Chapter 75: Old age must not be met in the mortal world (XII)

A Yin carried her high heels, and returned to the alley, hobbling on bare feet. Wu Qian was startled when she called out for him; this lady who had been bright and neat on leaving now had hair in complete chaos, her sleeves wrinkled and creased in circles, the makeup on her face smudged frightfully, a small amount of her brilliant red rouge smeared by the side of her mouth, and she panted as she gazed at him. It was only the loss of love, yet she'd been tormented into this devestating state. Wu Qian put the book aside without batting an eyelid, and didn't say anything.

A Yin smoothed her hair out, yet her first sentence was in a violently critical tone. "I say, your Taishan seat, is it poorly equipped or what?"

Where had these words come from? Wu Qian didn't understand.

A Yin fell onto the stool, her tone still uncharitable. "In the past, you said that the registry in the seat regulates the date of birth and the cause of death; so, if this many ghosts are stumbling about in the mortal realm, delaying the time of reincarnation, do you actually not pay any attention?"

Wu Qian stilled, and shook his head. "You know that Taishan Fujun is in charge of the ghosts of people, and also gods, and the ghosts of beasts?"

"So what of it?" A Yin stroked her chest.

Wu Qian spoke as clearly as possible. "Her authority is very great."

A Yin rolled her eyes. "Do I have to listen to you boast about Ling Heng?"

Wu Qian shook his head. "It's only precisely because her power is excessively magnificent, in order to keep the balance of the three realms, that the registry within the archiveemphasises the restriction on the manner of peoples' death even more, which is to say, mortals cannot be forced to enter the Taishan sseat early. And the ghost messengers of the Taishan seat, such as me and Mulan, as well as Fujun, report to the primal chaos; in one hundred years, only one person can be granted an entry to the registry and be incorporated into the ghostly domain.

A Yin's interest had been piqued, and placed the interogations of just then to the side temporarily. "So then…"

Wu Qian couldn't bear to crack apart the brightness in her eyes, and spoke incredibly indirectly. "Mulan's military service was brilliantly outstanding." And he himself also had reasons, but he wasn't much used to bragging about himself.

"O," A Yin wilted, raising her chin to indicate to him to continue speaking.

"So, if mortals have various and sundry obsessions or reasons and roam about the human realm, and don't enter the Taishan seat, the restrictions with which the registry in the archive treats these wandering ghosts has to be a bit more broad."

The, entering the Taishan seat couldn't be early, yet it had the margin of being delayed. A Yin understood. "Entering is restricted, and emerging is relaxed." Her mood adapted faintly. "What's the difference between being a ghost and a person in the mortal realm? Is it unpleasant?"

Wu Qian steeped a cup of tea for her. "Being a ghost is held up through obsession; if the obsession weakens but they still don't reincarnate, they'll gradually lose the five senses, and change into wanderign spirits, and then finally the soul will fly away and scatter."

A Yin hissed, quivering.

"Secondly, ghosts who delay entering the seat, after entering Mount Tai, will be sentenced by a magistrate; after being punished, they'll enter the cycle of reincarnation. Thirdly, when this sort of ghost is reincarnated, the spirits will write a their fate, birth, aging, sickening and dying, in the archive's registry once more; usually…usually it'll be written a bit more unfortunately."

A Yin lifted up the cover of the tea. "That's rather keeping a grudge."

Gods also had lazy bones; if the original rules and order were thrown into chaos, and another biography had to be written, wasting unnecessary thought, naturally kindness wouldn't rise. A Yin paused for a few moments; her complexion paled slightly; then, to speak of it, the last half of her life had been thoroughly unlucky; could it be because, in the past, she'd cried for three days by the side of the Naihe bridge?

Seeing that A Yin had raised her cup for a good while, about to drink yet not drinking, Wu Qian asked her, "Everything's alright, how come you're asking this?" It seemed as if he wanted to enter the ghostly registry for Yama-daren, or perhaps desiring to wait until after he himself had died of old age, he wanted to remain as a ghost in the human realm for the lord. It also wasn't clear whether or not he understood this desire.

Only then did A Yin lower her head and take a sip, saying to him, "I have a good friend—it's the A Ping I mentioned before, he's become a ghost, yet he himself doesn't know, and I'm afraid of him delaying his reincarnation; I wanted to entreat you to go look for him." She'd said "entreat", yet her words hadn't half a degree of a request; she raised her crossed legs and lowered her gaze, her heart laden with worry.

Wu Qian agreed, saying, "I'll leave right now."

Wu Qian searched for A Ping for three whole days, yet he didn't appear on that street once more; it wasn't clear whether or not he'd listened to A Yin's words, and started on the journey to go look for that rumoured Taishan seat. A Yin was somewhat vexed, saying that she ought not have shouted that phrase at him; his memory wasn't good, and what if he had lost himself? Yet Wu Qian consoled her, saying that he'd send a letter back to the Taishan seat to enquire about a ghostly messenger, and use the skieleton which had been left behind on Mount Jinyun to look for traces, and they'd definitely be able to find him.

Only then did A Yin relax; Wu Qian had recieved an entreaty, and also left early and returned late,and even laboriously searched the vicinity.

