The lush rice seedlings stretch their bodies, each one spaced perfectly evenly—exactly the same distance apart, flawless in perfection. From any angle you view them, the seedlings form a straight line, with not even the faintest wavering of their shadows on the water’s surface. Even the village's most accomplished farmer could never achieve such precision. Watching this scene, Liu Shi'ai couldn't close his mouth for quite some time. A gentle breeze stirs the young plants, causing them to sway gently—beautifully serene. A young man in white stands on the ridge, nodding slightly with quiet satisfaction at his own efforts. Then he turns and walks back, settling into a bamboo chair and closing his eyes. Liu Shi'ai looks up at the sky and says, “Lord, shall we go chop wood now?” Since the young man refuses to acknowledge himself as a deity or a celestial master, after some discussion among villagers, they have settled on calling him "Lord." “Let’s stop here,” says the young man, his eyes closed. Liu Shi'ai doesn’t understand what he means and asks, “Or shall we boil rice first?” The young man pays no attention to him. Only then does Liu Shi'ai realize the meaning behind his shift of plans—and still finds it puzzling why such a quick change has occurred. “I only wish to learn. I don’t particularly like doing so,” says the young man. “The very idea of becoming ordinary may have merit, but it doesn’t suit me,” he continues. Liu Shi'ai doesn’t understand immediately and simply follows up with, “Why?” The young man replies, “Because I am lazy and not especially skilled.” Liu Shi'ai is visibly excited and asks, “Then what do you excel at?” According to village tales, the deities from Da Qing Shan are renowned for summoning thunder with a wave of their hands or launching swords into the sky. The young man says simply, “Cutting.” Everything in existence has its weak points. What he is most skilled at is identifying those weaknesses and severing them—whether it’s an object like a magical artifact, a mountain range, or anything else. Liu Shi'ai hadn’t expected such a response, feeling somewhat disappointed. He scratches his head and says, “Then I understand why you are so good at slicing vegetables.” With the wind rising, a leaf drifts down from a tree—its cut so smooth it seems as though truly severed by a sword. A cicada begins to sing. This is the first sound of cicadas heard in this small village this season. The young man opens his eyes and gazes toward the distant peaks hidden within the misty clouds. Liu Shi'ai picks up the fallen leaf, watches the side profile of the young man, and asks, “What is your real name, Lord?” After a moment of silence, he answers, “Jing Jiǔ.” “Jing Jiǔ?” “The well, the ninth.” “A well where water doesn’t mix with river water—how about the number nine, which often symbolizes near-perfect fulfillment in the phrase ‘eight or nine things are not as expected’?” “Have you read books?” “There used to be a scholar in the village who passed away last year. He went to take the examination for young scholars at the county level.” “I have too.” “Oh?” “If you don’t understand, just come to me.” “Thank you, Lord.” “Yes.” Liu Shi'ai gazes at the young man—the face he has watched over the course of nine days now—though it still seems radiant and dazzling. Without realizing it, he gently rubs his eyes. “Are you… not feeling well?” The young man watches the distant peaks veiled in mist and remains silent for a long time before saying, “Repeating the same task over and over makes one grow restless.” Liu Shi'ai thinks about this and says, “If that task were eating meat…” … … Time passes quickly. By now it is deep spring again. Concerning the young man known as Jing Jiǔ, the villagers have split into two factions—one firmly believes he is indeed the celestial master from Da Qing Shan; another insists he is not a deity at all but rather a nobleman from the city of Chao Ge who has fallen on hard times. Yet both groups agree on one point: they’ve never seen anyone so lazy. Throughout this year, villagers frequently visit Liu’s home—regardless of Jing Jiǔ's true identity. They always find themselves drawn to watch him. But no matter when they come, they invariably see Jing Jiǔ asleep. When the sun shines, he rests in his bamboo chair outside; when it’s cloudy, he lies on a bed inside the house; when it gets hot, he moves the chair beneath a tree by the pond; and when snow falls, he brings it back indoors—yet insists that the windows remain open. Nine days after arriving, no one has seen Jing Jiǔ perform even the simplest household chores. Now, tasks such as making beds, dressing, and eating are all handled by Liu Shi'ai himself. Even the bamboo chair that he uses for sleeping is moved from place to place by Liu Shi'ai. Yet villagers continue to hold genuine respect for Jing Jiǔ—not because of his laziness—but