"You—surely you're an immortal, aren't you?" Ou Zhengqing blurted, eyes wide.
The old hermit chuckled, "If I were immortal, I wouldn't be stuck in this godforsaken place for centuries!"
Ou frowned. "Godforsaken? This mountain valley is paradise—I'd give anything to live here!"
The hermit waved a hand. "One year, two years—fine. But could you endure a century? Two centuries?"
Stumped, Ou followed the hermit into a humble hut. Bare walls, a lone wooden table, and scrolls of paintings were all it contained.
The hermit pointed to the floor. "No chairs—sit on the mat."
Moments later, a steaming tea set and a dish of pine nuts appeared on the table. From his robe came a trembling paper packet holding emerald-green tea leaves. He gently placed a few in the pot, added water, and pressed his palm to its side. Soon the kettle gurgled, and a sweet fragrance wafted out in emerald tendrils.
Pouring Ou a cup, the hermit said, "This is millennia-old tea essence—no ordinary brew. Taste."
Ou sipped and felt brightness flood his senses, as though every pore opened to welcome the world. "Remarkable! No wonder Lu Tong wrote: Seven bowls might cloud the mind, But two bring breezes cool beneath my arms. This tea truly clears the soul!"
The hermit stroked his beard. "Tea essence this old also fortifies one's inner power."
Ou laughed, "If only there were millennia-old wine essence—then we'd be merry!"
Pointing to the wall, the hermit asked, "Tell me, do these paintings evoke Zhang Xu's wild brushwork in 'Song of the Eight Immortals Drunk in Verse'?"
Walking the length of the scrolls, Ou studied each in turn:
A Roc spreading its vast wings, blotting out the sun—recalling Zhuangzi's "Flying three thousand li, swirling nine ten-thousand up." An inscription read: "With wind beneath ten thousand wings, Beauty weeps through lifetimes we fling."
Huangshan's sea of clouds, emerald pines greeting travelers. A peak jutted skyward. Its couplet: "Floating mists begin within the heart, Marvelous peaks born from the spirit's art."
A scholar carving light from a wall—an allusion to Kuang Heng, yet here he wears daoist robes and holds the Dao De Jing. A quatrain beside it: "No envy for brocaded silken bands, Yearning only freedom's boundless lands. Stealing light to read the Way above, Seeking truth where immortals rove."
The Yellow Emperor ascending amid five-colored radiance, a crimson dragon descending to guide him—a tribute to alchemical triumph. Inscribed: "Heaven and earth in boundless sweep, Your sincerity the cosmos keeps. Winds and rains your virtue sow, Life to all your blessings flow."
Zhuge Liang clad in crane-feather cloak, fanning strategies beneath a setting sun. The lines: "Heroes born in tumult's hour, Youth's counsel shapes a fallen power. Reform and rescue strengthen Han, Five Peaks' memory forged by hand."
Hou Yi drawing his bow at the nine suns—only two remained in the sky. A poem: "Solar steeds scorch mortal breath, Heaven aflame, the worlds in death. Hero's bow bends fates anew, Drops two suns and orders true."
The Yellow River's twisting torrents—its rapids carved like a coiled dragon. Captioned: "Twin banks of emerald range and crest, White waves surge the dragon's breast."
A response quatrain hung below: "When sage emerges, rivers clear, Peace descends and hope draws near."
Finally, the Ancient Heavenly Venerable, seated on a nine-dragon incense barge, clouds of perfumed smoke swirling. Beneath him, lines proclaimed: "Beneath auspicious clouds the Immortal dwells, Brahma's Way through Daoist gates excels."
After a long pause, Ou admitted, "These images and verses feel connected—yet I can't grasp their meaning."
The hermit sighed. "I too have pondered them for decades, drunk-splashed brush guided by some unseen force, almost like the Tui Bei Tu prophecies. Still, their secret eludes me."
Ou offered, "Allow me to copy them and study later."
"I'll fetch brush and ink," the hermit replied, rising—only to hear a thunderous crack. The eight scrolls ignited in emerald flames, vanishing to ash in seconds.
Both stared at the blank wall, speechless.
After a long moment, the hermit murmured, "Decades they hung without harm—yet they burned the moment you touched them. Perhaps they awaited your coming. Little Brother, you're not ordinary. No wonder Master Zhang chose you for the Pure Yang Array. Come—there is something else I must show you."
He led Ou toward the door—and at an unseen threshold, Ou tripped, jolting awake in his bed, half-startled by his own shout. The dream's vivid details already began to slip away.