Today was incredibly sunny; even Mount Nanshan was plated with a layer of gold; Wu Qian was resting at the bottom of the mountain, customarily having requested a cup of tea. Sipping a small mouthful, he just felt that it was bland and tasteless, and set it to the side, calling for the waiter to bring a pot of clear water, and then silently took measure of the rough people about. They were gasping muddled, hot breaths, one foot on the stool, sputtering as they grasped the teacups and gulped mouthfuls. He thought of the past; in that time, tea leaves had been as valuable as gold, officials measuring wealth in dou of tea; who could have thought that now, it had flown to the houses of the commoners, teahouses opened at the foot of remote mountains, and the customers weren't limited to porters or nuns.

The tea of that time was still boiled.

A disturbance arose from the neighbouring table; he turned his head to look, and saw that independent traveller's expression showing doubts while the waiter, carrying the hot water, bent and apologised, and looked around, gaze not stopping on Wu Qian for a moment.

Wu Qian raised his voice. "I was the one who called for it."

The waiter met his gaze, blinking a couple times and letting out an "o", and put on a smile, setting the kettle down, and then attentively filled up a cup. Yet Wu Qian wasn't very thirsty, and set the flat silver down on the table, and rose, leaving. A few nuns had come down from the mountain, bringing the fragrance of wintersweet and honey locust, and brushed past him. Wu Qian tilted his head and paused, raising his gaze to look at the nunnery halfway up the mountain, and took a step forward, heading upwards.

The peach blossoms bloomed vibrantly and amply, as if painted with watercolour, hiding the nunnery's vermillion walls within; Wu Qian strolled in, hands behind his back as he looked at the virtues and achievements carved onto the wall, and then stood outside the threshold, gazing at the devotees worshipping the golden statue. Although she'd that A Ping didn't know he himself was a ghost, but according to instinct, he probably wouldn't come to this mountain's nunnery; he simply swept a prefunctory glance about, then turned around, about to leave.

His line of sight bumped into a young nun carrying water; she had clearly been startled, and the shoulder pole had slid down from her shoulders, the casks cracking against the ground, a few drops of water splashing out, falling onto her gown, which had been faded in the wash. She raised her gaze to look at Wu Qian, and the ancient copper bell outside the nunnery was struck heavily, buzzing—

I am Wu Qian.

I wasn't originally called Wu Qian; I was originally a general.

I was born into the imperial family, and once had a face which caused itself to be imprinted on one's memory.

Because my appearance was excessively gentle and reserved, not the least awe-inspiring, I wore a ferocious-looking mask; my military service was outstanding, and for a time, I was of great renown and influence.

After my spirit returned to Mount Tai, I was chosen after consideration by the Taishan Fujun Ling Heng, and entered the hun command army as a commander; at that time, I was a deputy general, just as Mulan.

A hundred and some years later, during the Tang Wu Zhou dynasty, yin and yang were inverted, and the divine capital of Luoyang had a monstrous beast appear, consuming spirits and tearing apart ghosts; I was appointed to go ahead and pacify the chaos, and en-route, I mistakenly killed a young woman picking herbs, and so I was stripped of my commanding position, reduced to a common ghostly messenger, following along at Futi-daren's side.

Another three hundred years later, I encountered her once more; she was precisely that Xiu Niang I spoke of.

Her dimples hadn't changed; her timidity hadn't changed; when she saw me, she was also unabashedly surprised by my appearance.

Her parents had both died, and she lived alone in the capital of Kaifeng, always bullied by her maternal uncle's wife. I intended to make up for the faults of a previous life, and so often helped her here and there; at first, she gifted me a pair of soles, and then she gave me an embroidery of a pair of mandarin ducks.

The story of afterwards, I already told A Yin as a narration; she commited suicide by drinking poison for me, and was sentenced to be ground until her love, hatred, anger, and sentimentality were ground up; and I lost that face which caused itself to be imprinted on one's memory.

I never received news about her afterwards.

Today, the sunlight was incredibly nice; I met this woman. She wore a dusty gown, and her smooth hair bore a nun's cap; her courage was still small, and with only a single turn, she was startled to being at a loss for what to do; she pressed her lips together, pressing them such that a dimple emerged on one of the sides.

Seeing me gazing at her, lost in thought, she raised her courage to approach and ask me, "Does the benefactor wish to draw fortune sticks?"

"I don't," I said.

She lowered her head, then raised it once more; I didn't know whether or not it was because she rarely met men; her actions had some tension, and she asked once more, "Are you here to redeem a vow?"

"I haven't even made a vow, so there's no way to redeem anything."

She pressed her lips together, smiling, and said, "The tree behind our nunnery is the most effective for prayers; if the benefactor wishes to pray, you may request red paper from the side room; write it with a reverent intention, and then hang it on the tree, and that'll be it."

I gazed at her, and said, "Many thanks."

She smiled calmly, and lowered her head, reciting the Buddha's name, reciting it without the slightest bit of mortal trappings, without half a degree of love, hatred, sentiment, or enmity.

She turned, placing the shoulder pole on, and passed by me and through the moon door, disappearing into a small alley at the rear court.

That day, I seemed to have actually asked for a prayer paper, and hung it on that prayer tree she had mentioned.

My wish was very short; at the begining was her name, Qian Wuniang.

The signature was: Chang Gong.

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