Three hours later, the young man opened his eyes again, took off the now-dry clothes from the branches, and put them on. He looked toward the distant mountain peak that had once more vanished into misty clouds, then turned and walked down the stream’s course. Compared to when he first stepped out of the lake, his gait was now much steadier—like someone who had just learned to walk or had grown accustomed to this body. The creek banks were veiled in fog, but there were no loose stones to trip over, so walking was easy. Soon, he emerged from the mountains and reached a village at its entrance. Farmers loosening soil, an old man pulling a cart full of hay up the slope, women delivering meals halfway up the hill, children playing beneath the village’s main tree—all gradually paused their tasks and stood still in place. The white-clad young man walked toward the village. The farmer dropped his spade to the ground, nearly stepping on it himself. The old man's tobacco pipe fell from his mouth; the cart-horse he was pulling whinnied out in pain. The woman clutched her food pot tightly, but her mouth opened wider than the pot’s rim. The children scattered suddenly, shouting and racing off in all directions—among them, a little girl cried outright. The white-clad young man stopped, puzzled as to what had happened. A steady stream of footsteps soon gathered at the village entrance, where people began gathering from every direction, their faces filled with reverence and anxiety. Under the guidance of an elder, villagers moved clumsily into a bowing position, offering varied but unified words: “Greetings, Master Immortal!” The young man’s expression remained unchanged—many years ago, he had occasionally wandered among mortals; he had seen such scenes numerous times before. Yet soon after, he sensed something unusual: why could these ordinary villagers recognize his true identity? This question remained unanswered because he hadn’t asked it—and the villagers naturally never answered either. The villagers watched him with great warmth yet a touch of hesitation, as if gazing at the official plaque above a county hall. With dozens of eyes fixed upon him, the young man didn’t feel overwhelmed. After a moment’s thought, he said: “You all are well.” “Master Immortal is kind!” The elder led the way again; villagers responded in enthusiastic voices and varied tones—something like a ritual emerged. Then they bowed once more. Some younger children were even gently scolded by their parents for being slow to respond. Yet these children did not cry—they simply stared at the young man’s face, eyes wide with wonder as though beholding something utterly rare. A silence settled over the scene; the trees swayed gently in the breeze, whispering softly. No one dared speak, maintaining a humble posture, slightly inclined forward. It wasn’t clear how long this quiet had lasted when suddenly the white-clad young man said: “I would like to stay here for one year.” The elder was astonished—could it be that he didn’t believe his own ears? The villagers looked at each other in stunned silence, wondering what kind of intention this Master Immortal held. Observing everyone’s expressions, the young man recalled something from memory—he remembered money being a crucial item in the mortal world. He extended his hand toward the elder, palm open with dozens of golden leaves resting upon it. If this had been ordinary times, these villagers would likely have fainted from excitement at seeing such leaves. But now, they merely glanced at them and then looked back at the young man again. In their eyes, the young man himself was far more impressive than those golden leaves—and how could one possibly carry such leaves? “The mere fact that Master Immortal chooses to remain here is our great fortune,” said the elder, somewhat uneasy. “Yet our village is so poor—our homes are humble and modest. We cannot find a place suitable for your meditation and rest.” The young man didn’t know how many thoughts the elder had gathered in such a short time, nor what the villagers were thinking. Nevertheless, he was content simply to sense that his request had been accepted. His gaze swept through the villagers before settling on one boy. That boy appeared somewhat dark-skinned, solidly built, with a plain, honest expression—giving off a simple and humble air. “Where do you live?” asked the young man as he looked at the boy. The boy hesitated, not responding immediately until his father gently slapped him on the back. “Genguan! Haste now, and guide Master Immortal to your home!” cried the elder urgently. ... ... In a room somewhat dimly lit in the western part of the village, the boy, following his father’s instructions, bowed respectfully before the white-clad young man and prepared to step aside. The young man suddenly asked: “What is your name?” The boy stopped and answered: “Liu BaoGEN.” The young man