Back at the hut, Wuji laid out the materials and started building the mesh frame. He fixed the mesh between the four wooden sticks with thin cord and careful knots. Once it was secure, he nodded in satisfaction.
Then, he knelt by the basin. The soaked rags were soft, pale, and stringy now. He took up a thick stick and began grinding the remaining rags into pulp, stirring and crushing them until they became a fibrous soup.
Next, he poured the mixture into a wider, shallower basin. The cloudy slurry swirled thickly as he dipped the mesh frame into it. He let it settle, then carefully lifted it out. The pulp clung to the frame in a thin, even sheet.
He gently placed the sheet on a wooden board and smoothed it out with his hand. Then, he picked up the board and walked to the back of the hut.
The sun had already set in the west, casting long shadows across the ground.
Glancing up at the thatched roof, he went inside and came back out with Meiyin's old stool. He placed the stool beside the hut, climbed up on it carefully, and balanced the drying board across the roof's edge to catch the last rays of sunlight.
Then, he climbed back down. He went back to the basin, waited for the papers to dry, and put the yellow paper aside.
He continued using the one mesh. "If I had another mesh frame, it would have taken me less time, but I don't think I could get another one from those guys."
He repeated this process over and over again.
Each sheet was time-consuming and fragile. Any mistake would ruin the entire batch. But Wuji's hands were steady, and he kept his breath under control.
Sometimes Meiyin came to help, bringing him fresh water, sorting the dried papers, and handing him boards on which to dry the sheets.
By day, he worked. By night, he trained until his body protested.
Time passed, marked by torn muscles, slow progress, and the scent of wet pulp drying in the sun.
Wuji never complained; he never considered it. The pain and labor reminded him that he was still far from his goal. And that drove him harder than anything else.
Six days later, Wuji had one hundred neatly stacked yellow blank pages beside him. Sitting on his straw bed, he divided them into five groups of twenty.
"I'll sell three to 'them' and donate the last two to the Fifth Elder's dojo," he muttered as he threaded a needle and prepared to sew the first bundle.
But just as the needle hovered over the paper, he stopped. "How could I forget to make them look old?"
He clicked his tongue, stood up, and pulled a few iron coins from under the bed. Slipping them into his sleeve, he stepped outside and headed toward the village shops.
Something was amiss at the village market. The usual calm had been replaced by chaotic noise.
Voices echoed throughout the market the moment he arrived. Young men, mostly around his age, looked frenzied. Some were bruised, while others were limping.
Their faces were pale, their eyes were bloodshot, and their lips were cracked from dehydration or clenched teeth.
A few had bandages around their ribs or forearms. They looked like they hadn't slept in days.
"What the hell happened while I was working?" Wuji thought, scanning the market.
He turned toward the herb shop. In front of it, a crowd of half-dressed, half-bandaged young men were shouting and shoving each other around like starving dogs.
"I was here first! Give me the herbs!" one of them screamed, his voice hoarse.
Another shoved him. "Just because you got here first doesn't mean you get priority! My ribs are cracked!"
"Ouch! Hey, stop touching my legs! I just bandaged them!"
Wuji's brow furrowed as he stepped closer.
"The herb shop? That wenche's place? What the hell is she selling, immortality?"
He stood off to the side, unnoticed in the chaos, and listened. Clearly, no one would answer him, even if he tried to ask.
The desperation in the air was thick. These weren't just injuries anymore; they were symptoms of panic and obsession.
Through the noise, he could barely make out anything useful—just snippets like "Don't touch me!" and "I need that herb!" It was a chaotic mess of desperation and bruised pride.
But after a few minutes, something interesting reached his ears.
"Why the hell did they have to come to the herb shop now?" Wang Da snapped, his voice taut with frustration.
"They ruined everything! They wasted my time and effort from these last few days of sword training!"
"What can we do?" Ren replied, rubbing his temples. "We thought two months would be enough to reach the second-rate martial artist with the help of the Fifth Elder and the Chief, but now..."
He trailed off, shaking his head.
Wuji's lips twitched. "So they're cracking under pressure."
"I won't die like this," Yulian whispered. "Covered in dirt and forgotten in this village? If just one immortal glances my way, I will throw myself at him, and maybe, if I'm lucky, I will become his immortal companion."
