Chapter 6

Early in the morning, just as dawn was breaking, activity stirred within the Xie family on Apricot Blossom Street.

A wooden bucket was lowered into the well, the creaking rope rattling as it was pulled up, spilling nearly half of the well water it contained...

In the kitchen, pots and pans clanged together; dough was kneaded, vegetables sorted and washed...

The morning bustle was punctuated by puffed cheeks blowing into a fire bellows, coaxing tiny sparks into flames. The fire leapt up from the wood with a sudden flare, sparks crackling and dancing about.

“Yesterday you came back late; why are you up so early again today?” Xie Shihua looked on with concern at his bustling wife, stepping in to lend a hand here and there.

“No need for you, you just get in the way.” Zhuo Fenglian brushed him aside with nimble, fluid movements, clearly following her own rhythm.

She chopped vegetables swiftly, replying as she worked.

“Achan just woke up yesterday. She’s been eating plain rice porridge to soothe her stomach, which was fine, but she can’t keep this up. The doctor said she should have some meat and eggs to replenish her qi and blood, so her wounds heal faster. So today I compromised and decided to make a meat and vegetable porridge.”

Meat, vegetables, and porridge—nourishing!

Xie Shihua spoke with a hint of envy, “You certainly care a lot about your niece.”

“You didn’t see how much she’s petted, poor child,” Zhuo Fenglian rolled her eyes and lifted the lid from the large pot on the stove.

Steam rose with a soft hiss, revealing two large steaming baskets beneath.

On the slightly yellowed white cloth lay plump, large steamed buns, lined up one after another, filling the air with the enticing fragrance of rice flour.

“There, don’t say I don’t care about you all. Help yourselves—if you choke, there’s a whole pot of egg soup with a sprinkle of scallions. Delicious!”

“Hey, hey—where’s the egg?”

Before Xie Shihua could speak, he watched his wife untie the blue cloth tied around her waist, pick up the prepared food box, bounce a few steps, and leave.

Xie Shihua: ...

Fine, I’ll have to sneak into the chicken coop myself.

...

At the Zhuo residence.

“Cousin Auntie, Uncle was right. The stone really is magical.” The moment she saw her, Wang Chan’s eyes lit up as if she’d found a close friend. She hurried over, somewhat proudly showing off.

“Look, my head has healed.”

“My dear, don’t touch the wound!” Zhuo Fenglian was alarmed, clutching the food box, reaching out to stop her.

“Cousin Auntie, it really is fine now.”

The white bandage was removed, revealing Wang Chan’s hair still damp with dried blood and brown herbal paste. After a night’s sleep, perhaps from night sweats, her hair was slightly moist.

Yet, the wound was indeed gone.

“This—” Zhuo Fenglian’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Uncle was right. Stones don’t speak, but they have their own spirit. It protected me, unwilling to let me suffer, so I healed early.”

Wang Chan turned her gaze toward the bed, reluctant, her nose twitching. “It’s my stone. To save me, it shattered itself.”

At that moment, Zhuo Fenglian could no longer contain her astonishment or the childish, endearing absurdity of the situation.

Could stones really heal?

Then—

Zhuo Fenglian looked toward the courtyard.

With the daylight now brightening the yard, everything was clearly visible. Like carpenters, stone masons kept most of their materials in the yard besides their tools.

They picked the best stones to bring home, accumulating a considerable collection over the years. Each piece was a treasure, though none were worth much.

Besides these, there were grinding stones, stone mortars and pestles, and half-carved steles...

Goodness!

If stones could truly heal, then what her father left her would not be just stone plates—

It would be mountains of gold and silver!

“Cousin Auntie?” Wang Chan waved a hand, drawing Zhuo Fenglian back from her wild daydream.

Zhuo Fenglian snapped out of it and shoved the food box into Wang Chan’s hands. “Achan, you eat first. I’m going to find your uncle.”

Wang Chan watched as the hurried woman left, then quietly set the box down on the wooden table beneath the window.

She couldn’t eat now—her uncle would arrive soon.

...

The Zhuo family estate sat on Greenfish Street, with blue bricks, gray tiles, and walls painted in red lacquer. From above, the roofs looked like fish scales, and the street resembled a giant fish, hence the name Greenfish.

The Zhuo family’s shop faced the street, dealing in stone.

Inside, there were few items displayed; a pinewood curio cabinet held a few small stone carvings, dusty and unsold.

Yanzhi Town was a small place with few nobles or wealthy families. Ordinary folk struggled just to fill their bellies; they had little leisure to delight their eyes with beautiful things.

Yet, the old master was not worried about business.

Life and death are the greatest matters; honor and mourning after death matter as well.

When someone was buried on the mountain, besides hiring a carpenter for the coffin, they would grit their teeth and also commission a stone mason to carve a tombstone.

“Father! Father!” A voice came before the person.

“What’s the rush?” Zhuo Congyun was dusting off the small stone carvings on the curio cabinet with a feather duster.

He was feeling melancholy about his work going unnoticed, a sense of talent unrecognized stirring deep within. His small carvings from fifteen years ago still sat on the cabinet—

It was truly a bitter feeling.

His daughter’s call scattered all such thoughts.

Scattered—

Zhuo Congyun: ...

He glared at the newcomer.

Was it easy to cultivate sorrowful feelings? He had just wanted to indulge in a sip of his prized wine to soothe his temper—now all gone.