paused a moment, then inquired: “How old are you?” “Ten years old,” replied the boy. “BaoGEN isn’t quite a pleasant name,” said the young man. “From now on, call yourself Ten Years Old.” The boy touched his back of head. And thus, he became Liu Shi’ai. ... ... Outside the courtyard, Liu Shi’ai was immediately surrounded by villagers. The elder asked with concern: “What instructions has Master Immortal given?” Liu Shi’ai, feeling somewhat disoriented, replied: “He asked me my age and gave me a new name.” The elder was startled; the boy’s parents were overjoyed and kept rubbing their hands excitedly. But Liu Shi’ai didn’t like his new name—he expressed some frustration: “What kind of odd name is this?” His father raised his hand to strike him down, but then thought of the Master Immortal in the house and paused. The elder gently reminded: “When a master bestows one’s name, it is no ordinary blessing—people go far to seek such an honor. It should not be dismissed lightly.” Liu Shi’ai suddenly recalled what he had said last in the room. He quickly added: “But he told me that he wasn’t actually a Master Immortal.” The villagers were puzzled—what else could a non-immortal be? “I thought he looked somewhat foolish,” said Liu Shi’ai sincerely. “And now, he asks that I teach him all these daily tasks.” The elder hesitated: “Master…Immortal, what would you like me to teach him?” Liu Shi’ai answered: “Make beds and fold sheets, wash clothes, cook meals, chop wood, till fields—those are the things. I haven’t missed a single word.” The villagers were deeply astonished. Could it be that someone who couldn’t perform these simple tasks was truly a fool? The elder smiled warmly: “In Da Qing Shan, Master Immortals have attendants serving them with swords; they drink dew-water and eat magical fruits—how could they ever do such mundane tasks?” ... ... Over the following days, the young man residing in the Liu household became the center of attention and conversation throughout the entire village. The villagers naturally accepted the elder’s explanation and firmly believed in the authenticity of the Master Immortal's identity. They only remained puzzled as to why the Master Immortal refused to return to Da Qing Shan, yet chose to remain here—living in this small village—and expected the boy from the family with eight generations of accumulated blessings to teach him these everyday tasks. Liu Shi’ai himself, now admired and even envied by many villagers, couldn’t understand how such simple matters could still be unfamiliar to others. That night, he began teaching the boy how to make a bed—since the boy needed to sleep. The next morning, he taught him how to fold sheets. Then he discovered that the boy had never actually done any of these tasks before! When he realized that the boy couldn’t perform even other daily duties, Liu Shi’ai was truly stunned. “Be careful when pouring water—don’t spill out the rice!” “Don’t chop the wood too finely; it won’t burn well!” “The scales from fish should be removed—not the gills either—and those black parts as well.” “Cut one side with a single stroke, then the other—don’t cut through. That’s how you get a full cloak. Right? Right?” “That isn’t sweet potato—it’s bitter melon…please place it down quickly—I don’t like that at all!” ... ... Previously, Liu Shi’ai had read in books about people who were unable to distinguish between grains or labor diligently—yet he always doubted such descriptions existed in the real world. It wasn’t until he met this white-clad young man that he began to truly believe. But nine days later, he started questioning his own beliefs again. For within just nine days, the young man had mastered every single skill that Liu Shi’ai had taught him. On Day One: the young man learned how to simply make beds and fold linens, chop wood, and boil water. On Day Two: he learned more complex household tasks—by day’s end, the courtyard of the Liu home was clean and bright as if newly restored. On Day Three: he learned to wash clothes. On Day Four: he mastered the art of preparing meals. On Day Five: he began to handle daily cleaning routines. On Day Six: he could fold sheets neatly. On Day Seven: he demonstrated skill in organizing items and managing small household duties. On Day Eight: he learned how to cook rice and set a table with care. On Day Nine: he showed complete mastery of all daily tasks. By the time it reached Day Ten, Liu Shi’ai could no longer doubt the authenticity of his companion’s identity. No one else—except perhaps an Immortal—could accomplish such feats. And yet, he had never seen the young man wash his own clothes. He couldn’t understand how, after doing so many things, that white robe remained so pristine—as if made from the finest rice grain. ... ... (Suddenly reminded of a little girl in northeastern China who wears mink coats and peels garlic with grace.) (End of Chapter 6: One Year)