The following day, all was normal about the monastery. Disciples rose at the mao hour, and after washing and grooming began their practice — each at a different stage with different coursework: some trained their leg techniques, some stood in horse stance, some practiced swordwork, and others drilled fist forms.

By the tail end of the chen hour they began eating breakfast. After breakfast, everyone began morning lessons in unison: the daoists chanted scriptures, the head officiant pronounced blessings, they recited the daily scripture coursework, and studied newly assigned texts.

At mid-si hour, Qingxu Monastery opened its mountain gates to receive worshippers and pilgrims from all directions. Each day, outside of the dedicated cook daoists who handled the meals, all the other manual tasks — sweeping, carrying water, chopping wood, washing clothes, watering the vegetable garden — were rotated among the junior disciples, with Head Senior Brother Qingxuan in full authority over all arrangements.

Qingsu was quick and resourceful, responsible for the purchasing errands, and often traveled out with Rong Chen Zi, spending little time about the monastery.

On this morning, when Rong Chen Zi rose, He Bang stirred awake along with him. Rong Chen Zi had no convenient way to wash and dress in front of her, and went to the sealed chamber to do so. He draped his change of clothes over the bed frame and, noticing almost by chance half a divination stick hanging from the gold hook of the canopy curtain, picked it up for a look. It was a very inauspicious bottom-of-the-range lot, bearing the inscription: The way ahead is clear, and then it is not.

The stick had broken clean through the middle. Rong Chen Zi was sure He Bang had been up to her mischief again, shook his head, and slipped the stick into his sleeve.

He Bang had actually caused no trouble and sat quietly on the daybed waiting for him to finish dressing. Rong Chen Zi emerged in full and tidy attire, saw her sitting obediently on the bed, and asked with warmth: “Hungry? I’ll have someone send food over. It’s still early — go back to sleep.”

He Bang shook her head: “My eye hurts. I don’t feel like eating.”

Rong Chen Zi shook his head: “What are you planning now?”

He Bang smiled so broadly the corners of her mouth curled up like seed pods: “I want to watch you all practice!”

On the rear mountain training ground, Rong Chen Zi was in full and proper attire — dignified, composed, every gesture measured — with a bouncing and hopping He Bang trailing along behind him. All the disciples kowtowed to him together in greeting. He nodded and signaled Qingxuan to arrange the day’s training for each disciple.

Qingxuan was thoroughly familiar with each disciple’s situation and very quickly assigned everyone their respective coursework. On the training ground, only the nine disciples of the Qing generation remained. Rong Chen Zi personally guided them in swordwork — these nine had followed him the longest, and though their skills were still not fully realized, the foundations had been laid with exceptional solidity.

Rong Chen Zi’s own master, Daoist Zixin, had never been fond of taking disciples, and accepted only three inner-door disciples in total. Rong Chen Zi, however, had taken abundantly to the calling of a teacher, with every appearance of intending to develop and expand Qingxu Monastery’s legacy.

Beside the training ground stood many iron-chain posts as tall as a person, used for the disciples to practice their lower-body stances. At this moment, that river clam sat perched on the iron chain strung between two wooden posts. She could not sit still even sitting — her two little feet swung to and fro, the bells at her ankles ringing out bright and clear as birdsong.

At that hour the sky had not yet fully broken into dawn, and objects were still somewhat indistinct in the hazy dimness. As Rong Chen Zi practiced swords with Qingxuan, he would occasionally look up, and saw her through the pale, faint night — her skirt trailing and flowing, her long hair fluttering like wings, like a mysterious celestial maiden descended from the Nine Heavens.

As if sensing Rong Chen Zi’s gaze, she turned her head to look back. Rong Chen Zi steadied his expression and shifted his eyes directly forward. The wooden sword in his hand rapidly changed moves, lunging swiftly at Qingxuan’s wrist and flicking upward in one fluid motion — Qingxuan felt only a sharp pain in his wrist, and the long sword flew from his hand.

The entire movement flowed like water through clouds, nearly flawless. Only Rong Chen Zi himself knew the force behind that move should not have been so heavy. Under normal circumstances, Qingxuan would have felt only a numb wrist, not pain.

