Song Jixin, followed by his maid, Zhigui, arrived beneath the ancient locust tree. He discovered the shade teeming with people, nearly fifty souls settled on stools and chairs they had brought from home. Children, pulling at their elders, continued to arrive, eager to join the gathering.

Song Jixin and she stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the shade. There, beneath the tree, stood an old man, holding a large white bowl in one hand and his other behind his back. His expression was animated as he proclaimed loudly, “Having discussed the approximate path of the dragon veins, I shall now speak of the true dragon. Tsk tsk, this is truly extraordinary! Some three thousand years ago, a remarkable immortal figure appeared in this world. He first cultivated in a blessed grotto, proving the Great Dao, then traveled the lands alone, his three-foot spirit radiating a fierce brilliance. For reasons unknown, this man held a particular aversion to flood dragons. For three hundred years, he slew every flood dragon he encountered, until none remained. Then, he vanished. Some say he went to the highest realms of Daoist principle, to sit and discuss Dao with the Dao Ancestor. Others say he went to the distant Western Pure Land of Buddhism, to debate scriptures with the Buddha. Still others claim he personally guards the gates of the Fengdu Underworld, preventing malevolent spirits from wreaking havoc in the mortal realm…”

The old man’s spittle flew as he spoke, but the townsfolk remained unmoved, their faces blank and uncomprehending.

The maid whispered curiously, “What is ‘three-foot spirit’?”

Song Jixin chuckled. “A sword.”

The maid retorted, unimpressed, “Young Master, this old man loves to show off his learning. He can’t even speak plainly.”

Song Jixin glanced at the old man, a hint of schadenfreude in his eyes. “There aren’t many literate people in our town. This storyteller is casting pearls before swine.”

The maid asked further, “What are blessed grottos? Can anyone truly live for three hundred years? And isn’t the Fengdu Underworld a place only for the dead?”

Song Jixin, stumped but unwilling to admit it, replied dismissively, “All nonsense! He probably read a few second-rate fictional histories and uses them to fool country bumpkins.”

At that moment, Song Jixin subtly noticed the old man glance at him, almost imperceptibly. The gaze was fleeting, but Song Jixin’s keen eyes caught it. However, the youth didn’t dwell on it, dismissing it as coincidence.

The maid looked up at the ancient locust tree, the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves, showering down upon them. She instinctively squinted.

Song Jixin turned to look as well, and he was suddenly struck speechless.

His maid, now with a face just beginning to shed its baby fat, was becoming markedly different from the thin, shrunken little servant girl he remembered.

According to the town’s custom, when a woman married, they would hire someone whose parents and children are alive and healthy to shave the fine hairs on the bride’s face and cut the forehead and sideburns, called Kai Mian, or Sheng Mei.

Song Jixin had once read about a custom not practiced in their town. Therefore, when Zhigui turned twelve, he purchased the best newly brewed wine in town and retrieved the porcelain bottle he had secretly hidden away. Its glaze was exceptionally beautiful, the color of a green plum. He carefully poured the wine into it, sealed it with mud, and buried it underground.

Song Jixin suddenly spoke, “Zhigui…”

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“…Although that fellow surnamed Chen, as our scholar ancestors would say, is ‘rotten wood that cannot be carved, mud wall that cannot be plastered,’ he has, in the end, done one meaningful thing in his life.”

The maid didn’t reply, her eyes lowered, her eyelashes visibly trembling.

Song Jixin continued, talking to himself, “Chen Pingan, the person, isn’t bad, but he’s too rigid, only clinging to rigid principles. So becoming a potter means that no matter how diligent he practices, he’s destined never to create a good product with spirit. That Yao old man, Liu Xianyang’s master, despising Chen Pingan is something his unique eyesight can see, that is called rotten wood that cannot be carved. As for a mud wall that cannot be plastered, the general idea is that this kind of poor ghost like Chen Pingan, even if you put a dragon robe on him, he is still an earthy mud leg…”

When Song Jixin said this, he said mockingly: “Actually, I am worse than Chen Pingan.”

She didn’t know how to comfort her young master.

Song Jixin and his maid had always been a subject of gossip for the rich families in Fulu Street and Taoye Lane, thanks to Song Jixin’s “cheap old man,” Lord Song.

