Jiang Min sat on the ground, a few simple dishes and wine set upon the table.

“You ask about this temple? It’s been standing for over forty years now.”

“I’m a native of Xu Family Village. As a child, I entered Xuanwei Mountain, studied immortal arts, took the Dao name Qingfan of the Qing generation, and only returned to my hometown in my old age. I built this temple for my Xuanwei ancestor here, to keep the incense burning for Xuanwei Mountain.”

The old priest spoke of the past, his face marked by nostalgia. He picked a few peanuts from the platter, rubbing their skins off one by one with his rough, wrinkled fingers.

Jiang Min, puzzled, asked, “This place is so close to the Eastern Spirit Sect and Flameblade Gate. Why didn’t you join either of those, but traveled so far to Xuanwei Mountain?”

The old priest smiled faintly. “Eastern Spirit Sect and Flameblade Gate don’t accept five-spirit-root cultivators as formal disciples. With my talent, I could only be a servant at those places. When I was young, I wasn’t willing to accept that. Then I met the priests of Xuanwei Mountain—they said they took in five-spirit-root disciples as formal students. So I followed them, and that journey lasted sixty years.”

“Later, I understood why the Eastern Spirit Sect and Flameblade Gate only allow five-spirit-root cultivators to be servants. After decades of cultivation, I reached only the third stage of Qi Refining. Returning to this village where spiritual energy is scarce, my progress stalled entirely.”

“Qingfan, Qingfan—my life has been as my Dao name says: plain and unremarkable…”

He finished speaking, chewing a few peanuts. His teeth still seemed strong.

Jiang Min arched her brows and asked, “Are there no accomplished five-spirit-root cultivators in Xuanwei Mountain?”

The old priest looked up, asking with interest, “How could a five-spirit-root cultivator truly succeed in cultivation?”

He chuckled quietly, continued to rub a peanut in his palm, and said, “Friend, spiritual roots are much like destiny—determined from the start. The fate of five-spirit-root is like that little wooden hut behind you: small and narrow, no matter what you do, it will never be bigger. But the fate of a single-spirit-root is like those grand halls: tall and spacious. Can you tear down the house? If you do, where do you live? Of course you can’t.”

He paused, his eyes brightening as he continued, “Still, within your own house, you can decide what’s inside. I’ve spent my life making my little house as lovely as I could. There are regrets, and it’s nothing like those gilded halls, but it’s warm enough—like a home.”

“I’ve seen many five-spirit-root cultivators trying to tear down their house and rebuild. They seize bodies, change their blood, turn to evil paths, even cut away parts of their spiritual roots… But once their house is gone, are they still themselves?”

As he spoke, he grew melancholy, finished the peanuts in his palm, and raised his cup to drink. Just as he reached for the wine jug again, the child waiting nearby couldn’t help but advise, “Master, please don’t drink anymore.”

The boy’s name was Xu Changsheng, an orphan the old priest had found. He was abandoned by his parents for being weak and sickly at birth. The old priest brought him to the temple, discovered he possessed spiritual roots, and took him as a disciple, naming him, teaching him cultivation, and treating him as half a son.

“Ah, today your master is happy—let me have this rare drink.” The old priest waved him off, but his mood revealed only a fleeting cheerfulness, a mere attempt to drown his worries.

“Priest, please stop drinking—have some tea instead.”

Jiang Min reached out and took the wine jug from the table, pouring him a cup of tea. “What you say rings true. Five-spirit-root cultivation is always slower than the others; a hundred years is far too short.”

“Yes, when I first went to Xuanwei Mountain, I was so full of youthful pride!” The old priest squinted, recalling his younger self. “But after decades of hard work, I remain an ordinary man. Even the incense of my family line ends with me. Ah…”

“But priest, I don’t believe in fate.” Jiang Min’s tone shifted. “If a mountain hut can shelter mortals, why not immortals?”

Her words stunned the old priest.

