I'm Not An Immortal (The Adventure of Jian Chou) - Chapter 2
Chapter 2
After the Rain.
The sky was a perfect blue, clear to the extreme, not a wisp of cloud in sight.
In a valley encircled by mountains, at the base of a cliff, a new, low grave had quietly appeared, topped by a small, pointed mound of loose earth.
In front, a simple wooden plaque stood, bearing a few carved characters.
The air was filled with the scent of damp soil and fresh grass, and the dense leaves of the forest hung with dewdrops that occasionally slipped down to moisten patches of earth below.
In the distance, rolling mountains with gentle slopes stretched out and a soft breeze carried the sound of a shepherd’s flute.
Accompanying it was a strange, off-key singing.
The voice grew nearer, revealing an elderly man, gaunt and shabby, with a dirty face, worn straw shoes, ragged clothing, and a wine gourd hanging at his waist.
In one hand, he held a thin, broken bamboo stick; in the other, a chicken leg, which he was cheerfully gnawing on, his cheeks moving constantly.
“With a chicken in my left hand and a duck in my right… What’s on tomorrow’s menu after today’s drumstick?”
He muttered indistinctly, without pausing his feast, until the juicy drumstick was stripped clean, leaving nothing but a bare, gleaming bone.
Halting, he lifted the white chicken bone in his hand, sighed, and gazed at it.
“So hungry…”
“Hiccup.”
What followed was a satisfied belch.
The old man didn’t blush a bit, tossing the bone behind him and wiping his hands vigorously on the muddy hem of his torn clothing.
Just as he was about to continue on his way, he suddenly paused, sniffing the air with a twitch of his nose, and frowned.
Where was that faint scent of blood coming from?
It was subtle… but it was there.
The old man’s expression turned grave as he scanned the underbrush, eventually spotting something unusual.
He stepped closer, parted a clump of tall grass, and among the green leaves, he caught a glimpse of dark red.
A strange, faint blue glint flickered in his black eyes, mystical and eerie.
The old man’s eyes widened as his entire body tensed, his gaze darting all around as he mumbled to himself.
“Mountains on all sides… a place where Qi gathers. A winding stream flows by, carrying the moon’s light…”
This was indeed a place where the earth’s energy converged—a Feng shui dragon vein, as ordinary folk might call it.
After a quick calculation with his fingers, he shook his head in puzzlement.
“Even the Great Divination can’t predict. Strange.”
In all his years wandering the world, he’d never encountered such a peculiar sight.
His curiosity piqued, he followed the trail of dried blood, noticing signs of trampled grass, as if someone had passed through.
Following this trail, the old man walked on until his view suddenly opened up.
The lush greenery disappeared, revealing a low cliff.
His gaze fixated on a spot beneath the cliff, his brows knitting together once more.
It was a grave mound.
Freshly turned soil, bearing only traces of recent raindrops, suggested it had been piled up as the rain was about to end.
The old man raised his eyebrows, uttered a surprised “Oh,” and promptly jumped down from the cliff.
Despite the height, he landed firmly before the grave.
The simple tombstone bore deep carvings of a few ancient script characters.
—Tomb of My Wife, Xie Jianchou.
The old man rubbed his unkempt, bearded chin and, for some reason, let out a chuckle.
Glancing around to ensure no one was near, he formed a hand seal.
His dirty fingers touched, and in an instant, like lightning igniting a fire, a burst of blue light flashed, cascading like a waterfall over the grave mound.
With a swoosh.
The blue light dispersed.
The soft soil on the grave mound was swept away, uncovering the coffin lid, which a mysterious gust flung to the side.
In the bright light of day, inside the coffin made from fresh timber, lay a newly deceased body.
A young woman.
Her eyelids shut tight, brows furrowed as if holding unspoken anguish from her final moments; her chest was stained with dried blood, her coarse clothing punctured cleanly by a mortal blade.
“Tsk, tsk.”
The old man shook his head, circling the coffin and muttering under his breath.
“Ah well, life shouldn’t be cut off.”
***
Sitting dazed in the coffin, Jianchou looked at the grumpy old man standing on the ground, still too stunned to process.
“Old sir, what… what did you just say?”
“Ahhh..ahhh…ahhh…ahhh, you’re driving this Taoist of the Mountain mad!”
The old man was nearly fuming, scratching at the sparse hair on his head.
“I’ve said it eight hundred times already! I happened to pass by, dug you out of this grave, and saved your life! Don’t keep calling me ‘old sir’! I am the Taoist of the Mountain—Mountain Taoist! Didn’t your parents teach you respect for the elderly?!”
Jianchou muttered, her words stumbling out.
The old man, who called himself “The Taoist of The Mountain ,” opened his mouth wide as if her words had struck him dumb.
His eyes bulged, and he was speechless for a long while.
After a long silence, he finally clutched his chest and stamped his feet, exclaiming, “Served you right for meddling! Who told you to meddle in good deeds? This kind of thing isn’t for people like you! I bet you won’t dare to meddle again!”
Jianchou was confused.
Why had this “The Taoist of the Mountain,” who claimed to be her savior, suddenly become furious?
All she wanted to know was what had happened.
Her mind was blank, and even the mountains, trees, and flowers around her felt foreign.
Fragmented images flickered through her mind.
A small farmhouse courtyard, a stormy sky, a clanging window, an umbrella appearing through the rain…
It was her husband, the man she had once wanted to entrust her life to…
Xie Buchen.
Finally, Jianchou remembered.