The town had no great figures or upheavals, so the imperial kiln supervisor stationed there was undoubtedly the “Blue Sky Lord” from operas. Of the dozens of supervisors throughout history, Lord Song, the previous supervisor, was the most popular. Unlike the previous high-ranking officials who hid in the government office to cultivate themselves, Lord Song not only did not keep guests behind closed doors and focus on studying in the study, but also personally took care of the firing of official kilns, like a country peasant than the craftsmen and kiln workers. For more than ten years, this Lord Song, who was originally full of bookish air, had his skin tanned dark and shiny. He usually dressed like a peasant, and he never made a shelf when treating people. Unfortunately, the imperial porcelain fired from the town’s dragon kiln, whether it was the glaze or the shape of the big and small pieces, was not satisfactory. To be precise, it was even slightly inferior to the previous level, which made the old kiln leaders puzzled.

In the end, the court probably felt that the hardworking Lord Song had made a lot of hard work even if he had not made any achievements, so he got a good evaluation in the imperial edict document that transferred him back to the Ministry of Personnel in Beijing. Before returning to Beijing, Lord Song spent all his money to build a covered bridge. Later, after discovering that Lord Song’s leaving convoy did not bring a child, several major families in the town suddenly realized. It can be said that Lord Song had accumulated a good relationship with the town. With the deliberate care of the current supervisor, the young Song Jixin has been living a carefree and well-fed life in the town for these years. As for the girl, now named Zhigui, the origin of her life is a matter of debate. The locals living in Niplin Lane say that one snowy winter, a girl from another place begged all the way here and fainted at the gate of Song Jixin’s house. If someone hadn’t found it early, she would have gone to see Yama and reincarnated. The old man who did odd jobs in the official government had another story, swearing that Lord Song had bought an orphan from another place early in the morning, just to find a confidant who knew the warmth and cold for his illegitimate son Song Jixin, so as to make up for the loss of the father and son.

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No matter what, after the maid was named Zhigui by the young master, the relationship between the two father and son was completely confirmed, because the large families and gentry in the town knew that Lord Song was most fond of an inkstone, which was engraved with the words “Zhigui”.

Song Jixin came back to his senses, his face brightened with a smile, “I don’t know why, I remembered that shameless four-legged snake. Zhigui, think about it, I threw it into Chen Pingan’s yard, and it still wants to run to our house. Is Chen Pingan’s dog house so unpopular that even a snake doesn’t want to go in?”

The maid thought seriously for a while, and replied, “Some things depend on fate, right?”

Song Jixin gave a thumbs up, rejoicing, “That’s exactly the point! He, Chen Pingan, is a person with shallow fate and little blessing. He should be content to be alive.”

She didn’t speak.

Song Jixin muttered to himself, “After we leave the town, the things in the house will be taken care of by Chen Pingan. Will this guy steal from himself?”

The maid said softly, “Young Master, that’s unlikely, right?”

Song Jixin laughed, “Yo, Zhigui, you even understand the meaning of stealing from yourself?”

The maid blinked her limpid eyes, “Isn’t it the literal meaning?”

Song Jixin laughed, looking south, revealing a longing in his heart, “I heard that there are more books in the capital than there are flowers and trees in our town!”

Just then, the storyteller was saying, “Although there are no true dragons in the world, the dragon’s subordinates, such as flood dragons, dragons, dragons, etc., are still truly and truly living in the world, maybe…”

The old man deliberately left a suspense, seeing that the listeners were indifferent and didn’t know how to cheer him on, so he had to continue: “Maybe they are hiding around us. The Taoist immortals call it a hidden dragon in the abyss!”

Song Jixin yawned.

Suddenly, a locust leaf fell from overhead, lush and green, landing directly on the young man’s forehead.

Song Jixin reached out and grabbed the leaf, twirling the stem between his fingers.

————

The young man, thinking of going to the east gate of the city to collect debts one more time, also saw the locust leaves falling when he approached the old locust tree.

Just a gust of breeze passed, and the leaves slipped past his hand.

The straw sandal boy was agile and quickly moved one step horizontally, trying to intercept the leaves.

The leaves happened to spin in the air again.

The young man didn’t believe it and turned around several times, but he still failed to catch the locust leaves in the end.

The young man Chen Pingan was helpless.

A young man in a green shirt who escaped from the village school passed Chen Pingan by.

The young man in the green shirt didn’t even know that a locust leaf had stayed on his shoulder at some point.

Chen Pingan continued to go to the east gate of the city. Even if he couldn’t get the money, it would be good to urge him.

————

In the distance, on the fortune-telling stall, the young Taoist was closing his eyes and meditating, muttering to himself: “Who says that the circulation of the sky has no thickness?”

(End of chapter)