Song Jixin and his maid, Zhi Gui, arrived beneath the old locust tree and found it crowded with people. Nearly fifty individuals were seated on benches they had brought with them, and more children were tugging at their elders, trying to join in the excitement.
Song Jixin and Zhi Gui stood side by side at the edge of the tree's shade, watching as an old man stood beneath the tree. One hand held a large white bowl, while the other was placed behind his back. His expression was animated as he spoke loudly, "Earlier, I spoke about the general direction of the dragon vein. Now, let me tell you about the true dragon. Tsk, tsk, this is truly remarkable. About three thousand years ago, a truly extraordinary immortal appeared in the world. He first secluded himself in a cave, cultivating diligently, and once he reached enlightenment, he set out on a journey, wielding his sword and traveling the world. His sword, three feet in length, was sharp and full of spirit. For some reason, this person had a deep enmity with the flood dragons. For three hundred years, wherever there was a flood dragon, he would slay it, until there were no more true dragons in the world. Finally, he disappeared without a trace. Some say he went to a place of profound Daoist teachings, sitting and discussing the Dao with the Dao Ancestor. Others say he went to the far-off Western Pure Land, where he debated and expounded the Buddha's teachings. There are even those who claim that he personally guarded the gates of the Fengdu Underworld to prevent ghosts and spirits from causing chaos in the human realm..."
The old man spoke passionately, his words flying from his mouth, but the townsfolk beneath him remained unmoved, their faces blank with confusion.
Zhi Gui, curious, whispered, "What does 'three feet of spirit' mean?"
Song Jixin chuckled. "It means a sword."
Zhi Gui grumbled, "Young master, this old man really likes to show off his knowledge. He can't even speak properly."
Song Jixin glanced at the old man and, with a bit of schadenfreude, said, "Not many in our town can read, and this storyteller might as well be winking at a blind man."
Zhi Gui asked again, "What is a 'cave heaven and blessed land'? Can anyone really live for three hundred years? And isn't the Fengdu Underworld a place only for the dead?"
Song Jixin was caught off guard by the questions, but unwilling to show weakness, he casually replied, "Pure nonsense. He must have read a few low-class histories, trying to fool the country folk."
At that moment, Song Jixin keenly noticed that the old man had glanced at him, whether intentionally or not. It was just a fleeting glance, a mere brush of the eye, but Song Jixin still caught it. However, he didn't give it much thought, dismissing it as a coincidence.
Zhi Gui looked up at the old locust tree, the fine, scattered sunlight filtering through the gaps in the leaves and falling to the ground. She instinctively squinted her eyes.
Song Jixin turned to look as well, and suddenly froze.
His maid, Zhi Gui, now had a side profile that was beginning to lose its baby fat, and she looked very different from the frail, small, and withered little maid he remembered.
According to the town's customs, when a girl marries, her family would hire someone with both parents and children still alive to remove the soft fuzz from her face, trim her bangs and sideburns, a ritual known as "opening the face" or "raising the brows."
Song Jixin had heard of another custom, one not found in their town. So, when Zhi Gui was twelve, he had bought the best freshly brewed wine in town, retrieved the porcelain bottle he had secretly kept, its glaze beautifully colored like green plums. After carefully pouring the wine into it, he sealed it with mud and buried it underground.
Suddenly, Song Jixin spoke up, "Zhi Gui, though that Chen guy, according to the teachings of our scholarly ancestors, would be considered 'a rotting piece of wood that cannot be carved, a wall made of excrement and dirt that cannot be plastered,' no matter what, he did manage to do one meaningful thing in this life."
Zhi Gui did not respond. She lowered her eyes, and her eyelashes trembled slightly.
Song Jixin murmured to herself, "Chen Ping'an, he's not a bad person, but his personality is too rigid. He sticks to the rules in everything he does, so no matter how hard he works, he's destined to never make something truly great. That's why Liu Xianyang's master, that old man Yao, never thought much of him. He had a unique insight—this is what you call 'rotting wood that can't be carved.' As for the saying 'you can't plaster a dung wall,' it roughly means that someone like Chen Ping'an, a poor, shabby fellow, no matter how you dress him up in a dragon robe, he's still a country bumpkin..."
When Song Jixin said this, she self-deprecatingly added, "Actually, I'm even worse off than Chen Ping'an."
She didn't know how to comfort her young master.
Song Jixin and her maid had always been the talk of the rich folks of Fulou Street and Taoye Alley in this small town. This was largely thanks to her "cheap old man," Lord Song.