The others stiffened at her words. No one spoke; because she'd just ripped open the wound they all ignored.
They are not just desperate because of ambition. They are also desperate because of fear: fear of mediocrity and fear of dying as nobodies.
They weren't trying to become heroes. They were trying to escape. They were trying to change their mortal fate.
Immortality wasn't just a dream to them; it was a way out.
A cold voice interrupted the tension.
"Immortality, is it?" the voice drawled. "What a lovely illusion."
The crowd turned sharply.
It was the Third Elder.
He stood behind them like a shadow with his hands behind his back, his expression unreadable.
"Third Elder!" they greeted him in unison, their voices a chorus of strained respect.
The old man stepped forward slowly, his eyes scanning the bruised and bandaged youths. "What a view. You remind me of myself once upon a time. Hungry, desperate, convinced that I could succeed if I just worked hard enough."
A few of the younger boys glanced away. Others straightened their backs, trying to look tougher.
"Do you think the path to immortality begins here?" The elder smiled, but it was not a kind smile.
"No. This is where you learn what you're willing to lose just to be noticed." He paused, letting that sink in.
"Sleep, sanity, flesh, dignity. You'll sacrifice them all. And at the end of it, if you're lucky, they'll let you shine their shoes. Without spirit root, it's nearly impossible to become immortal."
Silence fell on the gathering.
Then the Third Elder chuckled. "But who am I to preach? If I were your age, I'd be doing the same. Now I'm just destined to die as a mortal." He rubbed his brow and suddenly looked his age.
"Enough gloom. The Sixth Elder's shop is running low on herbs. We've sent for more herbs, so stop acting like starved hounds."
The crowd hesitated. Then, like startled birds, they scattered, some grumbling and others already scheming where to beg next.
Wuji waited a moment before slipping into the empty shop.
The shopkeeper, a woman with ink-stained fingers and a fraying braid, glared at him.
"Didn't you hear? No more herbs."
"I'm not here for those," Wuji said, holding up two fingers.
"I just want tea leaves. The cheap kind."
She pointed tiredly. "Second shelf." Two iron coins. Take them and go."
He didn't waste time. Wuji grabbed a handful of coins wrapped in cloth, dropped them on the counter, and stepped out before the woman could start haggling.
"Thank the heavens it wasn't that wench from before," he thought. "If she were here, I'd be paying a silver coin for dried weeds. She's probably off charming the merchants in town, buying herbs for her precious darlings."
He tucked the tea leaves into his sleeve and headed back to the hut, already planning how to age the paper to give it just the right hint of bitterness.
Wuji wasted no time once he was inside the hut. He lit the fire and placed a pot of water on it. As soon as the water boiled, he tossed in the tea leaves and watched them turn the water dark and bitter.
When the tea was ready, he poured it into a clay cup and let the steam rise and curl like smoke from an offering.
Then, one by one, he crumpled the sheets of paper he had made, soaked them in the tea, and let them sit until the fibers darkened to the perfect shade of aged yellow-brown.
By the time he was finished, each sheet resembled something that had survived for decades in a monk's cave.
He laid them on the rooftop to dry just before dusk.
The next day at noon, Wuji climbed onto the roof. His body was still sore from last night's training, but his mind was sharp.
"Thankfully, it didn't rain while I was sleeping," he muttered, running his hand over the dry pages. "One downpour, and that would've been the end of this plan."
He gathered the pages and returned to the hut.
There, he worked in silence, carefully and evenly sewing the sheets together after piercing holes through the paper.
Time passed, marked only by the crackle of the fire and the rhythm of the thread being pulled through the paper.
Eventually, he finished making three worn-looking books that looked convincingly ancient but were still missing their covers.
He cut pieces of rough cloth to size, coated them with a mixture of boiled sugar and leftover meat fat to stiffen them, and set them to dry.
While waiting, he ground charcoal, mixing it with water and ash to make ink. Then, he shaved a bamboo sliver into a crude pen.
Once the covers were ready, he bound them to the pages and admired his work.
Five old books lay on the bed.
He picked one up and smirked. "Since my good friend Liang is so obsessed with worldly desires, it's only fair that I help him reach enlightenment whether he wants or not."