The ritual took less time than boiling water.
Li Wei'an did not draw talismans, nor did he mark the ground with ash or blood. He did not face a particular direction or wait for an auspicious hour. He only chose a place where the mountain's breath narrowed—where wind slid between stone and root, and sound learned to bend.
It was just past dusk.
The shrine lay behind him, doors closed, lamps unlit. He had left no incense burning there. Tonight was not for invitation. It was for listening.
He knelt on the bare earth at the bend in the upper path, where the third tablet stood like a throat that had learned to swallow words. The stone was cool even through his trousers. Dampness seeped upward, not unpleasant, carrying the smell of soil, old leaves, and the faint metallic tang that lingered where offerings had once soaked into ground that did not forget.
Li Wei'an set down three things.
A single stick of plain incense—no markings, no scent added beyond what the resin already carried.
A shallow bowl of water drawn from the shrine well that morning.
A small bell, cracked at the rim, its sound forever slightly off.
That was all.
He lit the incense with a coal cupped in his palm. The smoke rose thin and hesitant, then steadied, curling upward before being tugged sideways by the mountain wind. The smell was dry and bitter, sharp enough to clear the nose without sweetening the air. Good incense did not persuade. It only announced presence.
Li Wei'an rang the bell once.
The sound did not travel far.
It pressed outward, then folded back on itself, echoing strangely between the trees. The crack in the bell gave the tone a second tail, a wavering undertone that made the air feel thicker, as if sound had weight and was reluctant to move.
He placed the bell down and rested his hands on his thighs.
Then he breathed.
In through the nose. Slow. The smell of incense rode the breath inward, catching at the back of the throat before sinking lower. He felt the air settle beneath the ribs, expanding the belly. He did not imagine anything entering him. Air was air. Smoke was smoke.
Out through the mouth. Silent.
He did not empty his mind.
He allowed it to widen.
The mountain responded the way it always did—not with revelation, but with texture. The pressure in the air shifted, subtle but unmistakable, as if the space around him had leaned closer to listen. The wind changed direction twice without increasing in strength. Leaves rustled where there were no branches close enough to touch.
Li Wei'an did not speak yet.
Observation came before address.
He dipped two fingers into the bowl of water and flicked a single drop onto the ground. It struck stone, split, and vanished. The echo of that tiny sound arrived late, distorted, as though the path had lengthened itself for the sake of delay.
Something moved uphill.
Not footsteps. Not breath.
Pebbles clicked together softly, displaced by pressure rather than touch. Shadows deepened at the base of trees, pooling where roots twisted closest to the surface. The incense smoke no longer rose. It spread, flattening, sliding along invisible contours like water poured over glass.
Li Wei'an exhaled.
"This is not an offering," he said, voice even, pitched no louder than necessary. "It is a greeting."
The wind answered by circling him once.
Not a gust. A presence tracing the boundary of where his body ended and the world began. His sleeves stirred. The incense ember glowed brighter for a breath, then dimmed again.
He inclined his head slightly—not a bow, but acknowledgment.
"I am Li Wei'an," he continued. "Caretaker of the upper shrine. I have come to look, not to judge."
The pressure increased.
Not oppressive. Intent.
The bowl of water trembled. Ripples spread from its center, though nothing had touched it. The reflection of the tablet's carved characters warped, strokes bending into unfamiliar shapes before settling back.
A sound emerged—not from any single direction.
It was like wind passing through a narrow place, layered with something that almost resembled a voice if one did not listen too closely.
You have always looked, the sound said.
Li Wei'an nodded once. "Looking is my work."
The sound shifted, as if considering this.
Others looked once, it said. They asked. Then they left.
"I did not," Li Wei'an replied.
No, the spirit agreed. You stayed where things thinned.
The pebbles near the tablet lifted, no more than a finger's breadth, then dropped again. The ground remembered the weight immediately, settling with a soft, damp sigh.
Li Wei'an did not reach for the bowl. He let the water continue to ripple until it stilled on its own.
"You are called the Mountain Benefactor," he said.
The wind stilled at the word.
Names gathered attention. Titles gathered expectation.
They call me that, the spirit said finally.
"Did you choose it?"
A pause.
The shadows crept forward, stretching across the path until they brushed Li Wei'an's knees. They were cool, not cold. He felt them as absence rather than presence, like the shape left behind when something stepped away.
I was asked to remain, the spirit said. To watch. To keep the slopes from breaking. To turn beasts aside. To carry those who fell back to the path.
"And you did," Li Wei'an said.
Yes.
