Everyone in the cultivation world knew that as spiritual energy thinned, dragons had long disappeared from this world.

It was said that in the depths of the Dead Sea, there was a five-thousand-year-old giant python, the closest spiritual creature to a dragon.

But in the tales of Qianqu’s people, not only did a silver dragon descend when the floodgates opened, but colorful clouds filled the sky, flower petals drifted through the air, and immortal music played in waves.

Memory can lie. When a long-awaited event occurs, people instinctively beautify it until imagination becomes reality.

Three people can make a tiger—how much more so when over a hundred people earnestly claimed to have witnessed a miracle with their own eyes? They described every scale and whisker of the silver dragon in vivid detail.

In truth, the floodgates were only open for half a day, the water flow was moderate, and it wasn’t as grand and earth-shaking as people described.

Qianqu was vast with a sparse population. Only one-third of the waterways had been dug, barely filling six canals and providing water for twelve villages.

The river water reflected the fierce summer sun with silver flashes, in stark contrast to the pitch-black ancient wells.

After many years, the people of Qianqu finally saw flowing, rushing, living water again.

When the third team of canal workers finished their rest period and returned home carrying grain and meat, their wives lit fires and cooked stoves, brewing fragrant meat soup. Neighbors on all sides opened their doors and windows, looking enviously at the cooking smoke.

Their families were worried at first, but they saw that their returning husbands and sons had rosy complexions and were full of vigor—some even fatter than before.

Upon further questioning about the canal works, they couldn’t help but weep with joy.

In their excitement, they surrounded the newly returned Director of Agriculture:

“With such a miracle, we should go to the temple to worship Celestial Official Song’s golden statue.”

Carpenter Liu put on a stern face: “You all know that this idea is forbidden. The temple is locked, Celestial Official Song has no golden statue, and he does not allow people to worship him.”

His fellow villagers weren’t afraid of him and continued joking: “Great Director of Agriculture, please make an exception. You can carve a wooden statue of Celestial Official Song, and we’ll place it in the village afterward. We’ll set up a longevity tablet and worship secretly, without letting anyone know.”

Liu Er coughed lightly and lowered his voice: “That could work, but don’t say I carved it.”

Carpenter Liu’s sculptures were lifelike, with a distinctive spirit.

Those who had never seen Song Qian Ji looked at the statue and felt that this was exactly how they imagined a celestial official would look.

Calm and generous, gentle yet not lacking in dignity.

Villages near and far eagerly imitated this, and various statues of Song Qian Ji—wooden, stone, wax, and others—were moved into the ancestral halls of every village and placed on the offering tables of every household.

Blue smoke ascended to the clouds, and winds and clouds gathered in the sky above Qianqu, like a giant beast swallowing clouds and spitting mist.

Invisible fortune, like a trickling stream, converged from all directions, flowing into the Celestial Official’s Mansion.

Meanwhile, Song Qian Ji, who had pretended to be proficient in the “Art of Reading Auras” and “Opening the Celestial Eye,” remained completely unaware of the danger that was right at hand.

He was lowering his head, gently blowing open a budding pink lotus.

His unbound black hair cascaded down, falling onto the green lotus leaves.

After moving to the new Song Courtyard, his little lotus roots no longer had to squeeze uncomfortably under the eaves, nor did they need light-gathering talismans for artificial illumination.

After several days of warm summer sunshine, layers of green leaves covered the water’s surface, holding crystal-clear dewdrops that slid with the wind. The flower buds on the lotus stem were heavy, with thick petals, white with pink edges, like large, full peaches.

The tightly closed petals gradually opened under his coaxing, revealing the tender green lotus seed pod hiding within.

Song Qian Ji couldn’t help but smile.

If he could dig a lotus pond specifically for growing different varieties and colors of lotus roots, he could make dishes like stir-fried lotus slices, lotus seed soup, and osmanthus with fox nuts—certainly better than eating noodles every day.

A lotus pond just half the size of Yaoguang Lake would be enough for him to plant for an entire summer, Song Qian Ji thought.

That night, Ji Chen came as usual to learn chess. After losing three games in a row and accepting defeat by gathering his pieces, he suddenly heard Song Qian Ji say:

“It’s almost time.”

Ji Chen was startled, thinking that he had played so poorly tonight that he had disappointed Song Qian Ji:

“Please don’t, Brother Song, I’m far from ready to graduate. I can still improve!”

“Not about you,” Song Qian Ji stood up, dragged a lounge chair, and found a suitable position under the flower trellis, gazing up at the hazy moon. “You may go.”

From then on, Song Qian Ji continued his busy days in the fields as usual.

But every night starting at the hour of Si (9-11 PM), he received no visitors, discussed no affairs, took no rest, and did not meditate. He simply reclined in his lounge chair, breathing softly, silently practicing the “Spring Night Joyful Rain” technique.

To others, however, he appeared completely motionless, as if his spirit had left his body to wander.

No matter who came to ask what he was doing, he only said two words: waiting for rain.

Everyone was puzzled.

Ji Chen tentatively asked: “Brother Song, Qianqu hasn’t had rain for three years. Why don’t I spend some money to invite a few great formation masters to set up a cloud and rain formation in the sky? Perhaps we can squeeze out a few drops of water? If it falls to the ground, that counts as rain, right?”

Song Qian Ji smiled and refused: “No.”

“Then, are we just waiting idly?”

“Waiting.”

Ji Chen muttered: “Rain isn’t like Daoist Friend Zhao—it won’t come just because you wait for it. Sigh, who knows when we’ll meet another Daoist Friend Zhao.”

After Zhao Ren was released, Ji Chen still often thought of him. More accurately, he missed the feeling of testing formations on a living person.

Every day he played chess, studied manuals, and practiced formations, but always felt that theoretical knowledge lacked something.

Ji Chen found Meng He Ze practicing sword techniques, and the two began their Qianqu Two-Person Dance again.

“Brother Song stays like that every night. Aren’t you going to try to persuade him?”

Meng He Ze shook his head: “No.”

Ji Chen was surprised: “Why not?”

Meng He Ze looked up at the sky: “Because before, he did wait for rain to come.”

The news that the celestial official was waiting for rain spread from the Celestial Official’s Mansion into the countryside and into every village.