because when children study, he occasionally offers guidance. According to their words, the depth and breadth of the Lord’s knowledge surpasses that of the former scholar by over three hundred times. Most importantly, Jing Jiǔ is wealthy and generous with his money—though at first, villagers were hesitant to ask for it. All renovations of the village temple and ancestral halls have been funded entirely from his silver coins. Now even the new road connecting the village to the county town has been completed in large part. How could they possibly fail to feel grateful and respectful? “Lord, when you rest, be careful—especially don’t fall into the pond again,” says Liu Shi'ai as he carries branches gathered from the mountain, watching Jing Jiǔ reclining on his bamboo chair. This had happened once before—he was scolded by his father for not attending to the Lord well enough. Jing Jiǔ murmurs a single sound—either in response or simply because the shade beneath the tree is so comfortable. It’s likely the latter: his slender fingers lightly tap the bamboo chair, the rhythm irregular and scattered, giving off an air of languid ease. Liu Shi'ai hesitates, then sets down the branches he was carrying. He sits against the tree, resting with arms folded, as he watches. “What are you doing?” asks Liu Shi'ai. The young man gazes up at the stars in the sky and replies, “I am planning out what will happen over the next three years.” Liu Shi'ai scratches his head, wondering how a man who sleeps so much every day manages such planning. It seems the young man understands his thoughts and adds, “I am actually planning out what will unfold over the next three thousand years.” Liu Shi'ai’s eyes widen. “Three thousand years?” The young man asks: “Imagine you spend countless hours thinking deeply, pouring your heart and soul into a magnificent essay—so proud of it that you believe no such work could ever be written again in your lifetime. Then by accident, the manuscript falls into the kitchen stove and burns to ash. What would you think then?” Liu Shi'ai pauses before responding, gently pressing his hands against his chest: “I couldn’t imagine—I’d feel deeply saddened.” “But it’s not sadness—it’s pain,” says Jing Jiǔ quietly. “It’s painful—very painful.” Such suffering is only truly understood by those who have experienced it firsthand. Pain so deep one wishes to be undone. Yet once the pain settles, what remains? Only to rewrite the piece—again and again. Liu Shi'ai offers sympathy: “That person would have to rewrite it all over.” Jing Jiǔ agrees: “Yes. What else could they do?” Then Liu Shi'ai thinks of something, concerned: “But what about those vivid phrases and elegant allusions originally written in that essay? Would you not forget them altogether?” “If you’ve forgotten them—then they are no longer important,” Jing Jiǔ replies. “After all, how can such details truly shine if the story isn’t fresh in memory?” He gazes at the peaks veiled in morning mist and says: “By rewriting it once more, I am certain the resulting piece will be an even finer work.” Liu Shi'ai reflects on this—he’s not entirely convinced whether this logic holds. As he recalls earlier conversations, curious, he asks, “What exactly are you planning for the coming three years? How will rainfall patterns unfold?” The young man directs his gaze toward a forest nearby and answers: “I have only determined that the time has come.” It is precisely tonight. A soft breeze stirs, causing his plain robe to flutter gently. A middle-aged spiritual practitioner, graceful and distinct in demeanor, descends softly to the ground, carrying a long sword at his back. Liu Shi'ai jumps in surprise and takes shelter behind the bamboo chair. The elder’s gaze lands on Jing Jiǔ—his brows slightly arched, evidently surprised. … … (We didn’t intend to introduce such an event so early—but the act of rewriting a work is indeed central to the story's first half. It holds deep personal significance for us as authors: we have personally endured such losses due to computer crashes, power outages, cats, our spouses, and even some incidents that seem absurd enough to be mocked by readers. We’ve lost countless drafts—experiences so painful that the emotional toll increases in direct proportion to both the length of the lost text and its importance. During these times, we offer only mutual comfort. Over the years, whenever such a crisis strikes me or my friends, we find ourselves returning again and again to Jing Jiǔ’s very words as a source of strength—because it is truly our heartfelt truth: if something cannot be remembered, then it does not belong in the story. What remains is what truly matters. Rewriting always results in a better work—that is our genuine conviction. Yet… we wish every author could avoid experiencing such moments. Miao miao dā.) (End of Chapter 7: Tending Toward the Old Hills)