Chapter One: The Crane Temple atop Qingtai Mountain

Early March in the budding spring—the gentle warmth of the sun and the soft, balmy breeze melt away the last lingering chill of winter. The mountainsides are a lush green, and the streams murmur as they wind through the wilds. Halfway up the slope, shaded by the trees, a patch of earth about half an acre lies bare and exposed, overrun with weeds and tangled with creeping vines.

A young man, clad in coarse homespun with his pants rolled to his knees, works steadily with his iron hoe, the tool rising and falling as he turns over the soil, crushing clods with the handle and pushing them aside. The small field is already dotted with uneven mounds of earth, dry and yellow beneath the bright sun.

With a grunt and a swing, the hoe bites deep and uncovers a fat, lively earthworm. Startled by the sudden change, the worm writhes in distress, its pale-banded head burrowing frantically at the surface, desperate to return to the safety of the soil. But the young man is swift—he pinches it between his fingers, ignoring its struggles, and drops it into a bamboo tube hanging at his waist.

He seals the wooden lid; through the air holes, other earthworms can be glimpsed within. The bait for tomorrow’s wild fishing is ready. A smile tugs at his lips, anticipation lighting his gaze. There are several secluded stone pools and springs on this mountain, not to mention winding brooks—more fishing spots than one could count. Last time he ventured into the woods, he’d found a promising new spot and sensed there were big fish lurking. But he’d been too busy sorting through old texts and repairing the temple, so the plan had been postponed again and again—a pity, really.

Lifting his eyes to the sky, he recalls his long list of tasks and feels that he’ll finally have some free time in the coming days. With a renewed sense of purpose, he sets back to work, determined to reclaim this nearly wild plot before noon—at the very least, the rampant weeds must be cleared.

It’s now March, and soon the “Duckweed Rains” will arrive—a season of fickle, drizzling showers and unpredictable weather. That’s precisely the time for sowing. If he delays the fieldwork until then, it will be too late, and he’ll have to make frequent, costly trips down the mountain, braving the dangers of the road.

Qingtai Mountain isn’t especially tall, but its trails are slippery and treacherous, winding through the wilds where snakes and insects lurk. In past years, pious folk climbing to offer incense have fallen victim to the poisonous “Triangular Leaf” that haunts the path.

So, the field must be readied before the rains. The sun climbs higher, sending occasional breezes to stir the trees, their leaves rustling in waves across the hills. The young man works without pause, losing track of time in the rhythm of his labor. Only when the final corner is hoed and the last weed yanked free does he stop, sweating and breathless, to wipe his brow.

He licks his lips and glances at the sky. It’s not yet noon, and surveying the now-tidy patch of earth, he feels a small glow of satisfaction. He plants his hoe in the ground with a heavy thud. With the weeds cleared and the soil roughly turned, the next step is digging irrigation channels, but that can wait until afternoon—there’s still time. For now, a wash and a meal are in order.

He hadn’t noticed his hunger before, but now, as he pauses, his stomach rebels. It growls and churns, an insistent hunger spilling over and demanding to be satisfied. He quickly gathers his things and strides away.

It’s not far. Soon, the delicate, cloud-like eaves of the temple emerge from the forest shade. A few steps more, and the entire temple reveals itself—a small, peaceful haven nestled on the hillside.

It’s nothing grand: no ornate towers or rows upon rows of buildings. Just four or five plain, tile-roofed cottages, haphazardly arrayed, forming the entirety of the temple.

Above the main entrance, three bold characters are inscribed on the plaque: “Cloud Crane Temple.”

He skirts the two rows of peach trees, shakes off the dust and mud, and steps inside. No one greets him, nor is there any coming or going. He is the sole inhabitant—the fifth abbot and only disciple of Cloud Crane Temple, the present “Cloud Crane Master,” Chen Yu.

