Song Jixin, accompanied by his maid Zhigui, arrived beneath the ancient locust tree, only to find its shade densely crowded with nearly fifty townsfolk seated on benches and stools brought from their homes. Children tugged eagerly at their elders, drawn by the commotion. Standing side by side at the edge of the shade, Song Jixin spotted an elderly man beneath the tree, one hand cradling a large white bowl, the other clasped behind his back. His face alight with fervor, he proclaimed loudly:
"Earlier, I spoke of the general course of the dragon veins. Now, let me tell you about the True Dragon itself. Ah, this is truly extraordinary. Some three thousand years past, a remarkable immortal emerged upon the earth. First, he secluded himself in a blessed cave of paradise, mastering the Way. Then, wielding a sword three feet long, he journeyed the realm alone, his spirit sharp and radiant. For reasons unknown, he harbored a fierce enmity toward the flood dragons. For three centuries, wherever a flood dragon appeared, he slew it, until not a single true dragon remained in the world. Only then did he cease his crusade and vanished without trace. Some say he ascended to the highest realms of Taoist mysticism, engaging the Dao Ancestor in profound discourse; others claim he journeyed westward to the pure lands of Buddha, debating scriptures with the enlightened one. Still, some whisper he now guards the gates of Fengdu's underworld, warding off malevolent spirits that plague the living…"
The old man's words flew with spittle, yet the gathered villagers sat unmoved, faces blank with bewilderment. The maid whispered curiously, "What is this 'three-foot spirit'?"
Song Jixin smiled, "It's simply a sword."
Zhigui retorted with a hint of annoyance, "Master, this old gentleman is far too fond of showy talk; he can't even speak plainly."
Song Jixin glanced at the elder, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Few in our town can read; this storyteller's eloquence is like winking at the blind."
The maid pressed further, "What is this 'blessed cave paradise'? Can anyone truly live three hundred years? And Fengdu's underworld—isn't that a place only for the dead?"
Caught off guard, Song Jixin masked his ignorance with a dismissive tone, "Nonsense all. Probably tales lifted from some shabby folk histories, spun to fool country bumpkins."
At that moment, Song Jixin keenly noticed the old man cast a fleeting glance at him—brief as a dragonfly's touch, yet unmistakable. The youth paid it no mind, assuming coincidence.
Zhigui looked up at the ancient locust tree; dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves, making her instinctively squint. Song Jixin turned to look and was struck silent. His maid, now shedding the last traces of childhood plumpness, bore a visage far removed from the frail, skinny girl he remembered.
According to local custom, when a girl married, a well-fortuned person with living parents would be invited to remove the fine down from the bride's face, trim her forehead and temple hair—a ritual called "opening the face" or "raising the eyebrows." Song Jixin had also read of a custom unknown in their town. So, when Zhigui turned twelve, he purchased the finest new wine, brought out a secret porcelain bottle of exquisite glaze—resembling green plums—poured the wine inside, carefully sealed it with clay, and buried it underground.
Suddenly, Song Jixin spoke, "Zhigui, though that Chen fellow is, according to our scholarly ancestors, like 'rotten wood beyond carving, a wall of dung beyond plaster,' nonetheless, he has done one meaningful thing in his life."
Zhigui did not reply, lowering her eyes; her eyelashes trembled faintly.
Song Jixin continued to himself, "Chen Ping'an isn't a bad man, just stubborn, bound to rigid principles. Becoming a kiln worker means no matter how hard he toils, he's doomed never to craft anything imbued with spirit. That's why Liu Xianyang's master, the old Yao, despised him. Rotten wood cannot be carved. As for the wall of dung, it means no matter if you drape him in a dragon robe, he remains a rustic bumpkin…"
At this, Song Jixin smiled bitterly, "I suppose I'm even more miserable than Chen Ping'an."
He did not know how to comfort himself.
In this small town, Song Jixin and his maid were a favored topic among the wealthy families of Fulu Street and Taoye Lane, thanks to Song's "unofficial father"—the venerable official Song. There were no great figures or upheavals here, so the kiln supervisor appointed by the court was like a just magistrate from a drama. Among dozens of supervisors in history, this Song was the most beloved. Unlike his aloof predecessors, Song didn't seclude himself in the office or in scholarly study but took a hands-on approach to kiln affairs, resembling more a commoner than an official. After more than a decade, the once bookish Song's skin had tanned dark and shiny, his attire no different from that of a farmer, and he was approachable in manner.
Unfortunately, the royal kiln's ceramics—whether glaze, appearance, or form—never matched prior standards and were even somewhat inferior, baffling veteran kiln masters.
In the end, the court grudgingly recognized Song's diligent, if unremarkable, service, rating him 'good' before ordering him back to the capital. Before leaving, Song spent a fortune building a covered bridge. When it was noticed that no child accompanied him in his departing convoy, several leading families understood the truth.
Song had left behind a respectable legacy in the town. With the current supervisor's favor, young Song Jixin's life was comfortable and carefree.
As for Zhigui, now bearing her new name, rumors swirled about her origin. Locals from Niping Lane said she was a girl from afar, found begging and collapsed at Song's doorstep during a heavy snowfall—had she not been found, she would have been lost to the afterlife. A veteran court servant insisted she was an orphan purchased long ago by Song, meant to be a confidante for his illegitimate son, to fill the void of fatherly absence.
Whatever the truth, naming the maid Zhigui sealed the father-son bond between them, as everyone knew Song's favorite inkstone bore the same inscription.
Snapping back, Song Jixin beamed. "For some reason, I keep thinking of that pesky little lizard, Zhigui. Imagine—I threw it into Chen Ping'an's yard, yet it still scurries back to our place. What does that say about Chen Ping'an's doghouse? It must be so unwelcoming that even a little snake refuses to enter."
Zhigui pondered, "Some things, perhaps, are just matters of fate?"
Song Jixin gave a thumbs-up and laughed heartily, "Exactly! That Chen Ping'an is a man of shallow luck and meager blessings—he should count himself fortunate to be alive."
She remained silent.
Song Jixin murmured, "When we leave town, I'll leave our belongings in Chen Ping'an's care… wonder if he might pilfer from us?"
Zhigui whispered, "Master, surely not?"
Song Jixin chuckled, "Ah, Zhigui, you know what 'pilfer' means?"
Zhigui blinked her clear eyes, "Isn't it just its literal meaning?"
He laughed, gazing southward with a spark of yearning, "I've heard the capital's libraries hold more books than our town has trees and flowers!"
At that moment, the storyteller resumed, "Though the True Dragon no longer dwells among us, its kin—flood dragons, horned dragons, and lesser serpents—still truly live in our world. Perhaps…"
The old man paused, deliberately withholding the climax. Seeing no response from the audience, he pressed on, "Perhaps one hides close to us—Taoist immortals call it the 'hidden dragon in the depths.'"
Song Jixin yawned. Suddenly, a vibrant locust leaf drifted down, landing on his forehead. He plucked it, twisting the stem between his fingers.
Meanwhile, a youth heading to the East Gate to collect a debt noticed the same leaf descending. Quickened steps and an outstretched hand failed to catch it as a breeze carried it past. The nimble youth moved swiftly to intercept, but the leaf twisted once more in the air, eluding his grasp. The boy—Chen Ping'an—could only sigh in frustration.
A schoolboy playing truant in a blue shirt brushed past him, unaware a locust leaf had settled on his shoulder.
Chen Ping'an continued toward the East Gate, resolved that even if no money came, pressing the matter was worthwhile.
In the distance, at a fortune-telling stall, a young Taoist closed his eyes and murmured to himself, "Who said heaven's mandate turns without favor or disdain?"