Chapter Nine: The Small Daoist Temple

Qingfeng Temple.

Though called a Daoist temple, it was exceedingly small—at most, three houses built from blue stone, with a few meager plots of tilled earth nearby. The crops had just begun to sprout, but they were sparse indeed.

The mountain soil was barren, and even with ceaseless toil survival was a struggle. Not even the poorest farmers would bother with clearing land on these slopes; it was thankless work, yielding little reward. And besides, Qing County itself was hardly impoverished. Nestled by mountains and rivers, and boasting a copper mine, it was wealthier than its neighbors. Even the landless could earn a living working for others, a far better prospect than breaking ground in the mountains.

Few were foolish enough to try otherwise.

If this place truly held promise, it would not be home to a single dilapidated temple.

Xu Yuan glanced around, then stepped inside, calling out, “Visitor here! Is there anything to eat?”

“Eat? Eat what, you glutton!”

From within the stone house came a voice, aged yet still brimming with vigor.

Soon, an old Daoist appeared, his robe so worn and patched it was barely holding together. His beard and hair had turned white, but not with the ethereal purity of a sage; rather, they bore the pallor and frost of winter after the rains of spring, the heat of summer, and the growth of autumn—a weary, faded white.

He was clearly no accomplished master.

Still, though he lacked enlightenment, his spirit was lively enough. Now he glared at Xu Yuan, his mustache bristling.

“Hahaha.”

Seeing who it was, Xu Yuan laughed. “The fields beside your temple look so bare. Haven’t you run out of food by now?”

“Nonsense!”

The old Daoist’s eyes widened in anger. “I’m too old to work the land, and if my disciples won’t farm properly, it serves them right to go hungry. What’s that to me?”

“An entire year, and your temper only gets worse.” Xu Yuan rubbed his ears. “If you can shout this loud, you’re clearly eating well. I haven’t eaten yet—fix me something.”

“You’ve got hands, feet, and that pretty little face—where can’t you find food? Yet you insist on freeloading at my temple. Shameless!”

The old Daoist sneered.

But Xu Yuan paid him no mind, his gaze sweeping the small courtyard. “Hey, where are those two disciples of yours?”

At this, the old Daoist’s expression changed at once. “Go! Get out of here, quickly!”

“No wonder your temple never prospers, always driving guests away. No wonder so few come to this battered old place.”

Xu Yuan sat down at the stone table in the courtyard with practiced ease.

“I enjoy my peace and quiet. Do I need you to teach me how to live?” The old Daoist seethed.

He was about to retort when a voice called from outside the temple.

“Master—!”

“Master—!”

“Master—!”

The voices echoed through the mountain, growing nearer.

The old Daoist’s face changed yet again. He stopped bickering with Xu Yuan and hurried out.

Soon, a figure came running up the mountain path, breathless but radiant with excitement, calling for his master.

When he drew near, the old Daoist snapped irritably, “Yelling and shouting—what manners are these?”

“Master, we caught it, we caught it!” The newcomer, panting, was all excitement. “We caught that elk!”

The old Daoist coughed madly, hinting with his eyes that there was a guest, his voice thick with implication. “Caught it, but didn’t have time to bring it back, right?”

“We brought it! Ah Guai is resting down below. I was so happy, I ran ahead to tell you.”

At last, noticing the old Daoist’s frantic cues, he turned and exclaimed, “Ah, Mister Xu is here too? Perfect timing! We’ve got fresh game to eat!”

“See!” Xu Yuan’s face brightened like a spring breeze. “Ah Chou’s an honest lad—a true diamond in the rough!”

The old Daoist had two disciples. The elder was called Ah Chou, the younger, Ah Guai.

As their names suggested, Ah Chou was homely, and Ah Guai walked with a limp. Both were abandoned by their families and taken in by the old Daoist.

Ah Chou bore a large, dark birthmark over much of his face; when he smiled, it twisted grotesquely, like a demon from the underworld. Yet beneath that fearsome visage was a gentle, honest heart.

“What are you, part bloodhound? Days without a catch, then today you get lucky the moment you’re out. Such a keen nose!”

The old Daoist was clearly irked.

Xu Yuan laughed heartily. “I’ve always been lucky.”

After all, it was luck itself that had lifted him to the heavens.

“Mister Xu hasn’t eaten, right? I’ll go haul the elk up.” Grinning, Ah Chou dashed off down the mountain, his joy so great he had rushed up just to share the news.

“Fool! Blockhead!” The old Daoist’s mustache bristled with frustration at his lot.

“Ah Chou’s got a pure heart—unlike you, who counts every grain of rice when I come to eat.”

Xu Yuan scoffed.

“Every grain I grow is won with my own sweat and toil—how could I not count them?” the old Daoist grumbled.

But Xu Yuan ignored him, returning to the stone table. The old Daoist stamped his feet in vexation.

When he came back inside, Xu Yuan was already seated. “Come, come, we’ve nothing better to do—shall we play a few rounds of chess?”

He had already fetched the chess pieces from under the table, and with a stick of charcoal had drawn a neat board on the tabletop, the lines straight in spite of the table’s roughness.

He brought out two oil-paper packets of pieces—not just the black and white stones, but a collection of small, smooth pebbles in various hues.

Those were the replacements Ah Chou had gathered from the mountains, after the original pieces broke or went missing, their colors serving to distinguish “black” from “white.”

“Fine! I’ll crush you without mercy!” The old Daoist, spoiling for a fight, sat opposite.

Without ceremony, the old Daoist took black and made the first move.

Xu Yuan had no objection.

The game began.

After about half an hour, there was movement outside the temple. The two disciples returned, carrying the elk between them.

“Back at last? Go cook!” the old Daoist barked without looking up.

“Yes, Master… Hmm? Mister Xu is here?” The limping Ah Guai started at the sight of a stranger seated across from his master.

“Mm.” Xu Yuan replied indifferently.

“I’ll cook, you rest for a bit, Brother. Once we’ve eaten, we’ll take care of the hide and meat—roast some for later.” Ah Chou, ever industrious, set to work as soon as he’d put down the elk.

Ah Guai, hobbling, made his way to stand behind the old Daoist and watch the game. Though his left leg slowed him, he managed daily life well enough, helping his brother carry game and tending the small plots of land near the temple—a life of self-reliance.

He was no chess enthusiast, but he knew the basics. One glance at the board told him black was being routed, the pieces scattered and in retreat.

“Is dinner ready yet?” In the midst of the game, the old Daoist suddenly called out.

“It’s coming, almost done!” Ah Guai answered from the kitchen.

“Faster, stop dawdling!” the old Daoist grumbled, wavering over his next move.

Another quarter of an hour passed.

“Still not done?” The old Daoist’s frown deepened, his patience wearing thin.

“Almost, almost!” Ah Chou called out.

“With no food in me, I can’t think straight,” the old Daoist gritted his teeth.

Xu Yuan only chuckled.

“Ah Guai, you weren’t hurt during the hunt, were you?” the old Daoist asked, changing the subject to cover his indecision.

“No, Master. Brother’s trap was well-made—not a scratch on the hide. We’ll get a good price for it,” Ah Guai replied quickly from behind.

“Dinner’s ready!” At last, a reassuring call came from the kitchen.

Delighted, the old Daoist jumped up, sweeping his arm across the chessboard and scattering the pieces. “Just in time—I’m starving! We’ll finish the game later!”