Of course, he’s well aware of his own limitations and doesn’t take the title too seriously, nor does he intend to make anything of it. A modest, solitary temple and a wandering priest—what ambition could he possibly have? Chen Yu has no such desires. He much prefers tending fields, fishing, practicing his exercises, and sometimes reading the well-worn Daoist texts that are his only company.

What could be better than a slow, peaceful life?

The temple is small, hardly enough to distinguish inside from out. If one must draw a line, apart from the two bedrooms at the back and the main shrine, the rest of the rooms serve as outer quarters. The outermost area, once used to receive passing pilgrims and pious visitors, still bears traces of livelier days. The old priest, while he lived, would practice martial forms here and teach the Daoist scriptures.

But those days are gone, and the place has grown quiet.

Entering the courtyard, he sees four water jars—one large, three small—lined up against the wall. A few days ago, a chilly rain had filled the largest more than halfway, while the three smaller ones brim with water, their surfaces dotted with floating duckweed.

On the other side, a gnarled pine spreads its branches, accompanied by a large pear tree, though the latter stands shorter. The two trees anchor opposite sides of the yard, encircled by tufts of grass, with a path of broken stones winding between. Though the courtyard is small, the careful arrangement of these simple elements lends it an air of spaciousness and quiet order.

Chen Yu sets the bamboo tube filled with earthworms against a pillar and steps to a small jar to wash his hands, splashing cool water over his face. The chill seeps through his skin, washing away sweat and fatigue alike. He dries himself with a swipe and heads further inside.

The main shrine sits at the center. A large Daoist character is posted above the entrance. Crossing the threshold, he sees a row of small stone prayer cushions neatly arranged before the incense table. At the heart of the hall stands a life-sized porcelain statue of an elder, long-bearded and long-browed, cradling an ancient mirror—a visage both stern and kindly. Flanking the central figure are ranks of lesser deities, each distinct in form and expression, all porcelain but none as finely made as the principal. A quick count reveals more than twenty.

These are the myriad deities venerated at Cloud Crane Temple. Some illustrious, some obscure; some invented by folk legend, others born from the feats of ancient heroes. Their stories and origins are as varied as the mountains themselves—some embellished by generations of villagers, some deified after imperial edict, earning incense and prayers and, in return, granting protection to their followers.

For instance, the robed, sword-bearing, fierce-eyed priest in the second row to the left is said, according to Chen Yu’s inherited memory as Mu Yuan, to be based on a legend from the Western Provinces—likely inspired by a general who fought bravely in the waning days of the Qianzhou era, some three centuries past. Who could have guessed that, three hundred years later, this ancient warrior would be venerated as one of the region’s principal Daoist immortals, with disciples traveling the world under his name, gathering incense and offerings?

There are exceptions, of course—such as the chief deity at the top:

“Celestial Lord of Pristine Jade Vaults, Sovereign of the First Blossom Grotto.”

One of the founding patriarchs of this land’s Daoist tradition, honored across north and south alike. Few would dare to usurp his name for their own gain, for doing so would invite the scorn of all who claim orthodoxy—if not a blade or two from the more hot-tempered branches like the Dryang Sect.

Chen Yu, now a make-believe abbot by circumstance, would never stoop to such petty tricks. Though he was once an atheist, since arriving in this world, he figures it does no harm to light incense and pay his respects—it’s a small gesture, after all.

He approaches the altar, skillfully lights the incense, and places four slender, green candles in the central bronze stand—one at each corner, square and true.

Every region has its customs, and here the Daoist rituals differ from those in his memories. Where three sticks of sandalwood mark the golden peak elsewhere, here one green candle and four wax tapers signify respect. Cloud Crane Temple is poor, unable to match the grand displays of the major sects, but candles are cheap, and his intentions are sincere.

Soon, the gentle, herbaceous smoke curls upward, swirling a few feet above the altar before dissipating into the air. Chen Yu bows with proper form, dusts off his hands, and turns toward the kitchen to prepare his midday meal.