Chapter 1: The Old Well Temple at the Foot of Mount Zhongnan (1/2)

At the foot of Mount Zhongnan, in a deep mountain valley, there lies a small village that is destined to never appear on the national map.

The village is tiny, no bigger than the size of a palm, with only 81 households—neither more nor less.

According to the village’s old family register, written on a piece of sheepskin parchment that has long since faded, the village’s history can be traced back several hundred years. During the Ming Dynasty, in the reign of Emperor Wanli, the ancestors of the village had already settled in this valley at the foot of Mount Zhongnan, and they have stayed here ever since.

The villagers mainly carry the ancient surname, and for generations, the village chief has always been from this family.

Over the centuries, the number of households in the village has remained fixed at 81—never more, never less. This is one of the three village rules.

The three village rules are: First, the number of households in the village must always remain at 81. If one more household comes, they must be kicked out. If one is missing, someone must be born to replace them.

The second rule is that the 81 ancestral houses must only be repaired and never dismantled or moved. In other words, once the houses were built, they must remain exactly as they are, even if they collapse and become uninhabitable—they must be rebuilt exactly the same at the original site.

The first two rules, while a bit harsh, are somewhat understandable, but the third rule is a bit ridiculous.

The third rule states that the 81 households must forever support the Taoist priests in the village’s Taoist temple. No one can oppose this rule, or they will be expelled from the ancient family.

Any violation of the first two rules results in the same punishment.

These three rules have never been broken. Even though centuries have passed and the current villagers no longer know where the rules originated, they all understand one thing: the villagers rarely fall ill or encounter disasters. Every household lives a peaceful life, and among the 81 families, 312 people live there. Of these, 109 have lived to over 100 years old. Some elderly people who are in their 90s still work in the fields during busy seasons—up before dawn and resting after sunset. This village, with its longevity, is truly remarkable, especially considering that people in nearby villages rarely live as long.

In contrast, those who have moved out of the village, although none have suffered great misfortunes, do not enjoy the same longevity.

The village is called Gujing Village, and the Taoist temple there is called Gujing Temple.

The temple is located on a small hill in the center of the village, with the 81 ancestral homes arranged around it.

If someone were to look from above, they would see a stunning scene—the arrangement of the 81 houses perfectly matches the arrangement of the Eight Trigrams. The Taoist temple is situated precisely at the center of the formation.

Unfortunately, no one has ever seen this from the sky, because even if someone were to fly overhead in an airplane, all they would see is a blanket of mist hovering over the village and the temple, making both invisible.

Gujing Village is small, and Gujing Temple is even smaller—not only small but also dilapidated.

The temple is very old, having been built at the same time as the village. After hundreds of years, it has never been repaired. The red walls have collapsed, the large doors have fallen to one side, the floor tiles are broken, and the temple’s main hall is in ruins.

It seems like a temple with no incense offerings.

In fact, the temple rarely has any visitors. For hundreds of years, few people have entered Gujing Temple. Even the local villagers don’t visit it casually. Only the clan leader or village chief may enter for significant events. On normal days, the temple is almost deserted.

Because Gujing Temple has only three and a half people.

One is an old man, disheveled, dressed in Taoist robes, who has been dozing under the old locust tree in the temple yard.

The second is a middle-aged man, seated in front of the Three Pure Ones statue in the Sanqing Hall, holding a rusted sword, speaking no words.

The third is a young man in his twenties who stays in the temple’s scriptures hall and rarely steps outside.

As for the half, he is the elder brother who left the temple eight years ago and has never returned.

…As the sun sets, night falls on Mount Zhongnan!

The people in Gujing Village have mostly begun cooking their evening meals. A middle-aged woman from the 39th household steps out, carrying a wooden bucket, and briskly walks toward the temple on the hill behind the village. She places the bucket in front of the broken doors of the temple, bows respectfully without looking inside, and then turns and walks away.

This is a custom that has been followed for hundreds of years in the village. Every day, one household brings food to Gujing Temple for the three residents.

The disheveled old Taoist under the locust tree opens his murky eyes, slowly stands up, walks to the door, picks up the wooden bucket, and returns to his spot under the tree. The middle-aged man holding the rusted sword also slowly walks over, and the young man from the scripture hall is the last to come. Together, the three of them sit cross-legged under the tree, open the bucket, and inside are freshly cooked rice and three home-style dishes. The old Taoist, the middle-aged man, and the young man each take their chopsticks and begin eating.

The scene is strange. The three of them don’t speak a word the entire time. The only sound is the faint noise of them chewing their food. They eat remarkably slowly, chewing each bite exactly thirty-six times, in a painstakingly slow manner. What should have been a normal meal lasts almost an hour.

After the meal, the three of them put down their bowls. Suddenly, the old Taoist’s right hand twitches a couple of times. He furrows his brow and pulls three copper coins from his robes, weighing them casually in his hand before tossing them onto the ground in front of him.

The old Taoist and the young man both glance at the copper coins on the ground. The young man’s expression falters for a moment, his face contorting oddly. The old Taoist looks toward the northwest of the temple, his expression silent.