After Daoist Xuan Chen settled Xiao Qi in the servants' quarters, he hurriedly left due to temple affairs. In charge of managing the servants was an old deacon surnamed Wang, his skin dark and unsmiling, his gaze assessing Xiao Qi with scrutiny and a hint of impatience.
"Since you've entered Qingxu Temple, you must abide by Qingxu Temple's rules," Deacon Wang said in a dry voice, tossing a set of dusty gray coarse-cloth clothes and a wooden tag to Xiao Qi. "These are your clothes and number tag. Rise at mao hour (5-7 am), sweep the courtyard of your assigned area clean before chen hour (7-9 am), then go to the kitchen to help, following Steward Li's instructions."
"No slacking, no making noise, and absolutely no leaving the servants' courtyard area without permission. Understood?" Xiao Qi, holding the clothes that were too large for him, nodded vigorously and replied softly, "Understood."
The servants' quarters were located at the outermost edge of Qingxu Temple, right next to the steep cliff of the back mountain. They consisted of several rows of low wooden huts, the air mingled with the smells of dust, sweat, and firewood. Sharing the room with Xiao Qi were three other slightly older boys, all sent here to be servants for various reasons.
Seeing that Xiao Qi was the youngest, frail and weak, and carrying a ridiculous pot on his back, their eyes carried a measure of contempt and exclusion. "Hey, newbie, what's your name?"
"Where are you from?" A tall boy kicked Xiao Qi's bundle with his foot, his tone unfriendly.
Xiao Qi pursed his lips and whispered, "I'm Xiao Qi." "Xiao Qi?"
"Not even a proper name?" Another short, chubby boy sneered, his gaze falling on the flat-bottomed pot Xiao Qi clutched tightly. "Bringing a pot too, what, coming to the temple to be a cook?"
All three laughed heartily. Xiao Qi's cheeks burned, but he kept his mouth tightly shut, offering no retort.
He knew that here, he had no capital for willfulness. The next day, before dawn, the piercing sound of a bronze bell startled Xiao Qi awake.
He scrambled up, pulled on the ill-fitting gray cloth clothes, and stumbled after the others to gather in the courtyard. Deacon Wang, face cold, assigned tasks. Xiao Qi was assigned to sweep a remote courtyard near the Transmission Hall.
The broom was taller than he was. Struggling to hold it, he swept leaves and dust stroke by stroke in the hazy morning light. The early autumn morning was bitterly cold; his thin clothes offered little warmth, his fingers turning red with cold.
Several boys from the same courtyard deliberately swept garbage into areas he had already cleaned, or when he wasn't looking, kicked over the dustpan, eliciting snickers. Xiao Qi just silently gathered the garbage again and continued working diligently.
He remembered his father once saying, "A gentleman endures what ordinary people cannot endure, only then can he achieve what ordinary people cannot achieve." Though he wasn't sure if he could become a "gentleman," surviving was his sole objective now.
By the time he finished sweeping, the sun was already high; he was long since starving. Arriving at the kitchen, breakfast time had passed, leaving only some cold leftovers.
The kitchen steward, Steward Li, a portly middle-aged man, frowned seeing him arrive late, and tossed him a hard mixed-grain bun. "Come earlier next time! Go, wash that pile of dishes."
The kitchen was steaming hot, the piled-up dishes greasy and filthy. Xiao Qi, being short, had to tiptoe to barely reach the sink.
Icy bone-chilling water, slippery grease, heavy earthenware bowls—each was an ordeal for him. Gritting his teeth, he washed them bit by bit.
Occasionally kitchen helpers passed by, seeing his clumsy, strenuous efforts, some shook their heads, others were indifferent; no one lent a hand. At noon, he finally got a brief rest, receiving a bowl of thin porridge and a small dish of pickles.
He crouched on the steps outside the kitchen's back door, eating in small mouthfuls, treasuring this rare moment of peace. Sunlight shone on him, bringing a trace of warmth.
He secretly pulled out that cold mixed-grain bun from his robe, nibbling it slowly with the porridge. The flat-bottomed pot on his back dug into him uncomfortably, but he couldn't bear to take it off, as if it were his only link to the past world.
The afternoon task was to go to the back mountain to chop firewood. The firewood shed steward, seeing him small and thin, assigned him the minimum workload, but for Xiao Qi, it was still an unbearable burden.
The axe was heavy; he needed both hands to barely swing it. After just a few chops, his arms grew sore and weak, breath coming in gasps. The other servant boys who went along had long finished their shares, gathering aside to play and laugh, pointing at his wretched state.
"Hey, little good-for-nothing, want us big brothers to help you? Call us something nice to hear!"
The tall boy crossed his arms, taunting. Sweat streamed down Xiao Qi's forehead, stinging his eyes.
He wiped his face, ignored them, and continued gritting his teeth, chopping the log thicker than his thigh, stroke after stroke. Blisters quickly formed on his palms; when they burst, they oozed blood, burning painfully.
He remembered his mother's gentle hands, his father's broad embrace; his nose tingled, but he forced the tears back. He couldn't cry; crying would only make those people more pleased with themselves.
By dusk, he finally dragged his exhausted body back to the servants' courtyard, staggering under a bundle of firewood far less than the quota. When Deacon Wang inspected, his face was dark, scolding, "Good-for-nothing!"
"Can't even do this little work properly! Today's meals halved!"
Xiao Qi hung his head, silently enduring the scolding. Sure enough, dinner was only half a bowl of porridge so thin you could see your reflection.
Carrying the bowl, he returned to the wooden room reeking of sweat. His roommates were gathered together sharing roasted sweet potatoes obtained from who-knows-where, the aroma wafting, yet no one glanced at him. He curled up in the corner of the cold bed, using the faint moonlight filtering through the window to gently stroke the jade pendant at his chest.
The pendant emitted a barely perceptible warmth, as if comforting him. He also touched the flat-bottomed pot placed by the pillow; its cool touch kept him alert.
Physical exhaustion and spiritual loneliness surged like tidal waves, but he knew he had to persevere. Though hard here, though enduring disdainful looks, at least there were no demonic cultivators pursuing him, there was a corner to shelter from wind and rain, there was food to fill his belly.
Qingxu Temple, this place completely unfamiliar to him, became the first barely "settled" place after his wandering. He buried his face in the musty-smelling quilt, tightly clutching the jade pendant, and in endless fatigue and uncertainty about the future, sank into deep sleep.
In his dream, he seemed to return to Xu Lan Mountain Manor, hearing his mother humming a faint, blurred lullaby.