《自娱自乐》碧水琼天

2、Chapter2

　　Cheng Qian followed Master Mu Chun away.

　　Master Mu Chun resembled a withered branch, emaciated to the point where three sinews seemed to support his head. His head was topped with a precarious hat. Holding Cheng Qian’s hand, he looked like a traveling charlatan leading his newly acquired little follower.

　　Cheng Qian had the form of a child but the heart of an adolescent.

　　He walked in silence but couldn’t help glancing back once.

　　He saw his mother, a worn basket on her back, inside which his sleeping baby brother nestled. Beyond the basket, her tear-streaked, blurred face wept uncontrollably, while his father stood silently beside her, head bowed, unwilling to look at him, a figure as gray and formless as a shadow.

　　Cheng Qian withdrew his gaze without much attachment. The vague road ahead seemed like boundless night, and holding his Master’s bony hand felt like grasping a lamp like his family’s heirloom—even with the audacious prefix “Immortal,” it could only illuminate a few inches around his feet, more ornamental than useful.

　　Journeys generally fell into two categories: “traveling” and “fleeing.”

　　Cheng Qian, following his Master, endured not only wind, rain, and dew but also endured a torrent of nonsensical drivel from the old man. It didn’t even qualify as “fleeing.”

　　Regarding cultivating immortality and seeking the Dao, Cheng Qian had heard some things.

　　Once, those who fantasized about knocking on the celestial gate were as numerous as carp crossing a river.

　　During the reign of the previous emperor, large and small sects proliferated like frogs after rain in river ponds. Any Zhang, Li, or Wang Er Mazi (Pockmarked Wang), as long as their families were prosperous and not short on sons, would flock to entrust their offspring to some sect for cultivation. They’d learn tricks like “shattering a large stone on the chest,” but beyond that, no one truly achieved anything substantial.

　　Back then, there were more alchemists than cooks, more scripture chanters than farmers. Charlatans roamed everywhere unchecked.

　　It was said that at the peak of the cultivation craze, a single county encompassing eight villages could host up to twenty cultivation sects from east to west. Buying a half-new, outdated nonsense cultivation manual from a peddler, they dared raise the banner of immortality to swindle wealth and recruit followers.

　　If all these people could truly ascend to heaven, one wondered if the Southern Heavenly Gate could accommodate so many stray cats and dogs.

　　Even bandits joined the frenzy, renaming their “Black Tiger Fort” or “Hungry Wolf Gang” into “Pure Wind Temple” or “Mystic Heart Pavilion.” They’d perform tricks like “retrieving objects from boiling oil” or “spitting fire” before robbing passersby, startling them into generously emptying their purses.

　　The previous emperor, a coarse-tempered military man, felt that if the people continued cultivating in such a smoggy, chaotic manner, the country would be ruined. He issued an edict to arrest all these great and small “deities,” regardless of true immortals or fake ones, and send them all to the army.

　　Before this earth-shattering edict could leave the palace gates, all the important ministers heard the news. Terrified, they rolled out of their beds overnight and lined up before the great hall—minor officials in front, major ones bringing up the rear—ready to dash themselves against the pillars in front of the hall to remonstrate, fearing the emperor would offend the immortals and cut short the dynasty’s fate.

　　The emperor couldn’t let his entire court truly spill their brains and guts. Moreover, the coiled dragon pillars couldn’t withstand it.

　　The previous emperor, forced to relent, withdrew the edict the next day. He ordered the Imperial Astronomy Bureau to split off a “Celestial Divination Bureau,” directly overseen by the Grand Astrologer. They managed to invite a few genuine Masters to oversee it, stipulating that henceforth, all large and small immortal sects had to report to the Celestial Divination Bureau for verification. Only after verification and the issuance of an iron certificate could they recruit disciples. Private establishment of sects was forbidden.

　　Of course, governing a vast country spanning thousands of miles across nine provinces, east to west, north to south, where communication was difficult, enforcing such a decree was nearly impossible. Even clear-cut laws had loopholes, let alone this slapdash edict.

