Two months later, the crisp air of autumn settled over the land.
At dusk, wisps of smoke drifted lazily into the sky above a small village at the foot of the mountain. A few children ran through the narrow paths between homes, laughing and chasing one another. In the fields beside the road, farmers bent low, cutting rice stalks in the golden light. A large yellow dog lay sprawled outside a hut, nose twitching as it sniffed the warm scent of cooking from within.
The rhythmic clatter of approaching hooves shattered the quiet. The dog leapt to its feet, hackles raised, ears pricked toward the rising dust on the road.
Two fine horses galloped into view, one black, one white. Their riders slowed as they reached the edge of the village, gazing toward the mist-shrouded mountains beyond.
The setting sun painted the mountains in hues of crimson and gold. Wisps of cloud wrapped around jagged peaks, casting ethereal shadows that made the landscape appear like a realm from legend. Nearby, a shepherd boy rode lazily atop an ox, his bamboo flute filling the air with a gentle, wistful melody.
"Just like they said," said the boy on the white horse, no more than fourteen or fifteen. With bright eyes and dark hair tied into a warrior's knot with a silver band, he exuded a carefree spirit. "This place really does feel a bit... immortal."
His companion on the black horse was several years older, clad in embroidered robes. His features were sharper, more severe, but a familial resemblance suggested they were brothers. Each horse carried long oilcloth bags, from which the tips of cold, gleaming spears protruded.
The elder said nothing, his gaze fixed on the shepherd boy and the fading song.
"What is it?" the younger asked.
"Nothing," the elder replied after a pause, a rare smile touching his lips. "Just... never heard a tune quite like that before. It's fresh, lingering. Clears the mind."
The younger nodded in agreement. If the scene alone held five or six parts of immortality, the melody added two or three more.
He grinned. "Brother, are you suddenly growing fond of music and song?"
The elder chuckled and shook his head. They continued riding into the village.
By the roadside, farmers worked tirelessly in the fields. As they passed, the elder's eyes lingered on the rows of cut rice, a contemplative look on his face.
The younger glanced around. The field looked messy, some rice cut, some still standing. "What are you staring at now?"
"Look farther. The whole field."
He followed his brother's suggestion. With a widened view, the harvested sections appeared to form the shape of a Yin-Yang fish—imperfect, but unmistakable.
An illusion?
The elder reined in his horse and bowed slightly. "Excuse me, elder—"
A farmer looked up, startled to see such finely dressed guests. He grinned widely. "Looking to climb the mountain in search of immortals? It's late—how about staying at my place? Clean beds, warm food. Cheap too!"
The elder's serene image faltered slightly, but he remained courteous. "I'm Li Qinglin, and this is my younger brother, Qingjun. May I ask about the pattern in your field? It looks intentional."
"Pattern?" The farmer scratched his head, smearing mud into his hair. "Ah, that? Little Qin told me to do it. Said it was some new way of writing six and nine. I just did it like he showed."
The brothers exchanged a glance and chuckled. That made more sense than a farmer unintentionally creating a perfect Taoist symbol.
"Come now," the farmer added, "warm bed and hot milk for just three copper—"
"We're fine, thank you." They smiled and rode on.
"Hey—wait!" the farmer called after them. "Don't go up the mountain so late! There's poisonous mists and a demon tiger lurking. It's dangerous!"
Young Li Qingjun tapped the spear bag behind him and grinned. "Facing danger shows sincerity. Want us to kill the tiger for you?"
The farmer eyed the spears, hesitated, then said, "Just be careful."
Near the village's edge, the mists thickened. The last few cottages were barely visible. From the fog emerged a woodcutter with a shoulder pole, singing an old tune:
"All the world knows the life of gods is grand, Yet fame and glory few withstand. Generals, ministers of old— All lie beneath forgotten mounds of mold.
All the world loves gold and gain, But greed leaves little when death comes plain. From dawn to dusk, we long for more, But wealth means naught when life's no more."
The brothers slowed their horses, listening with rapt attention.
Even a simple woodcutter's song here held such depth. No wonder the mountain was said to house immortals.
"Elder," said Li Qinglin, "may I ask who composed that song?"
The woodcutter grinned. "Young Qin from the village. Quite the mind on him."
Indeed. To hear such words on a mountain known for its mystics added weight to the legend.
"And where might I find this Mr. Qin?"
The woodcutter pointed into the mist. "Last courtyard at the end of the village—the one drying herbs. Can't miss it."
Sure enough, the courtyard overflowed with drying racks, each covered in layers of medicinal herbs. The air was rich with their subtle aroma.
In the center, a boy worked quietly, pounding herbs in a stone mortar with a thick rod. He seemed oblivious to the two riders.
He looked no older than sixteen or seventeen, slightly younger than Qingjun. Though clearly a martial cultivator, his presence didn't exude the aura of a hidden master.
Still, he was intriguing. Dressed plainly, thin, his features were calm and scholarly. As he ground herbs, he hummed an unfamiliar tune. The rhythm of pestle against mortar echoed gently in the dusk.
Curiously, the "pestle" he used was a spiked mace—gleaming with iron teeth in the setting sun, wildly out of place in his gentle hands.
Was that... his weapon?
"Hey!" Qingjun called, amused. "A mace for grinding herbs? Won't the spikes ruin the mix?"
The boy paused, glanced at their spears, and replied mildly, "Best not to venture too deep tonight. There's a beast at the summit. If you encounter it, don't fight. Just run. It won't chase."
Li Qinglin asked, "Are you Mr. Qin?"
"Qin Yi," he replied casually.
Li Qinglin dismounted. "My brother and I came seeking immortals. We heard a song from a passing woodcutter, said to be yours?"
"Just something I heard from a wandering Taoist long ago. Nothing to do with me."
Qingjun, unconvinced from the start, gave a polite nod and nudged his horse onward.
But Qinglin lingered. "You seem like an apothecary. Do you have antidotes? We'd like to purchase a few."
Qingjun raised a brow. They were fully stocked—why buy now?
"Only one kind," Qin Yi said, tossing over a cloth pouch. "Two pills. Ten silver."
Qingjun peeked inside. Two red jujube-like pills.
He scoffed. "A pill that cures all poisons? What do you call this?"
Qin Yi flashed a grin. "Eat-this-and-you're-probably-gonna-need-a-doctor pill."