Chapter 46

Nian Qi searched for a while before finally finding a signal. Once he successfully sent the message, he turned and hurried back—Ruan Qing needed someone by her side. Moving at top speed, he rushed to the ancient courtyard deep within the mountain, heading straight for the back chambers. His heart tightened as he called out, “Ruan Qing? Ruan Qing?”

There was no response, but he quickly spotted footprints in the corridor leading to the front courtyard. In a flash, Nian Qi leapt onto the rooftop ahead, calling out again with all his strength, “Ruan Qing!” His voice echoed far, even through the rain. Faintly, he heard her voice from further up ahead, “I’m here—”

Relieved, Nian Qi flew across the rooftops to the front courtyard, landing lightly by the eaves. The signboard had fallen and cracked on the ground, revealing, as the rain washed away the mud, the words Sanqing Hall. Inside, Ruan Qing called, “Nian Qi…”

The hall was dim, and the statues of the three Daoist deities were in tatters. One statue had split entirely, its torso shattered on the ground. The altar was in disarray, candleholders long toppled. Yet, at the center, where the incense burner should have been, there stood an intact chest, open now, with Ruan Qing standing in front of it, her face illuminated by Nian Qi’s phone flashlight. She was clutching a stack of yellowed papers, crying uncontrollably.

In the half month he’d known her, Nian Qi had only seen her laugh, scold, and tease—never once break down in tears like this. He was stunned. “What happened?”

Ruan Qing tried to wipe her face, struggling to hold back tears, but they only came faster. Finally, after a deep breath, she managed to say, “Nian Qi, this… this is the Daoist temple.”

When Nian Qi had found this place, he hadn’t approached from the front. Instead, he’d entered from the side, jumping straight into the back rooms. But upon seeing the Sanqing Hall plaque, he knew it was indeed a temple. Ruan Qing, however, specifically calling it “the Daoist temple,” meant this place was the legendary temple she’d intended for Nian Qi to claim a connection to—the very one that Uncle Qi had ventured into the mountains numerous times in search of, but never found.

Nian Qi walked up to her. “I know. But… why are you crying?”

Clearly, her tears were related to the yellowed papers in her hands, so he reached out to take a look. But Ruan Qing quickly pulled them back. “Dry your hands first! No water! Don’t damage these!”

Nian Qi loosened his raincoat and wiped his hands thoroughly before Ruan Qing finally handed over the papers. “The stories were all true,” she whispered, “They really went down the mountain to fight the invaders… and they never came back.” Tears spilled over again as she spoke.

Nian Qi looked at her, unable to grasp her deep sadness, and turned his attention to the papers. By the light of the phone, he saw that it was a letter—a will, actually. Written in traditional characters, vertically aligned, and scrawled in a messy hand, it hadn’t been completed in one sitting but rather had notes added sporadically over time. The person who’d written it was named Zaojiao, the fabled young temple boy.

Zaojiao had been left as an infant under a soapberry tree, where his master had found him. They guessed he might be the illegitimate child of a local girl, abandoned to fate in the wilderness. Since he was found by a soapberry tree, his master gave him the nickname Zaojiao. ^[1]Zaojiao is the Chinese word for the soapberry tree

Master once told him that, when he grew older, passed his exams, and earned the right to wear a Daoist cap, he would finally be given a Daoist name. Master had also promised to take him down the mountain to see the world, as the furthest Zaojiao had ever traveled was the mountain village, and only a handful of times at that. The temple, called “The Wild Hermits’ Temple,” reflected the hermitic life Master, Great Master, Senior Uncles, and Brothers proudly led—living as wild hermits in the mountains, removed from worldly affairs.

But before Zaojiao could even take his exams, they received news that foreign invaders had attacked, bringing devastation to the villages below. The entire temple community, which normally never left the mountain or involved itself in outside matters, donned their robes and took up their swords, instructing Zaojiao to look after the temple before they descended together. Even Old Wu, who usually did the chores, joined them. Old Wu, they said, was once a notorious bandit subdued by the Great Master, who had bound him to serve in the temple, cutting wood and sweeping floors.

After a few years of observing that Wu had truly reformed, the Great Master had freed him, giving him the choice to leave. But Old Wu chose to stay, wanting to remain at the temple. Although he never officially converted, he still joined in morning and evening prayers, chanting scriptures and working alongside everyone else. The Great Master once said, “Whether he wears a Daoist robe or not, whether he has a Daoist topknot or not—what does it matter? He carries the Dao within him.”

Ever since he could remember, Zaojiao had known Old Wu as part of the temple. His senior brothers would often use tales of Old Wu’s past to scare him, though he never truly believed them. To Zaojiao, Old Wu seemed kind and gentle, even drooling in his sleep under the sun. But when everyone prepared to go down the mountain to fight, Old Wu sharpened his wood-cutting axe and tucked it into his belt with a ferocious determination, and Zaojiao suddenly realized that the stories about Old Wu might actually be true. Perhaps he really had once been a fierce bandit.

And so, everyone went down the mountain together, leaving only Zaojiao to watch over the temple. “Mind the candles and don’t burn down the temple,” Master reminded him before they left. “When I return, I’ll test you—and I already have a Daoist name picked out for you.” Zaojiao was dying to know what his Daoist name would be, but Master teasingly refused to tell him, urging him instead to keep up with his studies and prepare for his exam upon their return.