　　The court couldn’t even suppress bandits and kidnappers, how could it manage which sects recruited disciples?

　　True immortal sects didn’t deign to acknowledge the emperor, doing as they pleased. Shady charlatans became more restrained, but only slightly—forged iron or copper certificates? Not impossible to make.

　　Still, the previous emperor’s effort wasn’t entirely wasted. After several rounds of turmoil, investigations, and crackdowns, though minimally effective, they significantly dampened the people’s enthusiasm for cultivation. Moreover, neighbors far and wide hadn’t heard of anyone truly achieving anything extraordinary. Over time, people returned to farming and herding sheep, abandoning their daydreams.

　　When the current emperor ascended the throne, the folk cultivation craze still lingered, gasping its last. The emperor understood that water too clear breeds no fish. He mostly turned a blind eye to these cultivation-named swindlers, adopting a “no complaint, no investigation” approach.

　　Cheng Qian had heard these antecedents and consequences from the old scholar once. Therefore, in his eyes, the rod leading him was purely a rod... at best, a rod that provided meals, utterly unworthy of special respect.

　　The wooden hawthorn, who looked like a stick, touched his trembling mustache and said, "My name is 'Fuyao,' little boy. Do you know what Fuyao means?"

　　The old boy deeply abhorred these things and naturally refused to talk about them. Cheng Qian was enlightened by them and was somewhat influenced, so he was full of disdain and even forced to appear as if he was listening attentively.

　　Mu Chun raised his hand and pointed in front of Cheng Qian, as if carrying some kind of intelligence. Everywhere he went, he saw a gust of wind rising inexplicably, spinning and coiling around the ground, lifting the withered grass into the air. The sunken leaves of the grass had a sharp yellow color, illuminated by a lightning bolt that almost dazzled Cheng Qian's eyes.

　　The strange and supernatural finger of the spirit left the young man dumbfounded.

　　Mu Chun himself didn't actually expect this change and was immediately stunned. However, seeing that he had intimidated the cold faced little brat, he quickly withdrew his hand.

　　He put his withered hands into his sleeves and leisurely showed off, "Pengzhi migrates to Nanmingye, where the water strikes for three thousand miles, rises ninety thousand miles by twisting and shaking, and finally rests in June - invisible and unrestrained, yet intertwined with the wind. When it comes, it is deep, and when it goes, it is boundless. This is' Fuyao ', do you understand?”

　　Of course, Cheng Qian didn't understand. In his small chest, the reverence for unknown forces and the disdain for these outsiders were entangled with each other, hard to part. Finally, with a reverence for his master's disdain, he placed Mu Chun and the broken lamp on the wall of his house in the same position and nodded in confusion.

　　Mu Chunzhi proudly curled his beard and was about to use it to show off again. However, the heavens refused to give him face, and he didn't have time to open his mouth again. His cowhide had already leaked - after the thunder, a strong wind suddenly hit his face, turning the bonfire in front of the master and disciple into ashes. Then came the fierce wind, lightning and thunder, and he shouted from the west about the unfriendly weather.

　　Mu Chun didn't mind playing tricks anymore and shouted loudly, "No, it's raining heavily.”

　　 After finishing speaking, he leaped up, carrying his luggage with one hand and diving with the other. He spread his legs like two reed sticks, took small steps like a wild chicken with a long neck, and fled in panic.

　　Unfortunately, the rain came too quickly, and even a long necked wild chicken could not escape the fate of becoming a drowned chicken.

　　 Mu Chun carried Cheng Qian in his arms, took off his wet outer shirt, and covered the little boy in his arms with nothing, running wildly and shouting loudly, "Oh, it's bad. It's raining heavily. Oh, where should we hide?”

　　Throughout his life, Cheng Qian has sent countless beasts and birds for transportation - but this is probably the most bumpy and verbose one he has ever ridden.

　　The sound of wind, rain, thunder and lightning mixed with the noise of his master. He wore his master's robe over his head, his eyes turning black, but he could smell an indescribable scent of wood on the sleeve of the robe.

