Starting Cultivation During a Trip

As he spoke, Yun Jianyue blew out the candle in his hand, brushed past Zhang Fan, and walked out of the room.

Zhang Fan was lost in thought, not even sure how he made it back to his room.

”What took you so long?” Jiang Hu was packing his luggage and asked casually.

”Gourd, have you ever been to Dragon Tiger Mountain?” Zhang Fan lay on the bed and muttered softly.

”Never been… I heard Dragon Tiger Mountain closed down after that great tribulation eighty years ago.” Jiang Hu said offhandedly.

The area open to tourists these days is only a small part of Dragon Tiger Mountain. The real dharma lineage and incense offerings were cut off long ago, and now there are strict rules—you can’t go in and out as you please.

”But I heard that come the Double Ninth Festival next year, Dragon Tiger Mountain’s reopening. It’s a big Taoist event. Didn’t the boss say we’d all be going there for group building?” Jiang Hu said in a serious tone.

Zhang Fan lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling in silence, Si Snake’s words echoing in his mind.

...

By evening, the Observatory of Profound Mystery—famous scenic spot in Gusu City—had long since lost the bustle of daytime.

Zhang Fan stepped out alone, pacing around the now-empty, deserted temple compound.

His mind boiled with emotion, feeling even more unsettled than the day he got dumped.

Whoosh—

Just then, a splash of water caught Zhang Fan’s attention.

He looked up to see, under the dim lights, an old man stripped to the waist, drawing water at a well.

The old man was thin but wiry; a head full of white hair did nothing to dim his energetic spirit.

”Young man, come give me a hand.”

The old man seemed to notice Zhang Fan too, and quickly beckoned him over.

Zhang Fan walked over and hauled up the bucket, now nearly at the well’s mouth, brimming with cold, clear water.

”Grandpa, are you with the Observatory too? Drawing water this late?” Zhang Fan couldn’t help but ask.

”This isn’t ordinary water. It’s for the fate-sharing ceremony tomorrow.” The old man wiped his sweat, sat down nearby, and pounded his lower back.

”Young man, come here and thump my back a bit.”

”...”

Zhang Fan was speechless for a moment, but seeing the man’s age, he went over anyway.

”What kind of well water is this? It can form bonds?”

”Haven’t you heard of the Well of Longevity at the Observatory?” The old man couldn’t help but say.

This happens to be one of the Observatory’s most famous sites.

Legend has it, back in the Eastern Jin, this was all barren mountain, with a village nearby. In that village, an old man lived to over one hundred thirty years, still robust and showing no signs of decline.

People asked him the secret of longevity, but the old man kept silent.

Then one day, at a banquet, after too many drinks, the old man got tipsy, and was asked again—how did he manage to live so long?

The old man, loosened by wine, blurted out his secret.

When he was young, he once saved a traveling Daoist. Grateful, the Daoist warned him he’d die at forty-three.

Back then, he was young and didn’t take it seriously. The Daoist, seeing his disbelief, didn’t say more—just left a brocade pouch and left.

Who knew, when he turned forty-three, the old man fell gravely ill. He finally remembered the Daoist’s words, dug out the brocade pouch, and opened it.

It said that in the West Mountain, there’s an ancient well. If he found it, and hid inside every 15th of the lunar month, he’d live long and never die.

Later, the old man ventured into the West Mountain, and sure enough, he found the well. After hiding inside for a night, his illness vanished within days. From then on, every 15th he’d spend a few days in the mountains.

People who heard this were amazed, but most thought it too far-fetched to believe.

But a young man at that banquet got curious. He made his way to the West Mountain, found the ancient well, and drew water from it to drink.

Right as the water left the well, a rumble sounded from below, like some wild beast roaring; sand and wind whipped up, and when the young man looked again, the well was gone. Not long after, the old man died.

Later, some said the well was called the Dark Well, leading straight to the Netherworld. Hiding in it could evade the Ghost Messengers’ detection, but its water was only for washing, not drinking. If you drank it, the well would hide itself.

”Huh? So this is that well?”

Hearing the old man’s tale, Zhang Fan couldn’t help looking at the well, a peculiar expression overtaking his face.

”Later, we’ll bottle this well water—fate-sharing price: fifteen yuan,” the old man said airily.

”Young man, want to take a couple bottles home with you?”

”...”

”What’s with that look? Isn’t selling stories the main moneymaker nowadays?” The old man shot him a glare. ”Besides, what I just told you isn’t a story.”

”Then what is it?”

”A legend!”

”...”

”Grandpa… uh, it’s getting late. You should get some rest.”

With that, Zhang Fan rose, greeted the old man, and went off toward his building.

”Young people these days… fifteen yuan’s already too much, unbelievable!”

The old man watched Zhang Fan’s retreating figure, picked up the dipper, scooped a ladleful of water from the wooden bucket, took a sip like tasting old wine, and smacked his lips contentedly.

”Master, what are you doing here?”

Just then, a middle-aged Daoist approached, eyebrows stern and dignified—the very same Zhong Changming who had hosted Zhang Fan and company earlier.

”Oh, Little Changming… what is it?” the old man replied blandly.

”Your phone.”

Zhong Changming held out a cellphone, walking over respectfully and handing it to the old man.

”So late—who could it be?” The old man took the phone and asked absentmindedly.

”It’s Chu Zhenren from Zhenwu Mountain.”

Zhong Changming lowered his voice, awe unmistakable in his tone.