Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Bright Moon, Clear Breeze, the Old Daoist Priest

A cliché beginning.

Long ago, in a far-off Hong Meng world, immortal qi filled the air, and spiritual power ran so thick it could practically drip. A single flower or blade of grass might awaken and ascend, and every mountain and stream hid spirits and oddities. Given enough years, even the living things of that realm opened their minds, learned to draw in the sun and moon’s essence, and began chasing the supreme Dao.

Among all those beings, only one race was especially favored by Goddess Nuwa: the human race. Humans were born clever and already possessed spirit. They cultivated the Dao several times faster than others, rose above the rest, and gathered together to live in groups—learning from each other, helping each other, growing larger and stronger by the day…

Then came clans and fortresses, cities and kingdoms. Later, many people caught a glimpse of the Dao and achieved true fruition, becoming immortals through ascension. Looking down from above, they decided the whole universe had nothing left to fear. Naturally, the first thing they did was start killing each other.

At first it was only people of the lower realm—man against man, nation against nation. Then even those immortals on a “proper path” joined the brawl. That great war stretched on for more than a thousand years, leaving tens of millions dead. It raged until heaven and earth changed color, until the nine provinces seemed to wail, until corpses carpeted the land and the rivers and mountains ran with grief.

In the end, the world itself couldn’t take any more of the immortals’ “fun.” With a heaven-shattering boom, it split apart into countless fragments that shot in every direction, becoming ten thousand worlds. From that moment on, the Hong Meng world was broken into endless pieces. Each realm developed on its own, never again as magnificent as it had been at the beginning.

Among those countless worlds were realms like Blue Star, which abandoned the Dao entirely and obsessed over strange arts that turned steel and bone into men. There were realms where everyone cultivated, desperate to restore the ancient age of immortal sects standing everywhere. There were realms that plunged into the Devil Path, where the entire world became ferocious devils. And there were waning-dharma realms where mortals held power and immortal sects fled deep into the mountains.

This story unfolded in one of them: the world of Yi Fang.

On a Mid-Autumn night, the moon hung high, pale and bright for a thousand miles, its cold glow washing over the earth. It was the time of year when the moon and this realm drew closest. Anyone with a bit of skill could stand on a mountain peak, gather their sight, and faintly make out layered palaces in the sky. If they listened hard enough, they might even catch drifting strains of ethereal music.

That palace was called Guanghan Palace. Yet no matter how sharply one stared, no one could see Chang’e, the immortal maiden, dancing above—nor the Jade Rabbit pounding medicine, nor Wu Gang chopping at the tree…

“Old Daoist priest… old Daoist… thieving old Daoist… dead bull-nosed bastard…”

Deep in the mountains sat a Daoist temple so old it seemed to have been forgotten by time itself. No incense had been offered there for ages. The temple keeper had long since fled, leaving only a few crumbling walls and a couple of broken tiles. Most of the side halls’ blue roof tiles were missing, and sheets of moonlight spilled through the gaps, falling across the heads of the immortal statues inside. It lit their chipped noses, faded clay, and smiling faces—kind, merciful smiles that somehow looked wrong in the empty dark. With webs strung between the beams and ceiling, the whole place felt cold and sinister, like it was holding its breath.

The side halls were wrecked, but the main hall still stood firm. The roof tiles were intact, and the three revered lord statues inside were surprisingly clean. Their paint was mottled with age, but on the old altar table below, thin spirals of incense rose steadily. A few plates of scrubbed wild fruit sat nearby. Someone was still offering these three immortals a share of mortal worship.

“Thieving old Daoist…”

A figure burst in from outside, carrying two large paper bundles. She shouted as she ran, loud enough to shake dust from the rafters.

“Old man! Are you dead yet?”

She strode up to the altar, flipped the hanging cloth aside, peered underneath, then lifted her foot and kicked the darkness.

“Old man! Are you dead yet?”

Someone in the shadow finally moved. A muffled curse followed, thick with sleep and irritation.

“Aiyoyo! You disrespectful little beast—kicking your Daoist Master again? Are you itching for pain?”

The newcomer snorted, voice sharp as a blade.

“Daoist Master my ass. It’s the fifteenth. We’re supposed to burn incense for the Founding Patriarch. Daoist Master, why don’t you come out and kowtow?”

She set the bundles on the altar and borrowed the oil lamp’s light. Two massive oiled-paper packages. She opened one: a fat roast chicken, glossy with grease, rump proudly sticking up like it had opinions. She pushed it forward, then opened the other: half a braised pig head, bright red and shining.

She wiped her hands on the back of her pants as if that counted as purification, took a bundle of incense from the side, lit it carefully, stepped back, and knelt to kowtow toward the three statues above.

