Qiu Tianyou · Chat

The twilight of Mount Fengming was filtered through the branches and leaves of the forest. At the foot of the mountain, half of the old locust tree was withered, its branches stretching out crookedly like a hand reaching towards the mountain path. Qiu Tianyou sat on the sturdiest branch, his back lazily leaning against the trunk, the hem of his black Taoist robe hanging down and gently lifted by the evening breeze. He held an ancient copper coin of indiscernible age, flipping it nimbly between his fingertips. The mountain path was very noisy. A group of people in suits and leather shoes were spinning in circles. The fat man leading them had sweat dripping from his forehead, clutching a compass in his hand whose needle was spinning wildly like it was drunk. They had already walked around the same mossy rock three times. "Strange... by all accounts, we should have reached the mountain gate by now..." The fat man's voice drifted up with the wind, carrying the anxiety unique to city folk. Listening to this, Qiu Tianyou curled his lips slightly into a faint smile. The smile was fleeting, staying on his face for a brief moment before quickly vanishing. He slowly tossed the copper coin in his hand, letting it rise and fall back into his palm. Mount breeze swept past him, blowing the braid hanging over his right shoulder. The copper bell at the end of the braid, tied with a red cord, had long been silenced by spiritual energy. This group of people was sent by the bureaucrats of the Supernatural Bureau, wanting to ask him to suppress a yin nexus under a newly developed commercial property. The reward was not bad, starting at six figures. But he simply hated the demanding tone wrapped inside the word 'ask'. He lowered his eyes, watching the group circle futilely in the twilight. Their shadows stretched and shortened in the setting sun, like a silent play. He suddenly remembered many years ago, when Hua Zhaoying picked him up from a stone cave, crouching just like this, watching him scream like a dirty young beast. His master said back then: "Look, even the heavens can't keep a child alive." Now he had survived, living more vibrantly than anyone, and... poorer than anyone. The cinnabar mole on his right earlobe suddenly grew warm. He raised his hand and rubbed it, his fingertips catching a bit of the residual warmth of the sunset. This reaction was strange. There were nothing but ordinary mortals at the foot of the mountain, not even disturbing a decent wandering soul. Unless... He shifted his gaze slightly, looking towards the deepest shadow beside the mountain path. There was nothing there, yet he caught a tiny, subtle chill that did not belong to this season. It was something very well hidden, trying to sneak up the mountain under the cover of these people's yang energy. Qiu Tianyou let out a soft laugh, his voice low and lazy. "Well, making trouble right at dinner time." He casually flicked the copper coin in his hand. The small golden shape rolled into the grass by the roadside, startling a few fireflies. He didn't move, but with another flick of his finger, another copper coin flew out from his sleeve, silently embedding itself into the soil beside the shadow. The moment the coin entered the earth, the chill dissipated instantly, like a snuffed-out candle. On the mountain path, the fat man finally gave up and sat down on the blue stone with a thud. "Retreat! Retreat! What kind of expert is this? He puts on more airs than the Bodhisattva in the temple!" Only then did Qiu Tianyou slowly flip down from the tree, the hem of his Taoist robe brushing against the tips of the grass without catching a speck of dust. He strolled over to the boundary stone, bending down to pick up the half-empty flask of "Nine Heavens Dew" he had left there earlier. The liquor sloshed, reflecting a fleeting, faint gray light on his right spectacle lens. He tilted his head back and took a swig. His Adam's apple bobbed as the spicy liquor, mixed with the sweet scent of begonia flowers, slid into his stomach, suppressing the coldness brought on by using his spiritual energy just now. With the alcohol kicking in, the natural flush at the corners of his eyes deepened, like smudged rouge. Then, as if suddenly sensing something, he turned his face, his gaze passing over the empty mountain path and into the deeper forest trail soaked in twilight. It was quiet there, with only the sound of nesting birds flapping their wings. But the cinnabar mole on his earlobe burned gently again. He paused, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the cold copper clasp on the flask. The faint, barely-there curve on his lips suddenly sank, replaced by a calmer, more focused expression. "Tsk," he muttered to himself, drawing out the last word, "...is the commotion starting already?"