Main Text Chapter One The Path to Azure Clouds is Long, the Traces of Immortals are Hard to Find

In Shen Family Village of Chuyun County, in the northwestern region of Tianzheng Province, a stranger arrived. Rumor had it that Granny Zhao had found him while gathering medicinal herbs on the mountain. It was already dusk when Granny Zhao returned to the village, leading a thin horse with a young man perched atop its back. For the small Shen Family Village, this was quite the spectacle. People gathered to watch, their gossip swirling like autumn leaves. Some claimed the old woman had picked up a son for herself, others said she was preparing a husband for her granddaughter. The more malicious whispered that Granny Zhao's springtime passions had awakened, and she had brought home a man for herself.

At this moment, Fang Zheng sat in a dilapidated courtyard on the eastern edge of the village, splitting firewood with a hatchet in hand. Beside him, a girl of eleven or twelve helped by passing him pieces of wood, her bright eyes brimming with curiosity as she stole glances at Fang Zheng. Whenever their gazes met, her cheeks flushed deeply. Fang Zheng found this amusing; she was about the same age as the children he once taught.

He had only awoken that morning. According to the little girl, Granny Zhao had found him three days earlier, unconscious, and it was her gathered herbs that saved his life. Fang Zheng merely smiled at this and affectionately patted the girl’s head. Granny Zhao, watching nearby, wore a gentle, loving smile.

There was no awkwardness; Fang Zheng felt entirely at ease, as though he had returned home—even though he had never truly had one. It mattered little; this place had become, in his heart, a definition of home.

Granny Zhao, aged and frail, sustained herself and the granddaughter with herbal remedies gathered from the mountains. It was on one such outing that she discovered Fang Zheng, collapsed on Wild Dog Slope some ten miles from the village, with a thin horse standing nearby. Granny Zhao, though a woman, had seen much life and death; she was never afraid of corpses. To her, the most dreadful thing was watching her children die, one by one, before her eyes. She was a kind soul, never quarreling with others in her long life. Yet fate seemed to begrudge her happiness: wars ravaged the land, her children perished on the road to escape disaster, and she fled with her sole surviving granddaughter to this village, only to suffer bullying and ostracism. Still, her hardships never shook her kindness. When she saw Fang Zheng, she approached without hesitation, and upon discovering he was alive, did everything she could to haul him onto her horse and bring him home.

Fang Zheng reflected ruefully: people say fate plays tricks, but does destiny truly delight in mischief? Three years ago, he first arrived here, unconscious and rescued; now, he found himself re-enacting the same scenario. The difference was that, last time, he was utterly bewildered, whereas this time, he had simply fainted from hunger.

Indeed, it was hunger that felled Fang Zheng. After clearing his mind at the inn that night and resolving to journey to Qingyun, he began preparations the next day. When he parted ways at the inn, Zhang Meng—a rough fellow—shed a few tears, which left Fang Zheng’s own eyes red for quite a while. He did not refuse Zhang Meng’s heavy bag of silver.

As a seasoned "traveler," Fang Zheng had ample experience. His transport: a thin horse, which, in Earth parlance, boasted "a hundred kilometers per bundle of grass, economical and eco-friendly." He procured a small wooden box for the ashes of the immortal who had turned to dust, carried a large water jug, an iron pot, ten pounds of grain, half a month’s rations, some herbs for heat and detoxification—his entire worldly possessions. In this world, there was no such thing as "light travel"; food was the greatest concern. This journey would cross countless mountains and rivers. Main roads offered the occasional refuge, but venturing into wild lands without full preparation was courting disaster. After gathering supplies, he bought a few books for entertainment on the road, but reality proved quite different from his expectations.

Once ready, a major problem remained: he did not know the way. The irresponsible man in black had only uttered a place name before dying, and Fang Zheng had no idea which direction Qingyun Mountain lay. But he was undaunted; he would simply ask. Yet it turned out to be harder than he thought. In the entire Bin County, few had heard of Qingyun Mountain or the Tianxin Sect. Ultimately, it was a traveling merchant who provided a vague answer: he hadn’t heard of the Tianxin Sect, but Qingyun Mountain was probably to the northwest. That was the merchant’s word, overheard somewhere, and though he boasted of having traveled the land for twenty years, he admitted that Qingyun Mountain was famous only for being unreachable.

Fang Zheng now believed this to be true. Since leaving Bin County, he had traveled northwest for over two thousand li, and only met a second person who had heard of Qingyun Mountain, an elder of advanced years. The only confirmation was that he was on the right track—the direction was northwest. But how far, how deep, the elder could not say.

