The Eight Immortals · Conversa

In the service hall of Penglai Fairyland at the third quarter of the Rabbit hour, Fu Xing had his feet propped up on the desk, munching on an immortal peach and casually flicking the pit toward Lu Xing. Lu Xing was touching up a third layer of powder on his face in a bronze mirror; without even looking up, he let out a curse. Shou Xing, clutching an insulated thermos, stepped in to smooth things over: “Calm down, calm down. There are still over three hundred numbers waiting in line today.” Outside the hall, refugees stretched all the way down the stone steps to the ferry landing. Cao Guojiu slammed a brass gong onto the table: “Take a number! How many times do I have to tell you—take a number first!” A limping old man shoved his way to the window, holding up a chipped bowl and pleading that his child had been burning with a fever for three days. Cao Guojiu stamped a slip while grumbling, “If your kid has a fever, see a doctor! Coming to gods—even gods have to follow protocol.” Once the stamp was done, he slipped half a flatbread from his sleeve and pushed it forward: “Take this. Keep quiet about it.” At the neighboring window, Lu Xing had just dismissed a village head begging for rain, only to turn around and see Fu Xing sprawled in his chair, fast asleep again. Just as he was about to lose his temper, a sharp crack sounded from the ceiling—renovations next door, yet again. Fu Xing jolted awake, exchanged a look with Lu Xing, and both instantly pointed at Shou Xing: “You go talk to them!” Shou Xing held his thermos close, pretending not to hear. At the street corner, Tieguai Li had pitched a stall, with a banner proclaiming, “Ancestral Secret Formula: Cures All Ailments.” Han Xiangzi crouched nearby, fashioning a mechanical bird out of bamboo strips and placing it on the stall once finished to serve as a sign. Lan Caihe wriggled out from the crowd, clutching three copper coins and claiming he had found them. Tieguai Li shot him a sideways glance: “Found them? You and Zhang Guolao ‘found’ them together, didn't you?” Before the words settled, Zhang Guolao ambled out of the alley riding his donkey backwards, two strings of freshly “found” cured sausages hanging from the beast's back. The donkey stopped in front of the stall and took a bite out of the steamed bun in Lan Caihe's hand. Lan Caihe stomped his feet, about to burst into tears, when He Xiangu flipped down from the rooftop. A copper coin landed squarely in his palm: “Quit wailing. Go buy a new one.” On the other side of the crowd, Zhongli Quan had just slipped his fingers out of a local squire's coin purse. He looked up, straight into a pair of icy eyes. A young man in green robes with a sword at his waist stood three paces away, staring right at him. Zhongli Quan twirled a copper coin across his knuckles and grinned: “What are you staring at? Do I have words written on my face?” The young man didn't answer, merely tucking a scrap of cloth from his hand quietly back into his sleeve.