Shortly afterward, Fuya also arrived at the training ground. Aside from shamanic arts, she was also skilled in staff fighting. Today she wore a short red outfit, which gave her an energetic, bright appearance. Since He Bang had been afflicted by the Blood Pupil Curse, Rong Chen Zi had been somewhat cool and indifferent toward Fuya, though as he had no concrete evidence, he had yet to confront her.

He was a cautious man. He had dispatched Qingsu down the mountain to investigate the situation, and naturally it was easier to keep Fuya here in plain sight, where he could monitor her and prevent any further incidents.

While Rong Chen Zi was sparring with his disciples, Fuya walked over toward He Bang. He Bang sat on the iron chains, much higher up than Fuya, who had to look up at her: “Who are you, exactly?”

He Bang swung her little feet right over Fuya’s head, apparently hearing nothing. Fuya was growing a little restless. She was considered a top-tier expert in the shamanic arts and had dealt with demonic and spectral creatures on more than a few occasions, yet in her entire life she had never encountered anything like this. “You also came for the immortal’s flesh, didn’t you?” She lowered her voice, intimating a proposal. “Since we share the same purpose, why not cooperate?”

He Bang seemed not to care or simply couldn’t be bothered to reply — but Rong Chen Zi came striding swiftly over.

“May blessings be boundless.” He first gave Fuya a polite bow, observing the full courtesies, then when speaking to He Bang out of habit lowered his voice by two full tones: “The meal hall made fried rice cakes. Go back to your room and eat.”

“Fried rice cakes! Son of a — I want fried rice cakes!!” He Bang on the iron chains gave a joyful shout, her eyes scrunching into slits. She gave the iron chain a swing and dropped to the ground, light as a butterfly, then went bouncing and hopping back toward the monastery.

Rong Chen Zi shook his head, then turned to speak with Fuya. Fuya tried to probe into He Bang’s background, but Rong Chen Zi deflected and shifted topics every time, and said nothing about her whatsoever.

Around noon, He Bang hit a junior disciple called Qingyun. Unable to deal with He Bang, the disciple could only run to find Rong Chen Zi. Rong Chen Zi happened to be casting a divinatory reading for a pilgrim at the time, and hurried over to the meal hall upon hearing the news, stepping in front of He Bang with a stern expression: “What happened now?!”

He Bang was still seething with indignation. She grabbed hold of his sleeve edge: “Zhiguan! Son of a — this junior daoist has no manners at all!! He was giving out passion fruits and gave everyone else two but only gave me one!!”

Qingyun held a hand over his panda eye, his face the picture of misery: “It was because among the Heavenly Stems and Earthly Branches, odd numbers are Yang and even numbers are Yin — so the female worshippers are given an odd number, following the principle of Yin and Yang complementing each other.”

He Bang was having none of this reasoning, and slammed the table: “Giving less is wrong regardless!!”

Qingyun was about to argue further, but Rong Chen Zi was silent for a long while, and finally asked: “You hit him… just for this?”

He Bang was entirely in the right: “But of course — son of a — I’m not an unreasonable person who would just hit someone for no cause, am I?! Rong Chen Zi, you be the judge — did he deserve to be hit or not?”

A vein at Rong Chen Zi’s temple throbbed; he slammed the table and was about to burst into anger. He Bang hurriedly touched her eye.

Rong Chen Zi breathed in deeply. He stood before the table for a long while, and then without a word he turned and took two more passion fruits from Qingxuan’s table and handed them to He Bang, then was silent for another long while before he gave a resolute nod: “Deserved it.”

He Bang accepted the two fruits, and was finally satisfied: “Zhiguan is still the one who speaks reason.”

Qingyun was about to speak again, but Rong Chen Zi raised a hand to stop him. He looked down at He Bang gnawing on her fruit, watched for a good while, then finally sighed: “Let it be.” He shook his head and said it once more: “Let it be.”

As if counseling Qingyun. And as if counseling himself.

The junior daoists ate their meal with blank expressions. Qingxuan picked up a piece of yam from his bowl with perfect composure and, like a prophet who’d foreseen it all, said quietly: “I said Master coming wouldn’t do any good. What did I tell you?”

From then on, all of the people in Qingxu Monastery understood: Master was strict, yes — but in the face of this cauldron vessel, even the strict Master had not a shred of principles…