It had been over a month since Fang Zheng left Bin County. The first ten days went smoothly, the route populous; he covered over twelve hundred li. Then, the villages grew scarce, and, for the next ten days, he hardly saw a soul. The occasional hamlet offered little; he would restock and press onward. Meals beneath the open sky, sleeping by campfire, and keeping watch beside his old horse—such was his journey, especially in late autumn. Many nights were spent sleepless until dawn. Yet Fang Zheng never regretted his decision, nor was he ever dejected. At times, he wondered if he had a penchant for hardship. The days were tough, but not perilous—until one evening, he encountered a pack of hungry wolves in a mountain forest. As a scholar "unable to truss a chicken," his only recourse was flight. Thankfully, his horse did not fail him, and they fled in fits and starts for a whole night, arriving at Wild Dog Slope, where exhaustion overtook man and beast alike.

Thus, Granny Zhao found him and brought him back. Judging by the timing, Fang Zheng must have lain on Wild Dog Slope for at least a day. He asked the little girl whether there were wild dogs there, and her confirmation left him feeling grateful—he had not been dragged off by wild dogs in all that time. He was deeply thankful for Granny Zhao’s life-saving kindness, but repaying her became a problem. He still had plenty of silver, but from what he knew of Granny Zhao, that was not the right way. Fortunately, though Fang Zheng was a scholar, he had always been handy, and in his three years at Qingniu, he had learned many skills from hunters like Zhang Qi, though he rarely practiced them. Now, looking at the rundown courtyard, Fang Zheng felt he ought to help.

He finished splitting the last piece of wood as the sun climbed high. Granny Zhao had not gone out that day, busying herself in the kitchen hut on the left side of the yard. She now emerged, calling, "Xiao Fang, stop working! Come and eat with Yaya!"

"Alright!" Fang Zheng replied, setting down the wood and naturally reaching to take the girl’s hand. She startled and hopped away like a frightened deer, her cheeks rosy and adorable. Fang Zheng laughed, realizing his modern habits persisted even now. He made a funny face to ease the awkwardness, eliciting a peal of laughter from the girl. Granny Zhao watched from the doorway, amused.

After washing their hands, they found Granny Zhao had placed a small wooden table in the center of the yard, with two wooden stools beside it. In the middle stood a sizeable coarse ceramic basin, flanked by two plates—one holding pickled vegetables Fang Zheng did not recognize, the other three corn buns. The aroma of meat wafted up, making Fang Zheng’s mouth water; it seemed the basin held something savory.

Fang Zheng approached, inviting the little girl and Granny Zhao to join him. Granny Zhao claimed she had already eaten and urged the two to eat by themselves. Fang Zheng sat, but seeing the scene before him, his heart ached. In the basin was indeed meat—chicken. The very hen that had been running around the yard that morning. The little girl was happily eating, her bowl containing half a bowl of chicken broth and two chicken feet. The aroma was tempting, but Fang Zheng struggled to pick up his chopsticks.

Since arriving at Qingniu three years ago, he had witnessed many ways of life. Aside from Li Zhengdao in Qingshui, most families were not badly off; food was never a problem, and meat was occasional. Qingniu villagers traveled easily and often bartered goods, so nearly every household had spare silver, which explained why Zhang Meng had plenty when they went to the county town.

But now, confronted by this scene, Fang Zheng realized he had been naive. In this feudal society, productivity was worlds apart from Earth; even basic sustenance was a mountain before most people. Qingniu was merely an exception, owing to its geography.

Fang Zheng picked up his chopsticks and placed the chicken leg in the girl’s bowl. She looked up at him, then down at the leg, puzzled. Her innocent gaze made Fang Zheng’s heart ache.

"Brother, don’t you like chicken legs?" she asked sweetly.

"I don’t," he replied, gently stroking her head. "I used to eat them all the time—got tired of them."

"But Grandma said you just woke up and need to be nourished. She stewed the chicken just for you. We won’t have eggs anymore," she said.

Fang Zheng’s eyes reddened, and he turned away so she wouldn’t see. He had always been emotional, unable to bear such scenes. Granny Zhao, hearing the commotion outside, emerged from the kitchen. "Xiao Fang, what’s wrong?"

"Nothing, Granny. Please join us, let’s eat together." Granny Zhao protested, but Fang Zheng stood, took her arm, and gently led her to the table.

The three sat together. Fang Zheng concealed his feelings, avoiding any mention of sadness, instead sharing amusing stories—tales from the road, from Qingniu Village, even from his life on Earth.

In the courtyard, Fang Zheng’s voice and the girl’s laughter drifted on the cool autumn breeze, carrying a hint of warmth...