Zhuo Fenglian swallowed hard, her heart pounding wildly, unsure if it raced from fear or excitement at the news of the stone’s spirit.

“Hmph!” She stamped her foot. “How can I explain this to you? Come with me, and you’ll see!”

With that, Zhuo Fenglian grabbed him and headed toward the backyard.

...

It was Wang Chan’s first time seeing her uncle. When she spoke with her cousin auntie last night, her voice was strong and spirited, even in a lowered tone. Today, it was indeed so.

His hair was graying but thick; some was hastily tied in a bun, the rest loose. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes bright and lively.

Though not tall, with short limbs and a slightly round face, he looked well-proportioned.

A “five-short” visage: short head, short face, short body, short arms, short legs—all harmoniously combined with a broad forehead—an appearance signifying great wealth and prosperity in old age.

A word surfaced in Wang Chan’s mind; inexplicably, she understood if this face portended good or ill, her eyes widening in surprise.

Goodness, after eating a stone, she was becoming even smarter.

As a cicada, in her past life, she had carelessly lost a soul, her forehead struck hard. Only at the brink of death did she retrieve that soul, which explained her earlier weaknesses. Now, looking back, she was quite capable as a cicada.

So knowledgeable, she was surely no ordinary insect.

At worst—

At worst, she was a little demon!

...

“Achan, call for your uncle. He’s here.”

Like all parents, Zhuo Fenglian feared her child losing manners. Seeing Wang Chan daydreaming, she nudged her and urged her to call.

“Uncle!” Wang Chan called out.

“We’re family, no need for formalities.” Zhuo Congyun shot a quick glance at Zhuo Fenglian.

“Father, the stone really has a spirit!” Zhuo Fenglian was so excited she spoke in a jumble, unable to catch her father’s disapproving look. She stomped her foot and pulled Wang Chan forward, turning her to face Zhuo Congyun.

“Look, the wound is healed.”

She was amazed and asked, “Father, so the stone really can nurture? Does that mean our ancestors truly had stone nurturers? All those tales about warding off evil and prayers from childhood—were they not just stories to fool me?”

“Fool you for what?”

Zhuo Congyun was equally amazed. He inspected Wang Chan’s head.

It truly was healed, the blood-stained mess from yesterday gone, though her complexion was paler, as if her vitality was depleted.

“Well, well, well, I told you the stone was destined for you.” He smiled proudly, stroking his beard, satisfied with his insight from the day before.

If not for him, the stone would have been burned with the coffin, just as his daughter said!

“Achan, tell your uncle exactly what happened,” Zhuo Fenglian urged, confused.

Wang Chan didn’t mention her dream but recounted seeing the stone shatter.

This couldn’t be hidden; she had no way to produce another stone.

Besides, the wound was changed and dressed daily; once the bandage was removed, the state of the wound was clear.

Being honest might also earn her a reputation for being sincere and approachable. Hiding the truth would only lead to a tangled web of lies, making her anxious and embarrassed.

She was no fool—she was sharp now.

Wang Chan had her little clever tricks.

As for the reason, Wang Chan didn’t fully understand. She had glimpsed a few fragments: she was once a cicada, reincarnated as a human, carelessly losing a soul, which somehow hid inside the stone she played with every day, completely unaware.

But everyone would help find the cause.

Sure enough, Zhuo Congyun said, “Ah! That’s easy to say—I know it well!”

He looked at Wang Chan with surprise.

“People nurture stones, and stones nurture people. This girl has the talent to nurture stones!”

“Stones don’t rot for a thousand years, don’t dissolve for ten thousand; they endure storms, soak in the cosmos, the qi field within dispels disasters and evil. Ordinary people just can’t see or understand it... Ah, this is very profound, impossible to explain in a few words!”

“Girl, wait here. I’ll be back soon.”

Thinking of something, Zhuo Congyun told Wang Chan to wait, then went to fetch something.

Soon he returned, holding two objects.

Wang Chan looked: one was a stone carving resembling a lion, but with a sharp horn on its head, neither fully goat nor lion, with two wings on its back, lying in a crouched stance. The stone was pine green with streaks of golden yellow.

The other was simpler—a stone scroll, half-unfurled, with a creamy white hue resembling mutton fat jade.

Both were palm-sized.

“Try this,” Zhuo Congyun placed the lion-like carving in Wang Chan’s hand, eyes full of expectation. “Can you see anything?”

“Father, it’s that lion again.” Zhuo Fenglian was unimpressed, clearly having seen this carving before.

“How many times do I have to say, that’s not a lion—it’s a Xiezhi, a mythical beast that distinguishes loyalty from treachery.” Zhuo Congyun puffed his beard.

Wang Chan held the Xiezhi and glanced at the stone scroll, curiosity flickering across her face.

Zhuo Congyun said, “You’ve heard from Fenglian that our ancestors had stone nurturers—extraordinary men and mystics who observed the qi fields within stones, understanding the vast through the minute, perceiving the world’s qi fields...”

All things in the world are qi, gathering and flowing. Whether auspicious or malevolent, all stem from qi. Cultivation is fundamentally the mastery of qi.

Symbols have no fixed form; qi is their essence.

Understanding qi, one can turn stone to gold, and even mud, pills, sand, and grass can heal.

...