Volume One: Youths Meet at the Dawn of Hardship Chapter One: A Lonely Ghost and a Dying Man

This was a desolate village: its population withered, houses in ruin, and the path before each hovel littered with the cast-offs of those who had fled. A chill wind drifted through, causing the door of one thatched hut to clap restlessly, as though a resentful spirit were voicing silent grievances. The place seemed forgotten by the world; even sunlight, falling upon it, brought no warmth, merely observing quietly all that unfolded.

The sun was sinking. As the village edged toward another night of uncanny mystery, a child appeared at the entrance, walking slowly. His gait was unsteady, as if drunk, his steps faltering—not from intoxication, but from exhaustion, which, at a distance, mimicked drunkenness.

The child’s expression was wary. From the way he moved from the village entrance, it was clear he had traveled concealed in the withered underbrush, his small, thin frame and tattered, earth-toned clothes blending him into the landscape like a moving patch of mud. Even if someone noticed, by the time they looked closer, he was already gone—and in any case, who would bother to waste attention on a child so like a little beggar?

Even after entering the village, the child did not relax his guard. He avoided the main road, slipping instead into a narrow alley on the left, winding left and right until he stopped before a ramshackle hut. There, he carefully observed the doorway, confirming nothing had changed since he left. Only then did his face ease, revealing a faint, relieved smile.

Yet he did not enter immediately; instead, he continued another hundred paces or so to a small shrine dedicated to the Earth God. There, the child knelt reverently and murmured, “Thank you, Earth Grandfather, for keeping me safe and for protecting Grandma, too.” Finished, he circled behind the shrine and produced a bowl from some hidden place. Strangely, there was still a little water in it. Seeing this, the child’s slight smile deepened.

Cradling the bowl, he returned to the shrine, drew a small bundle from his clothes, and carefully unwrapped it to reveal two stale cakes. He set the water and cakes before the Earth God’s image, then sat quietly to one side, gazing at the darkening sky in silent thought.

The moon rose, stretching his shadow long and thin. In the moonlight, the water in the bowl gleamed brilliantly. The child watched the crescent moon, lost in thought. Had anyone seen him then, they’d have noticed that the center of his eyes was not like other children’s.

His irises were a shade of gray.

When the moon hung high, the child rose, gathered his bundle, and carried the bowl of water back to the hut. He slipped inside, gently opening the gate and door, his movements barely making a sound.

There was no kerosene left within; naturally, there could be no light but the moon. In its glow, it became clear that someone lay on the bed—a person who, from their stillness, might have been dead, or perhaps only barely alive.

The child went straight to the bedside, carefully holding the bowl to the sleeper’s lips. “Grandma, Grandma, wake up, have a little water.”

The figure on the bed was an old woman, the one the child called Grandma. Perhaps she heard, or perhaps thirst compelled her, but she slowly opened her mouth and drank a little. Seeing her take water, the child’s relief was palpable. Then he broke off a piece of the stale cake and gently fed her, murmuring, “Grandma, please eat something. You’ll feel better if you eat.”

After a few movements of her mouth, the child offered more water, and so it went, until one cake and half a bowl of water were gone. When he tried to offer more, she refused.

To an outsider, such measured restraint might seem the sign of a lucid old woman, husbanding half her meager provisions for her grandson. But only those who witnessed it could know: it was instinct, honed by countless repetitions, that made her preserve half the food and water for the child.

Seeing that Grandma would eat no more, the child gently wiped her mouth with his sleeve, tucked in the quilt, and then, with the last cake and half a bowl of water, ate carefully, wasting nothing. When he had finished and regained some strength, he took the bowl, closed up, and returned to the Earth God’s shrine, placing the bowl behind it. He knelt again, expressing his gratitude: “Thank you, Earth Grandfather, for protecting me and Grandma.”

Only then did he end his day, returning to the hut to lay his bedding on the floor at Grandma’s side and fall into a deep sleep, unmoving.

As he slept, the night outside seemed to ripple, as if a stone had been cast into its depths. From those ripples stepped a middle-aged Daoist priest. He gazed through the window at the two inside: one, on the bed, hovered between life and death; the other, below, frail and flickering like a candle in the wind.

The priest pondered for a time, uncertain what to do. After standing a while, he faded into the night and disappeared. The child, perhaps dreaming, curled himself toward the bed, wrapping the thin quilt around him like a cocoon.

At dawn, sunlight spilled in through the window, waking the child to a new day. He got up, went to the bedside, his face anxious, and felt for Grandma’s breath. There was still breath—he exhaled deeply with relief. But after watching her for a while, his expression grew heavier. He went into the kitchen, groped in the stove for something, then tiptoed outside, closing the gate and fence. At the shrine, he knelt three times. “Earth Grandfather, I’m going out to look for food. Please, watch over Grandma today as well; don’t let anything from the mountain carry her away. Thank you.”

As he stood to leave, he noticed the straw cloak on the Earth God’s image was tattered. He gathered fresh grass, wove a new cloak, and replaced the old one. Only then did he slip into a narrow alley and vanish from sight.

The Daoist priest reappeared, watching the child’s disappearing figure in silence. Then, glancing at the shrine, he saw a wisp of green smoke rise before the idol. When it cleared, an old man appeared. “Divine Master, you grace my humble shrine. Forgive your servant for not welcoming you sooner,” he said, bowing in haste.