“Three Founding Patriarchs, it’s the festival. I brought you something good…”

She bowed properly. Just as her forehead dipped toward the floor, the shadow under the altar caught the scent of roast chicken and braised pig head. With a sudden whoosh, it shot out—bony hands lunging straight for the offerings.

“Old man, you dare!”

She sprang up and whipped a kick toward his backside. The skinny figure moved like he’d rehearsed it. He twisted his narrow waist, and his butt slid half a foot sideways with ridiculous grace, dodging the strike. His hands never stopped reaching.

“Hehe! Still belongs to your Daoist Master…”

The old Daoist priest’s eyes gleamed. He stuck his butt out like a shield and grabbed for the food—

—and grabbed empty air.

The roast chicken and pig head vanished out of thin air.

For half a heartbeat, he froze, fingers clawing at nothing. Then pain exploded in his rear as a boot landed solidly. A burst of force sent him slamming into the altar table.

The old Daoist priest whipped around, face red with fury.

“You unfilial wretch! I raised you for decades for nothing!”

Behind him, the girl stood with both paper bundles in her hands, dark eyes bright with a smile that wasn’t friendly.

“Say it again,” she said lightly. “Go on—try it. Let’s see if you get any wine tonight.”

“Uh…”

At the word “wine,” the old Daoist priest’s expression changed so fast it could’ve been a face-changing art. He touched his nose, forcibly smoothed himself, and waved her off with exaggerated disdain.

“Go, go, go! Pay respects to the Founding Patriarch first. I don’t care about your little things!”

“Hmph.”

She set the chicken and pig head back in place, bowed devoutly again, and murmured toward the statues.

“Founding Patriarch, please don’t blame me. It’s all this old man—no manners, no sense, offending you. If anyone must be punished, punish him, not me. And please, please don’t cut off your disciple’s marriage thread…”

Off to the side, the old Daoist priest rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t fall out. He sat down cross-legged with a thud.

“The Founding Patriarch doesn’t handle matchmaking. You’ve been begging the Founding Patriarch for more than ten years, and you still haven’t married!”

He shouldn’t have said it.

The moment the words left his mouth, she sprang up like a lit firecracker.

“You’ve got the nerve to talk!” she snapped. “If you hadn’t kept diving into places with no people—dragging me around in hiding for twenty-five years—would I still be unmarried?”

In these Ten-Li Mountains, aside from mountain spirits and wild monsters, there were only two living humans. Who was she supposed to marry? A pine tree spirit on the back ridge? A wild boar demon in some ravine?

The old Daoist priest shrank his neck, suddenly very aware of his own guilt. He forced a smile.

“Ai, ai, ai—don’t be mad…”

He held up one finger, as solemn as if he were announcing a heavenly decree.

“One more full month. As long as we make it to the fifteenth of next month, we can leave the mountains. Once we’re out, your Daoist Master will find you a handsome young master from a great family to be your husband. Then I’ll draw you a fertility talisman—guaranteed two babies in three years, six in five!”

“Pah!”

She spat, eyes blazing, and picked up the chicken and pig head.

“Yeah right. I’d believe a ghost before I believe you. You nasty old man—you’re evil as hell!”

Truth be told, this old Daoist priest’s skills were mediocre. Nine times out of ten, his talismans missed the mark. When they went down the mountain to catch ghosts for silver, they often failed because his Dao was too weak—only to be caught by the ghost instead. More than once, they’d been chased out and beaten back by a client’s household.

After being beaten enough times, she learned one thing very clearly: her master was unreliable. By the age of eight, she’d started teaching herself to draw talismans and catch ghosts. Over the years, she’d honestly surpassed him. In the last few years, the old Daoist priest’s powers had declined badly. He couldn’t catch ghosts at all anymore. Everything depended on her.

Luckily, she’d been sharp since childhood and learned early how to rely on herself. Otherwise they would’ve starved long ago—and she wouldn’t still be here, cursing her fate for making her a nearly thirty-year-old woman who couldn’t find a husband.

People in this realm were long-lived. Ordinary folk living past a hundred was nothing. Those who cultivated the Dao knew methods to extend their years; living two or three hundred was common. But a woman like her—nearly thirty and still unmarried—was rare. She truly feared she’d die old in these mountains and spend her whole life as an untouched maiden.

As she spoke, she stepped out of the hall. Silver light lay across the ground, bright and clean. She dragged a three-legged table from under the corridor to the big tree in the courtyard, propped it level with a stone, and set the food down. When she turned, the old Daoist priest was right behind her, eyes darting toward the table like a starving fox.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

The old Daoist priest smiled awkwardly.

“Shi Yi… since we’ve already paid respects to the Founding Patriarch, it’s time for us to eat, right?”

Gu Shi Yi rolled her eyes and flicked her hand at him.

“Go, go. Get the bowls and chopsticks.”