“My mother’s view was different from yours. When I was very young, she told me that fate can be changed. Changing fate may itself be predestined, but that’s enough.”

She smiled at him, raised her cup in a toast, and drained it.

In truth, she felt that, so long as one did not harm others or betray one’s conscience, even the methods the priest mentioned—body stealing, blood changing—were acceptable. But such words were not fit for the priest’s ears.

Perhaps Xuanwei Mountain’s strict rules forbade disciples from straying into the crooked paths.

After a moment’s daze, the old priest suddenly slapped his thigh and laughed.

“Haha, well said… The warmth of the human world can touch even immortal hearts—who can say for sure?”

“I’ve lived my whole life, yet I’ve never had a friend as broad-minded as you. Truly, I’ve lived in vain!” He lowered his head and thumped his chest in regret.

Jiang Min leaned over to look at him, smiling. “But you’ve managed your own house well, which is better than countless souls who wander lost.”

The old priest paused and chuckled, “What a comforting young lady you are.”

He then raised his tea in earnest.

“With such an open mind, I wish you a glorious future and a swift ascent to the clouds!”

“After hearing your words, I’ve learned much. Thank you, priest.”

Jiang Min raised her cup, clinking it with his.

“Cheers!”

The old priest drank his tea in one gulp, smacking his lips, muttering, “Still, nothing beats the taste of wine…”

The moon hung among the branches. The old priest, feeling he’d met a kindred soul, spoke with Jiang Min for a long, long time, recounting the joys and sorrows of his life. The night wind gently stirred the simple tassels hanging from the corner of the pavilion, setting them to dance.

The next morning dawned shrouded in mist.

In the still-chilly mountain air, Jiang Min stood at the temple gate, saying farewell to the old priest.

“Friend, the place you seek—the earthfire—can likely only be found near the Five-Finger Mountains by Flameblade Gate. However, the volcanoes there have been dormant for ages. The last eruption was a century ago, or so they say.”

Upon hearing this, Jiang Min clasped her fists in thanks. “Thank you for the information, priest. If I have the chance, I’ll visit you again.”

The old priest chuckled, waving his hand. “I’m thick-skinned—let me ask you for some wine. If you ever return to Xuanwei Temple, remember to bring good wine!”

He watched Jiang Min turn and disappear into the deep mist, still smiling. For years, he had stood at the temple gate, bidding farewell to countless cultivators and travelers, from black hair to white. He still guarded this humble temple; though there were regrets, he’d lived his life in peace.

“Changsheng, come—let’s do our lessons.”

Xu Changsheng hurried forward to support the priest, urging, “Master, you talked with that lady all night and didn’t rest. Please go and sleep. I’ll be sure to finish my morning lesson.”

The old priest didn’t object, yawning and sleepy. “Alright, I’ll go rest. Be sure to recite the Xuanwei Sutra three times.”

After the old priest returned to his room, Xu Changsheng sighed softly, kneeling before the statue of the Xuanwei Immortal Lord, silently reciting the Xuanwei Sutra.

“The subtlety of Xuanwei, in quiet thought and action…”

The Xuanwei Sutra was a required scripture at Xuanwei Mountain. The old priest had sent a message to the mountain for permission before teaching it to Xu Changsheng, which meant Xu Changsheng was counted as a half-disciple of Xuanwei Mountain, recorded in their lineage.

After reciting the sutra thrice, Xu Changsheng felt calm, and rose intending to chop wood and fetch water.

The light behind him dimmed; several people entered the temple.

They all wore robes of the same color, embroidered with a family crest Xu Changsheng didn’t recognize. He didn’t know that crest represented the Li Family of Fengjiang.

“Boy, where’s the priest of this temple?”

Hearing their unfriendly tone, Xu Changsheng answered respectfully, “Honored guests, my master is resting…”

One of them interrupted coldly, his voice harsh. “Resting? Go fetch him at once. We are disciples of the Li Family of Fengjiang—we have questions for him!”