She looked down at her chest.
The sword hanging on the wall was the very one he had thrust into her warm chest with his own hands…
But looking down, there was no blood, and the wound didn’t hurt at all.
It was as if that sword had never pierced her, as if…
Xie Buchen had never killed her.
Yet, there was still a small tear in her clothes, grinning mockingly.
In that instant, it felt as though something had pierced her; her face turned pale, and her fingers trembled.
Fragments of their past together came rushing back uncontrollably.
Under a tree with dense foliage, Xie Buchen sat hidden in the shade, holding a scroll, reading softly, “The world has a beginning; it is the mother of all things…”
She sat under the tree, copying down scriptures requested by Xie Mother .
The noisy cicadas couldn’t disturb their peaceful moments together…
…
In a narrow alley, Xie Buchen was fleeing disaster, his face showing signs of unbearable fatigue, his entire being on the verge of collapse.
She held his shoulders, supporting him as they fled through the dark alleys.
Eventually, they reached a dead end.
Xie Buchen held her close as they tumbled into a pile of straw, covering themselves with scratchy hay…
He held her tightly in his arms, and she dared not make a sound…
…
On their wedding day, Xie Buchen lifted her veil with a wedding scale.
Jianchou still remembered the warm smile on his face, more dazzling than the nearby red candles that swayed her heart.
…
The flashing images finally settled on Xie Buchen’s hand holding a sword.
That was the hand whose outline she had traced in her heart thousands upon thousands of times.
The hand she had given her heart to, the hand she wanted to entrust with her life!
Yet he faced her with a sword!
And on the sword was stained her blood!
Weren’t they husband and wife?
A flood of sorrow and hatred overwhelmed Jianchou’s senses.
She had a thousand, ten thousand questions: why? Why did he want to kill her?
They had once shared joy and hardship, and she even carried his child…
Was this what she got in exchange for being husband and wife, a lifetime’s bond, only to face a sword drawn against her?
Jianchou felt warmth in her eyes, as if burning tears were locked within, but instead of crying, she wanted to laugh.
To laugh loudly.
To laugh at the idea that being husband and wife for a day means a hundred days of grace—it was all just a joke; laugh at how true feelings are as fleeting as water, and how all turns to emptiness in the end…
Jianchou’s shoulders shook uncontrollably as she laughed.
There was bitterness, a desolate feeling beyond words.
All her tears flowed inward, sitting in the damp coffin, making her already frail figure appear even thinner.
Around her lay scattered earth and lush green trees.
In the post-rain world, everything was bursting with life, everything thriving.
Except her heart, which was like dead ashes.
The Taoist of The Mountain, standing beside her, was horrified by her appearance.
“You… you… are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
After the laughter, her heart felt empty.
But before her consciousness faded, one sentence echoed endlessly in her mind…
“The worldly bonds are severed; your mind is exceptional. When you seek immortality in the future, you shall certainly have a place among the greats.”
Why had Xie Buchen killed her?
She had clearly died, had been sealed inside a coffin, yet here she was, reborn, without a single scar…
To seek the Dao of immortals.
Were immortals real in this world?
Jianchou instinctively looked at the old man, the Taoist of the Mountain.
With his dirty beard and shifty eyes, his whole appearance practically screamed one word: sleazy.
At that moment, his eyes darted around as if to assess his surroundings.
Without missing a beat, he produced a chicken leg from who knows where and stuffed it into his mouth.
“The world’s really changed. People aren’t like they used to be. Saving a person these days is like saving an ancestor! Sigh…”
“Mountain Taoist.”
Jianchou suddenly called out.
The Taoist of the Mountain, engrossed in gnawing his chicken leg, was so startled by the clear, ringing “Mountain Taoist” that goosebumps rose on his skin, and he almost flung the chicken leg from his hand.
“Why are you calling me that all of a sudden…?”
“Mountain Taoist, are there really immortals in this world?”
Jianchou’s voice carried a hint of gentle sorrow, dispersed by the wind as if it would scatter away.
Are there really immortals in this world?
It was such an ordinary question, but the Taoist of the Mountain was utterly shocked, and his chicken leg finally dropped to the ground.
He pointed his greasy fingers at Jianchou.
“You—you—you… how did you know I’m not human—ah, no, not a mere mortal?!”
“…”
Why did everything suddenly feel so absurd?
Yet Jianchou couldn’t bring herself to laugh.
“Mountain Taoist, are there really immortals in this world?” she asked again.
The Taoist of the Mountain stared at her for a long time before realizing she wasn’t questioning his identity; she was just asking.
He had scared himself—how embarrassing.
The Taoist of the Mountain cleared his throat seriously.
“Well, yes, there are… but from what I hear, they’re from thousands of years ago…”
As he spoke, he bent down, hurriedly picked up the fallen chicken leg, wiped it off thoroughly, and, without the slightest bit of reluctance, stuffed it back into his mouth to continue eating.
With his mouth full, he muttered, “So, what, you also want to seek the Dao of Immortals and live forever?”
To seek the Dao of Immortals and live forever?
No.
Jianchou braced herself on the edge of the coffin, which was made from the heartwood of a tree, feeling the rough, sharp splinters digging into her palms, but she didn’t care one bit as she slowly stood up from the coffin.
Her slender, almost fragile figure stood tall and straight.
The sky was clear blue, and Jianchou’s gaze wandered across its vastness as she said, “I don’t want to seek the Dao of Immortals, nor do I want to live forever. I just want to ask one thing—why?”