The old Daoist priest lit up at once and scurried to the rough kitchen—a shack of wood and thatch. When he came back, there was already a jar of wine on the table. His grin stretched so wide his eyes nearly disappeared.

“You earned quite a bit of silver today, didn’t you? You even bought wine…”

He grabbed it, yanked out the stopper, and sniffed dramatically.

“It’s from Old Wang’s place in the town below. Their wine’s watered down—weak!”

His mouth complained, but his hands poured anyway. He didn’t look up at Gu Shi Yi and missed the strange flicker in her eyes.

Gu Shi Yi snorted.

“I didn’t buy it for you. It’s Mid-Autumn. I just thought… it’s a festival. A day for family reunions. I bought it for myself.”

That single sentence hooked something soft and sore in the old Daoist priest’s chest. He let out an awkward chuckle and lowered his voice.

“Then… I’ll drink with you. Master and disciple can be together too. That counts as reunion, doesn’t it?”

He poured her a bowl. Gu Shi Yi shot him a look but lifted it. They drank the first bowl together. The old Daoist priest drained his in one breath, wiped his mouth, and frowned.

“Did that old ox not water his wine down today?”

Gu Shi Yi’s smile was thin.

“Today I went to their place to catch a wine ghost. If he dares sell me watered-down wine, I’ll let that wine ghost go back and make their Tian Er watch the wine jar hit bottom.”

The old Daoist priest burst out laughing.

“Good, good! That old ox cheats in business. He deserves it!”

He tore off a chicken leg and handed it to her, then grabbed one for himself. He raised his bowl toward her with noisy enthusiasm.

“Shi Yi, let’s drink!”

Gu Shi Yi nodded. They drank facing each other, tilting their heads back and downing it clean.

They’d been stuck in this broken mountain temple for years. Game was easy enough to find, so meat itself wasn’t rare. But Gu Shi Yi’s cooking was only just edible, and the old Daoist priest’s cooking was a crime. This roast chicken and pig head, though, came from Liu Er Ma Zi’s famous shop in the town below. The flavors were bold and deep—the chicken soaked with spice, the pig head braised until it was soft and tender. One bite filled the mouth with fragrance, sweetened the throat, and made you want another bite, then another…

They didn’t hold back. With loud slurps and greedy hands, they ate and drank like a storm sweeping through. The old Daoist priest had good wine and good food, and with only one month left before the “big matter” in his heart was settled, he let himself go completely. He never noticed that Gu Shi Yi drank all of the first three bowls, then quietly poured the rest into his bowl. The old Daoist priest drank every bowl to the bottom without missing a drop.

Gu Shi Yi watched him, expression strange. When he was good and warmed through, she suddenly asked, voice calm as still water.

“Old Daoist priest. You kidnapped me when I was five. In a blink, twenty-five years have passed. Tell me—why have you been hiding all these years?”

The old Daoist priest chuckled, his face flushed and greasy-red from drink. He waved her off.

“Heaven’s secrets cannot be revealed…”

Then he held up one finger again, as if that made everything reasonable.

“One more month. Another month, and once this is past, you can get married…”

“Then tell me,” Gu Shi Yi pressed. “Why is it still one more month?”

“That… hic…”

He burped loudly. Even from across the table, Gu Shi Yi caught the sharp, sour edge of wine on his breath and frowned. The old Daoist priest laughed to himself.

“Well, the timing is what I got after working it out with the Zhou Tian Sixty-Four Hexagrams. Thirty years! A full thirty years. I’ve suffered too!”

Saying it stirred something inside him. Two muddy tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks. He wiped them with a filthy sleeve, sniffling like a wronged child.

Gu Shi Yi rolled her eyes.

“What have you suffered? Have you suffered more than me? I left home when I was little and wandered around with you. I went hungry all the time. I was supposed to be a pampered young miss, you know!”

The old Daoist priest shook his head hard enough his thin hair fluttered.

“Your family may be a noble clan, but you were a motherless child. What pampered young miss? If I hadn’t gotten you out, you’d have been eaten so clean there wouldn’t even be bone scraps left!”

Gu Shi Yi knew he was telling the truth. She let out a slow breath.

When she left home, she’d been only five. But she’d been different from other children—awake early, sharp early. She understood that her birth father and birth mother both came from great families. Their marriage had been decided by their clans, and they’d never truly liked each other. After they wed, they lived together in name only.

After she was born, an elder personally checked her bones and declared her talent outstanding—a rare genius for cultivation. It was as if her parents had completed a duty. They never shared a bed again.

Later, no one knew what changed, but her birth mother took a fancy to a barbarian from the north. They said he was tall and strong, with a face full of hard flesh. Then, one day, her birth mother ran off with that wild man and vanished without a trace.

The scandal was huge. Both families lost face. And whenever her birth father spoke of her birth mother, his teeth ground with hatred—so bitter it seemed like he could choke on it.