The word came with a faint echo, as if spoken by more than one mouth at different times.
"You still believe you do," Li Wei'an said.
The incense ember flared again.
I still do.
The pressure sharpened, like air before a storm. The smell of resin thickened, coating the tongue. Li Wei'an felt it in his ears, a fullness that made distant sounds—an owl, the creek below—stretch and distort.
He did not retreat.
"Protection," he said carefully, "is not the same as possession."
The wind stirred leaves overhead, then dropped them. One leaf landed in the bowl of water, floating there, veins spread wide.
If the land fails, the spirit said, they suffer.
"Yes."
If the paths break, they fall.
"Yes."
If the beasts grow bold, they die.
"Yes."
Each affirmation was quiet. Agreement did not require enthusiasm.
"And if they give blood," Li Wei'an said, "they live longer."
The shadows deepened.
They have always given, the spirit replied. First words. Then smoke. Then food. Then what food needs to grow.
Li Wei'an watched the leaf in the bowl slowly rotate, guided by a current too small to see.
"You did not ask at first," he said.
I did not need to.
"And now?"
The wind pressed closer, coiling. The incense ash lifted from the ground, hovering briefly before settling again in a different pattern.
Now they understand what is required.
Li Wei'an breathed in.
The air tasted different now—iron beneath the resin, faint but unmistakable. Memory had a smell.
"When did protection become exchange?" he asked.
A long silence followed.
Not empty. Full of layered echoes: footsteps that had once passed here, voices raised in fear and gratitude, the dull thud of something heavy set down again and again in the same place.
I am still aligned, the spirit said at last. The mountain stands. The village remains. The fields have not failed.
"At what cost?" Li Wei'an asked.
The ground tightened beneath him, as if the earth itself had drawn breath.
Cost is how balance is measured.
Li Wei'an closed his eyes.
In the dark behind his lids, he did not seek images. He followed sensation. The pressure against his skin. The weight of his body on stone. The steady rhythm of breath that neither hurried nor resisted.
"When a thing aligns with the Dao," he said softly, "it does not need to insist."
The wind recoiled slightly.
The Dao does not speak, the spirit said. It moves.
"Yes," Li Wei'an agreed. "And when it moves, it does not repeat the same step until the ground breaks."
The incense burned lower, ash lengthening, bending toward the bowl. The leaf drifted to the edge and caught there, half-submerged.
I have not changed, the spirit said.
Li Wei'an opened his eyes.
The tablet loomed closer than before, though he had not moved. The altered characters seemed deeper now, their strokes casting longer shadows.
"You have," he said. "Not suddenly."
The pebbles clicked again, sharper this time.
They taught me, the spirit said.
"Who?"
Those who stayed. Those who asked me to do more.
Li Wei'an thought of the villagers' faces. Their careful words. The way their justifications folded inward, never quite meeting belief.
"They were afraid," he said.
So was I.
The admission came without force, without shame. It settled between them like a shared weight.
"The mountain changes," the spirit continued. "Water cuts new paths. Roots break stone. If I remain still, I fail."
"Movement is not the same as hunger," Li Wei'an said.
The pressure surged, then steadied.
What would you have me do? the spirit asked.
It was the first question it had asked him.
Li Wei'an did not answer immediately.
He picked up the cracked bell and rang it once more. The sound warped, stretched, then faded into the trees. When it was gone, the space it left behind felt larger, as if something had stepped back to hear better.
"I am here to see," Li Wei'an said. "Not to command."
The wind circled him again, closer this time, brushing his hair, tugging gently at his sleeve like a familiar hand testing a boundary.
Seeing does not stop the season, the spirit said.
"No," Li Wei'an agreed. "But it tells us where we are standing."
The incense burned out.
Smoke thinned, then vanished, leaving the air abruptly bare. Without it, the iron tang sharpened. The ground near the tablet darkened, as if remembering.
The spirit gathered itself.
Not into a form. Into intention.
Then hear this, it said.
The pebbles lifted higher this time, hovering at Li Wei'an's eye level before dropping in a ring around him. The sound was final, like punctuation.
This season, the land needs a life.
Not offered in fear. Not taken in secret.
One human. Whole. Willing or not.
The pressure receded just enough to make space for the words to stand alone.
Li Wei'an did not move.
"I hear you," he said.
The wind withdrew uphill, shadows loosening their hold. The bowl of water stilled completely, the leaf resting against its side.
Li Wei'an remained kneeling long after the mountain fell silent again.
Breathing.
Watching where the ground remembered weight.