Zaojiao was obedient, diligently tending to the temple and never letting the candles burn out. He grew steadily over the years, going from a young child to a teenager, and then to a young man. His clothes had long since outgrown him, but fortunately, he had the clothes left behind by the others. Carefully rationing them, he had enough to last for years. He managed the garden and crops himself, cooked for himself, swept and cleaned, and continued his daily studies and prayers without slacking. If he failed to keep up, Master and the others would surely scold him for being lazy when they returned. And how would he ever earn his Daoist name if he failed his exam?

Occasionally, he would go down the mountain to trade wild goods for oil and salt. The villagers would ask why he continued to stay alone at the temple instead of moving down to live in the village. He always answered that he needed to guard the temple—what if Master and the others returned and found him gone? They’d surely scold him for it. The villagers’ expressions were always strange, as though they wanted to say something more, but Zaojiao never wanted to hear it and would quickly turn back up the mountain.

One day, he saved a group of young people in the forest. They wore green uniforms with red armbands, and when he asked them what they were doing on the mountain, they told him they’d come to destroy a temple rumored to be nearby. Shocked, Zaojiao asked them why they wanted to destroy his temple.

The young people glanced at each other, hesitant, before one of them quietly explained that temples and monasteries were considered “feudal superstitions” and part of the “Four Olds” that needed to be eradicated. They tried to explain further, describing how the outside world had completely transformed. Zaojiao already had an idea about this; the villagers had mentioned it a few times before, but he’d always turned away, unwilling to listen. But now, for the first time, he asked, “Have the invaders outside the mountain been defeated?”

The young ones looked confused, not understanding who he meant. He explained, “The ones from across the sea, ambitious and ruthless, who, like a snake swallowing an elephant, tried to conquer us.” Finally understanding, the young people told him, “Yes, they were defeated a long time ago. The country has been liberated.”

Zaojiao didn’t care much about this so-called liberation. He muttered to himself, “My master and the others went down the mountain to fight them, so if they’ve been defeated… why haven’t they come back?” The young people understood now, their expressions mirroring the villagers’—that same hesitant look. Zaojiao had never allowed anyone to finish these conversations because he knew what they wanted to say, and he simply didn’t want to hear it. This time, looking at these young faces, he let himself cry, finally accepting the reality that Master, Great Master, Senior Uncles, Old Wu, and his brothers would never return.

This realization broke him. He sank to the ground, pounding the earth and weeping openly like a child, shocking the young people with red armbands. After he had cried his fill, he dried his eyes, stood up, and led them down the mountain, sending them safely on their way. After that day, he never left the mountain again. The world outside had changed, rejected his temple, and wanted to destroy it. Very well, he thought, he would ignore the outside world altogether. Even if he were the last one left, he would protect The Wild Hermits’ Temple; no one would touch it.

He grew his own grains and vegetables, pressed oil from peanuts, and relied on animal blood when salt was scarce. In the timeless mountain, the years slipped by, and he found himself growing hunched and weaker. Realizing he might soon leave this world, he wrote this final letter, explaining why Master, Great Master, and his brothers had gone down the mountain and what they went to do. “As Daoists, we don’t care if the world offers incense or reverence, but we won’t let people bully us. You can’t just decide we’re ‘outdated’ and destroy our temple—that’s not how it works.”

He carved his own tombstone, built a wooden coffin, and dug a grave, prepared to lie down at any time. But even after finishing the letter, he didn’t die right away. So he added to it over the years, updating it like a diary, noting simply that he was still alive. He wrapped the letter meticulously in oilcloth, layering it several times, then placed it in a wooden box lined with medicinal powders and lime to protect it from moisture and pests. The box lay on the incense table in the Sanqing Hall, ready for the inevitable.

As he faced his final days, he carried only two regrets. One was that he hadn’t practiced his writing enough after everyone left; his handwriting was still ugly. The other was that he’d never know what Daoist name Master had prepared for him. With these two regrets, the letter ended, with nothing more to add.

Nian Qi finished reading and pondered in silence before saying, “This can’t be kept.” Ruan Qing looked at him in confusion. Nian Qi explained, “The letter clearly shows that he lived here alone, so who would I be? Where would I have come from?”

“If you want your plan to succeed, Ruan Qing, this letter can’t remain.”

“Does ‘can’t remain’ mean destroying it?” she asked in alarm, clutching Nian Qi’s arm. “No! You can’t destroy this. People have to see it. They must!”

Nian Qi looked at her, puzzled, unable to understand her distress. Ruan Qing couldn’t understand his indifference—how could he be so detached, even cold enough to consider destroying the letter? Didn’t he realize what it held? It was the legacy of The Wild Hermits’ Temple, the spirit of the Daoists!

But then she suddenly understood. This wasn’t Nian Qi’s fault because, in reality, he didn’t belong to this time at all. In times of peace, they’d hidden in the mountains; in times of chaos, they’d gone down to defend their people. But how could he understand the chaos they faced? What did those invaders do to the people, to the nation, to this land? Nian Qi knew none of it. It simply wasn’t his history.