　　The master wrapped his arm around his chest and released one hand, always protecting Cheng Qian's head. The clear bones on the old man's body were hurting him, but the embrace and protection were genuine.

　　He don't know why, although this long necked chicken shamelessly fooled him just now, Cheng Qian seemed to have a natural affinity for him.

　　 Cheng Qian, draped in the coat of Mu Chun, silently peered through the cracks of his clothes at his master who was soaked through the rain curtain. For the first time in his life, he enjoyed the treatment that a child deserved. He savored it carefully for a moment, willingly recognized his master, and made up his mind - even if this master was full of nonsense and had a lot of connections, he would forgive him.

　　Cheng Qian rode on a emaciated master and eventually arrived at a dilapidated Taoist temple, drenched in water.

　　During the reign of the late emperor, a large-scale "clean-up" campaign cleared many wild chicken sects and left behind many of their Taoist temples, which later became places for homeless beggars and travelers who missed their lodging.

　　Cheng Qian pulled out a small head from Mu Chun's outer garment and looked up to meet the great immortal worshipped at the Taoist temple. He startled the clay made immortal on the spot - he saw that the immortal had two buns wrapped around his head, a flat face without a neck, a face full of flesh, a red face on both sides of his cheeks, and a bloody mouth below, laughing with uneven teeth.

　　The master naturally saw it and quickly raised his paw to cover Cheng Qian's eyes, angrily accusing him, "Peach red coat and emerald green robe, sigh, such a lewd dress is still acceptable to eat and offer here. How can you be so unreasonable ！”

　　Due to limited knowledge, young Cheng Qian was both confused and somewhat shocked.

　　Mu Chunyi said in a serious tone, "Those who cultivate truth have a pure heart and few desires. They should always pay attention to their words and deeds, and dress up in the style of this opera. How dignified is it！”
　　 He actually knows what physical integrity is... Cheng Qian is a bit impressed.

　　At that moment, a ethereal scent of flesh came from behind the Taoist temple, interrupting the master's cynicism of being "pure hearted and desireless".

　　Mu Chun's throat involuntarily rolled and he couldn't continue speaking. With a strange expression, he led Cheng Qian to the back of the depraved statue and saw a little beggar who was no more than one or two years older than Cheng Qian.

　　Little beggar used some tools and dug a hole on the floor of the back hall of the Taoist temple. Inside, he was burning a fat and plump beggar chicken. He knocked open the mud shell and a fragrance overflowed everywhere.

　　Mu Chun swallowed another mouthful of saliva.

　　If a person is thin to a certain extent, some things can be very inconvenient, such as when they are greedy, the small, slender neck that can be grasped is not easy to conceal their instinctive reaction.

　　Muchun Zhenren placed Cheng Qian on the ground and then personally performed for his apprentice what it means to be "a cultivator should always pay attention to their words and actions".

　　He first wiped away the water stains on his face, and then carried a tall and elegant smile. Then he took a leisurely, swaying lotus step and floated to Xiaojiaohua's side. In front of Cheng Qian, he talked eloquently about a long and eloquent speech, describing an overseas immortal gate dressed in gold and silver, full of food and warmth, and making Xiaojiaohua's eyes straight.

　　Mu Chun warmly coaxed the little flower with a big head and a small body, "I think you have excellent qualifications. In the future, you may be able to make great achievements. Who is your name child?”

　　Cheng Qian feels that this sentence is a bit familiar.

　　Although □□ Jiaohua has some cunning wandering around the world, she is still young and has been fooled by her master to produce two lines of clear snot. She replied in a daze, "□□ Hu, I don't know what my surname is.”

　　“Then let's start as a teacher, surnamed Han, "Mu Chun stroked his goatee and silently confirmed his master disciple status." As a teacher, I'll give you a great name - a single name with the character Yuan, okay?”

　　 Cheng Qian: “……”

　　Han Yuan, apologize... it's both auspicious and joyful.

　　 Master must have been hungry and confused. Faced with the thick skinned chicken called Flower Chicken, he spoke somewhat without hesitation.