a journey into immortal cultivation

Chapter Eleven: Zhang Hu

Chapter Eleven: Zhang Hu

“Weasel?” Wang Lin started. The first person who came to mind was the yellow-robed youth who had mocked him earlier; the nickname fit, though he wasn’t sure if Zhang Hu meant the same man.

“Huh? You haven’t seen him?” Zhang Hu gulped water, teeth clenched. “He’s the one in charge of assigning chores to registered disciples. He’s one too, but he’s already been allowed to learn immortal arts. Wears yellow, face like trouble walking—just like a wolf’s cub. We all call him Weasel behind his back.”

Wang Lin ate a bite of sweet potato. “I know who you mean. I saw him today. Told me to start tomorrow: ten vats of water a day or no food.”

Zhang Hu stared, dumbstruck, then asked, “Brother… did you cross him before?”

Wang Lin shook his head. “Why?”

With a pitying look, Zhang Hu said, “Wang Lin… were you thinking those ‘big vats’ are like the pots back home—about this big?” He held his hands apart.

A bad feeling rose in Wang Lin’s chest. He nodded.

Zhang Hu gave a wry smile. “You must’ve offended Weasel. His ‘big vats’ are about the size of this room. Ten of those… Wang Lin, keep your sweet potatoes. You’ll be lucky to eat once every four or five days. You’re new—places in the hills with wild fruit are already claimed by others; only the old hands can pick there. I’ll just eat my wild fruit tomorrow.” He set the remaining pieces on the table, sighed, and lay back down.

Heat pricked behind Wang Lin’s eyes. He ground his teeth, then forced the fire down as his parents’ hopeful faces rose in his mind. He went to bed with a bellyful of anger.

Before dawn he was up. Zhang Hu was still snoring. Wang Lin pulled on the gray robe and hurried to the Odd-Jobs Office. By the time he arrived, the sun was peeking over the eastern rim. The yellow-robed youth pushed the door open, slanted a look at him, and drawled, “Punctual enough. Buckets are inside. Go out the East Gate—there’s a spring up the mountain. Fetch your water there.”

He said no more, but sat cross-legged and faced the rising sun, breathing slowly. Pale threads of white qi drifted from his nostrils like twin white dragons coiling and uncoiling.

Envy flickered in Wang Lin’s eyes. He went in and looked around. Behind a door stood ten massive vats. He gave a bitter smile, grabbed two buckets, and headed for the East Gate.

He walked a long way before reaching the spring—a lovely place where water chattered like celestial music. There was no time to admire it. He filled the buckets and trudged back up the mountain.

By dusk he had only just filled one vat. If he hadn’t had sweet potatoes at noon, he’d have had no strength left at all. Even so, his legs and arms were leaden and every effort hurt.

After a moment’s thought he took a half-filled bucket to a secluded spot, checked carefully that no one was near, and drew the stone pearl from his breast. He rolled it in the water for a while, then fished it out and put it away. He scooped up a mouthful. Warmth spread through his belly; the ache in his muscles began to ebb.

The effect wasn’t as strong as the dew, but it was real. Elated, he patted the spot where the pearl lay against his chest. No one—no one—must learn he had this treasure.

He drained the half bucket. The soreness faded; his spirit returned. He went back to hauling.

That day he filled a vat and a half. After another half-bucket of pearl-soaked spring water, he put on a show of bone-deep weariness and shuffled back to his quarters to avoid drawing suspicion.

Before long Zhang Hu returned, the same overworked look on his face. They chatted a bit; after much hesitation, Zhang Hu timidly begged two sweet potatoes. He ate them, then fell into a thunderous sleep.

Time rushed by. In a blink Wang Lin had been at Hengyue a month.

By now he knew that Zhang Hu’s task was chopping wood—he had to cut his quota every day to eat. He had been doing it for three years. In the beginning he managed a meal only once every three or four days, keeping himself alive on water. Now he had improved to a meal every two days.

According to him, a registered disciple must do chores for ten years, and reach the point of not missing a single meal day after day. Only then would one be taught a few basic immortal arts.

Inner-sect disciples were different: each had a master, did no chores, lived alone, and focused on cultivation.

Between the two were those like Wang Hao—taken as someone’s boy. To put it plainly: a servant. They did no chores and learned some low-level arts, but their talents were usually mediocre. Most would never amount to much and would serve all their lives.

From Zhang Hu, Wang Lin also learned the gist of aptitude—spiritual roots. Everyone had some, more or less; what mattered was how much. With abundant roots, one might master an art in a year; with scant roots, it could take ten—or a hundred.

Life is short. The average talent rarely achieved much. That was why immortal sects prized spiritual roots first of all.

Over this month, Wang Lin drank a good deal of pearl-soaked spring water while hauling. His body toughened; strength seemed to pour from him. At first it took six days to fill ten vats; now he could do it in three.

But to avoid suspicion, he rose before dawn each day and strolled the mountain paths with buckets at an unhurried pace. Thus, though people were surprised he could finish in three days, most chalked it up to his early rising and hard work.