“Was it you who sheltered them last night?” the priest asked, expressionless.

“Yes, Divine Master.”

“And the water—was that your doing?”

“Yes, Divine Master. My power is limited; I can draw only one bowl of water from the earth each day.”

Before the priest could continue, the Earth God added anxiously, “It was not my intention to shelter only this family—my strength is wanting.”

The priest’s face did not change; he seemed unsurprised. “I do not blame you. Has the Celestial Inspector been here?”

The Earth God’s face was troubled. “When the drought began, I reported it at once, but the response was that the time was not yet right, and I was told to stay out of it.”

At this, the priest’s expression grew more grave.

“How long has the drought lasted?”

“Half a year.”

“No one has come in that time?”

“There were wandering heroes who entered Red Spring Mountain, but none returned, or they came out grievously wounded. The mountain’s evil name grew, and no one came again. Later, monsters and ghosts began harming the people, and those who could flee within a hundred miles did so; those who could not are long dead.”

The priest replied with a trace of irony, “Why do you still manifest in the world? As a local deity, you cannot leave, but you could have sunk into the earth and waited for better days.”

The Earth God was wistful. “I cannot hide it from you, Divine Master. I could not let go of this family. Since they settled here, I have received their offerings, through wind and rain, without fail. Even now, the child remembers to weave me a straw cloak and offer food.”

He hesitated, expectation flickering in his eyes, yet dared not ask. The priest saw this and said, “Come, let us look in on the old woman.”

The Earth God’s face lit up with hope. “Of course, of course, thank you, Divine Master.”

They did not pass through the gate or door, but by some arcane means entered directly. Until now, the priest had only observed from afar. Now, seeing the home the child cherished, he found it bare as a bone—nothing but a table, a bed, and four walls.

He approached the bed, set his hand in a sword-mudra upon the woman’s brow, and examined her closely.

After a moment, he said, “There is no saving her.”

The Earth God had hoped otherwise but was not surprised, only resigned.

The priest caught his look. “Do you think I withhold my power out of selfishness?”

“I would not dare.” Though the Earth God did not voice it, his words carried a hint of grievance.

The priest found him unexpectedly interesting. “You are a curious little deity.”

The Earth God grew all the more deferential.

“She has lost her vital spirit. Were it not for the water you draw from the earth and her own stubborn will, she would have perished three days after losing her vitality.”

Still the Earth God would not give up. “Is there truly no way?”

The priest replied coolly, “You are a god, but even gods must know: birth, aging, sickness, and death are Heaven’s decree. Heaven’s will cannot be defied. She has lived this long by fortune—one cannot ask for more.”

The Earth God bowed his head for a long time, then asked, “How much longer can she live?”

“At most, a day or two.”

The Earth God’s face was weary; he had long anticipated this day, yet now that it had come, he felt powerless. But what pained him more was the thought of the lonely, ghost-like child left behind.

While he stood lost in thought, he failed to notice the old woman’s expression upon hearing her prognosis: a flash of relief, as though one final task neared completion, followed by a furrowing of the brow—another worry yet unresolved.

The priest saw this play across her face. “Her end is near. Her soul, long suppressed, is gathering to depart; she has regained some clarity, can hear and understand us. But so what? Even were I to retrieve her vital spirit now, she could not be restored.”

“Let us go,” the priest said, and with a wave of his sleeve, they vanished, reappearing before the shrine.

“Now tell me,” he said, “what has happened here.”

The Earth God suppressed his sorrow and began. “A month into the drought, monsters and ghosts began to emerge from Red Spring Mountain and preyed upon the villagers’ vital force. I tried to stop them, but there were too many. I could shelter only a few, and even so, my strength failed at times. Once, when I was distracted, the old woman’s vital spirit was stolen away. By the time I arrived, the fiend was gone.”

“Do the people of the Yellow Spring Sect know of this?”

“I do not know. I reported it as it happened.”

Unwittingly, it was already noon. Yet the Earth God’s words left the air around the priest cold.

“Have you seen the Mountain God?” the priest asked, pointedly—seen, not merely appeared.

“I sought him, but I cannot enter Red Spring Mountain now, and he has not emerged.”

A look of stern solemnity came over the priest.

“Is it because you protected the child that his vital spirit was spared?”

“No, not so. This village, being closest to Red Spring Mountain, was the first whose people were preyed upon. But from the very beginning, it was as if the monsters and ghosts could not see the child. He survived simply because he was overlooked.”

“Have you looked into this carefully?”

“I did, out of curiosity. I believe the child carries an artifact that wards against evil.”

The priest was silent a moment, then asked, “Do you not suspect the disaster was drawn here by the child? Surely you have noticed his peculiarity—those gray eyes, able to see both worlds.”

The priest had arrived three days earlier. At first, the presence of a living child in the village surprised him, so he followed the boy for three days. He observed that though the child seemed to wander at random, his every choice led him to places with the strongest positive energy. Yet the child showed no sign of cultivation; there could be only one explanation: he was born able to perceive both the living and the dead.

Such people are rare—few are born with the ability to see the worlds of both shadow and light. Extraordinary difference is, at times, a portent of calamity.