The town didn't have any notable figures or great upheavals, so the kiln supervisor dispatched by the imperial court was the kind of upright official you'd read about in plays. Among the dozens of supervisors in history, Lord Song, the previous one, was the most beloved by the people. Unlike the previous high-ranking officials, Lord Song didn't hide away in his office, cultivating himself and avoiding others. Instead, he was hands-on with the kiln work, more like a common farmer than a nobleman. For over ten years, this formerly scholarly man had become tanned and rough, dressing like a peasant and interacting with people without any airs. Unfortunately, despite his hard work, the imperial kiln's porcelain output—whether in glaze, quality, or shape—was never quite up to standard. In fact, it was often worse than before, which left the old kiln masters baffled.
In the end, the imperial court likely felt that Lord Song, while lacking in accomplishments, had at least worked hard, so they gave him a decent evaluation in the official documents when they recalled him to the capital. Before returning, Lord Song even spent all his money to build a covered bridge. Later, the prominent families of the town realized that one of the children was absent from his caravan, and that's when they understood. It could be said that Lord Song had built a certain connection with the town, and with the current supervisor's preferential treatment, young Song Jixin had lived a carefree life in the town, with no worries about food or clothing.
As for the maid, now named Zhi Gui, there were various rumors about her origins. Some locals from Mud Bottle Alley claimed that one winter, a girl from another place had come begging and collapsed at the gate of Song Jixin's house. Had it not been for someone finding her in time, she would have died. Others, including elderly clerks at the government office, swore that Lord Song had bought the orphan years ago from somewhere else to serve as a companion for his illegitimate son, Song Jixin, to make up for the lack of a father-son relationship.
No matter the story, once the maid was named Zhi Gui, the father-son connection between her and Song Jixin was solidified, as the great families of the town all knew that Lord Song cherished a certain inkstone, inscribed with the words "Zhi Gui."
Song Jixin snapped out of her thoughts and smiled brightly, "For some reason, I'm reminded of that shameless little four-legged snake. Zhi Gui, think about it, I threw it into Chen Ping'an's yard, and yet it still crawled back to our house. What does that tell you about how much Chen Ping'an's doghouse is disliked, that even a little snake doesn't want to go in?"
The maid thought carefully and answered, "Some things are about fate, aren't they?"
Song Jixin gave her a thumbs-up and said joyfully, "Exactly! Chen Ping'an is just someone with shallow luck and little fortune. As long as he's alive, he should count himself lucky."
The maid didn't respond.
Song Jixin muttered to herself, "After we leave the town, will Chen Ping'an steal things from our house while we're gone?"
The maid softly replied, "Young master, don't you think that's a bit unlikely?"
Song Jixin laughed. "Oh, Zhi Gui, you know what 'guarding the fort and stealing from it' means?"
The maid blinked her autumn-like eyes and replied, "Isn't it the literal meaning?"
Song Jixin chuckled and looked toward the south, a longing expression crossing her face. "I've heard the books in the capital are more numerous than all the trees and plants in our town!"
At that moment, the storyteller was saying, "Though there are no true dragons in the world anymore, their kind, like the flood dragon, the worm dragon, and the hornless dragon, are still truly alive in the world. Who knows, maybe..."
The old man deliberately paused, but seeing that the audience wasn't responsive, he continued, "Who knows, maybe they're hiding among us, what Taoist immortals call the 'hidden dragon in the abyss!'"
Song Jixin yawned.
Just then, a locust leaf drifted down from above, fresh and green, landing precisely on the boy's forehead.
Song Jixin reached out, catching the leaf and twisting the stem between his fingers.
The boy, thinking he should go collect a debt at the East Gate, also saw a locust leaf fall as he approached the old locust tree. He quickened his pace, trying to catch it in mid-air.
However, a breeze blew, and the leaf slipped past his hand.
The boy, agile in his straw sandals, quickly sidestepped, trying to intercept the leaf.
But the leaf spun in the air once more.
The boy didn't give up and moved swiftly in all directions, but still, he couldn't catch the locust leaf.
Chen Ping'an gave a helpless sigh.
A schoolboy skipping class in a green robe brushed past him.
The green-robed boy didn't even know a locust leaf had settled on his shoulder.
Chen Ping'an continued on his way to the East Gate, determined to collect the debt or at least push for a reminder.
In the distance, at the fortune-teller's booth, a young Taoist priest, eyes closed in meditation, muttered to himself, "Who said the celestial cycles show no favor or bias?"