Chapter Nine: The Spirit Fox Bestows the Art, and Yaya Presents the Sword

Stepping into the entrance, one found a corridor resembling a cave dwelling. It was square, yet the space felt quite spacious, though the dim light from the firestick in Fang Zheng’s hand made it hard to judge clearly. After walking about twenty steps, Fang Zheng sensed he had arrived at a sort of great hall. He stopped, held up the firelight, and brushed it across the stone walls. Coming closer, he discovered oil lamps affixed to the cave walls, with plenty of lamp oil left. He lit one directly with his firestick. Instantly, the hall brightened, and Fang Zheng saw even more oil lamps, so he lit them all. Now the full view of the place emerged before him.

Indeed, it was a hall, the four stone walls rough but sharply defined, bearing clear marks of human labor. The hall measured about forty square meters. There were two square doorways on the left wall, each the size of a standard room entrance. The passage Fang Zheng had entered was situated on the right side of the hall.

Twelve oil lamps in total illuminated the hall brightly, even allowing him to glimpse into the two doorways on the left. In one, there appeared to be a large cauldron-shaped object. In the center of the hall stood two items: a stone table and a stone chair. On the table rested a simple tea set and nothing else.

“If there’s anything remarkable here, it must be in those two rooms,” Fang Zheng thought, raising his firestick and heading toward the room with the cauldron. Inside, he found two more oil lamps, and after lighting them, the room was clearly visible. It was, again, a square chamber, as if someone had excavated the mountain rock with great effort to create this stone room. Fang Zheng thought it more accurate to call it a stone chamber. The space was small, less than twenty square meters. In the center stood a massive cauldron, nearly as tall as a person and as wide as two arms, a colossal object whose purpose Fang Zheng could not discern. It was certainly large enough for bathing, but who would bathe in a lidded cauldron? His modern mind offered a whimsical notion. The cauldron seemed to be made of bronze, as Fang Zheng judged from the verdigris on its surface. On both sides of the chamber, by the walls, were wooden racks holding various jars and bottles. Fang Zheng examined them closely, but could not tell what was inside, nor did he touch them.

Having finished his inspection, Fang Zheng proceeded to the other room. Again, he lit the lamps. It was the same size as the previous chamber, but even simpler: in the middle was a meditation cushion, and in front of it a low table holding several books and a few jade slips. Nothing else filled the room.

Fang Zheng now stood before the low table, holding a book, his expression strange, as if surprised, excited, and a little wistful.

The book was, in fact, a will, or perhaps an autobiography written by the room’s owner, detailing his life. According to its account, this man, Zhu Yan Jun, was born in Ping’an County, Liang Country. His father was a famed merchant of Ping’an County, so Zhu grew up wanting for nothing, yet was drawn to seeking immortality and the Dao. At seventeen, his father died suddenly, and at that time an “old immortal” arrived in Ping’an County, said to turn stone to gold and predict fortune and calamity—claiming mastery over all. Zhu felt his chance had come. So he squandered his family fortune to gain the “old immortal’s” favor and was accepted as a disciple, but unexpectedly, the old man took him to a mine and sold him into slavery, disappearing thereafter. Zhu endured three months of mining under torment and humiliation, until he finally seized an opportunity to escape. Whether by fate or providence, after fleeing the mine he stumbled into a cultivator’s ruin, acquiring some cultivation techniques and spiritual pills, and began his journey of cultivation. Perhaps due to his talent, or perhaps because the predecessor whose legacy he inherited was merely a wandering alchemist with some skill in pill-making but not longevity, Zhu struggled for decades, ultimately failing to ascend to the celestial gates. Wandering from place to place, he arrived here as his life neared its end. Moved by his experiences, he left behind the techniques and pills he had obtained, wrote his autobiography, and departed in search of fortune, resolved to meet his fate.

Fang Zheng felt both sentiment and amusement. This “Young Master Zhu” was indeed a peculiar figure. Not only was his life filled with hardship, but his character was odd: he cared for his reputation, as shown by the autobiography, yet was generous and grateful, leaving behind techniques and pills. After all, only someone generous would spend his fortune seeking immortality. Fang Zheng mused quietly.

“It seems immortality truly is not easy. I thought too simply before.” The book made it clear: anyone who reached this place was “one with fate,” and could take everything here. Fang Zheng felt no more burden, and examined the remaining items freely. There were three books on the table, including the autobiography he had just read. Another was titled “Compendium of Hundred Herbs,” describing the properties and habitats of various herbs, though without illustrations. This reminded Fang Zheng of the book he had obtained from Clearwater Village, which was more detailed and vividly illustrated. Clearly, he would need to study these well, for cultivation depended upon pills, and pill-making required herbs. The last book, “Detailed Explanation of Returning to Reality,” was the thickest, about two inches, heavy in the hand. Fang Zheng opened it, and his expression brightened instantly. This book covered fundamental knowledge of cultivation and an introduction to the world of cultivators. Judging by its thickness, its contents must be comprehensive, exactly what Fang Zheng needed—far more useful than any techniques or magical powers. As for the jade slips, Fang Zheng had no idea of their purpose and could only collect them for later study, hoping the “Detailed Explanation of Returning to Reality” would contain information about them.

After gathering and checking that he missed nothing, Fang Zheng returned to the stone chamber with the cauldron. He now understood that the cauldron was for pill-making, and the jars and bottles stored pills and materials.

An hour later, Fang Zheng emerged from the cave, standing before the three thatched huts. He bowed deeply to the huts, then turned and departed, following the mountain fissure through which he had entered, leaving the valley. The expedition had been fruitful. In the pill-making chamber, Fang Zheng acquired two kinds of unknown finished pills, twelve in total, and three bottles of materials: one was a brown powder, the other two were colorful liquids. Though the shelves held many jars and bottles, most were empty, and some with contents had long since decayed. Only these few were intact. As for the cauldron, even if he wanted it, he could not carry it back. But Fang Zheng was not greedy; today’s gains were an unexpected delight—how could he ask for more?

Leaving the valley, he found the wind had risen and the sky was even gloomier. Without the sun, Fang Zheng could not judge direction, so he retraced his steps. He glanced at the pitiful game at his waist and felt a little embarrassed; to return with so little was hardly impressive.

Aunt Zhao held a piece of clothing and walked toward Ya Ya, who stood at the door, peering outside. “Ya Ya, put on your clothes. The door’s open, it’s cold out, but your Brother Fang will surely come back. Don’t worry,” she comforted the girl, helping her put on the garment.

“Grandma, I’m not cold. It’s already dark and raining. Why isn’t Brother back yet? He must be cold now.” Tears welled in Ya Ya’s eyes as she spoke.

“Don’t worry, Ya Ya. Didn’t you say your Brother Fang is the most capable? He’ll be fine and will be home soon. If he sees you crying, he’ll feel sad,” Aunt Zhao reassured her, though she too felt anxious. After all, it was Fang Zheng’s first time in the mountains, the environment was unfamiliar, and now it was pouring, with darkness so thick one could not see their hand.

“Please let nothing happen,” Aunt Zhao prayed silently.

The main door creaked open, and in the night, a figure burst in, drenched by the rain. Ya Ya cried out joyfully, “Brother!” and ran into the rain to greet him.

“Ya Ya, hurry inside. It’s cold, you’ll get soaked. Your brother is home, see what he brought you?” Fang Zheng, with a large elk slung over his shoulder and a brightly feathered mountain sparrow in his left hand, spoke as he showed Ya Ya the bird.

“Wow, what a beautiful bird! Did you catch it in the mountains, Brother? You’re amazing!” Aunt Zhao hurried forward to usher them indoors. The little girl was so excited, she ran and jumped around, but when she saw Fang Zheng’s clothes completely soaked, her eyes reddened again. “Brother, your clothes are all wet. You must be cold. Grandma has heated some water; you should wash up. I’ll fetch water for you.” She was about to rush out, but Fang Zheng quickly stopped her. “No need, Ya Ya. Brother will wash up, but you’re still little. I’ll do it myself. You stay here with Grandma; the rain’s too cold and you’ll catch a chill.” He placed the elk in the spacious room, untied a pheasant and a wild rabbit from his waist, greeted Aunt Zhao, and went to the kitchen.

Fang Zheng changed into dry clothes and began telling Ya Ya about his hunting adventures. He had retraced his steps from the valley, wondering whether he might find some game, and happened upon the elk. With his uncanny archery, he chased it nearly three miles before bringing it down, which hadn’t taken much time. On the way back, he saw the mountain sparrow heading to its nest, and, on a whim, decided to catch it as a gift for Ya Ya. Unable to fly, he waited patiently until nightfall, approaching the nest in the dark to catch it. By then, rain had begun to fall, growing heavier, so he hurried home by night.

Fang Zheng left out the dangers and mishaps, describing his day’s adventure to Ya Ya, omitting details about catching the bird and simply saying it was caught easily. Ya Ya listened with admiration, utterly engrossed.

“Ya Ya, your Brother Fang is tired after a long day. Don’t cling to him—let him rest,” Aunt Zhao said, having already handled the game Fang Zheng brought back. After washing her hands, she addressed Ya Ya.

“Oh!” Ya Ya responded, clearly disappointed, but quickly cheered up again.

“Brother, Grandma said today that all heroes have swords. Ya Ya made you a sword, too!” As she spoke, Ya Ya ran to the bed, retrieved a wooden sword nearly as tall as herself from beneath the covers, and handed it to Fang Zheng, her eyes full of anticipation. “Did Ya Ya make this? What a beautiful sword!” The sword was made from a red wood unfamiliar to Fang Zheng, about four feet long, with a red tassel at the hilt—recognizable as Ya Ya’s hair ribbon from yesterday. Fang Zheng was delighted, brandishing it a couple of times, making Ya Ya laugh with joy.

“Ya Ya, Brother loves this sword and will keep it. But don’t ever do things like this again; if you cut your hand, Brother will be worried.”

“Mm!” Ya Ya replied softly, shrinking her left hand into her sleeve.

Fang Zheng noticed this, took her little hand, and found her index finger wrapped in linen.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not really,” the little girl answered quietly, her head lowered, her delicate appearance evoking even more tenderness from Fang Zheng.

“Let Brother see.” Fang Zheng carefully unwrapped the linen and saw a deep wound on her finger, still bleeding. He called Aunt Zhao for some alcohol, cleaned the wound, then fetched a bottle of healing powder he had bought in Bin County, applied it, and wrapped it up.

“Be careful in the future. If you hurt yourself again, Brother will be angry. Aunt Zhao, you should watch her more closely,” Fang Zheng said, admonishing Ya Ya and teasing Aunt Zhao, who simply smiled and said nothing, feeling gratified as she watched Fang Zheng tend to Ya Ya’s injury with care.

“Brother, name the sword! Heroes’ swords all have names—it makes them grand!” Ya Ya exclaimed, excited once more since Fang Zheng didn’t really seem angry.

“You’re quite the little rascal!” Fang Zheng pretended to scold, lightly tapping her nose.

“Let’s call it ‘First Bloom.’”

“First Bloom,” Ya Ya repeated.

“Mm, it sounds beautiful. Brother, what does it mean?”

“It means a flower just beginning to blossom—just like you, Ya Ya.” Fang Zheng smiled, explaining to the little girl.