Chapter Seventy-Five: Mountain Spirit, Song

"May I… may I speak with the Lord of the Land?" The old man, who appeared to be the village chief, addressed Chen Jin with caution and respect.

No… That was what Chen Jin thought to himself.

"Your Lord of the Land is not able to speak with you at the moment. However, if there is anything you wish to say, you may speak it here in the temple. The Lord of the Land can still hear your words." Though it was not possible, Chen Jin chose to put it more tactfully. After all, he prided himself on being a reasonable and considerate Daoist, and he had never promised a reply anyway.

"Really?!" The small group gathered around him brightened at this.

"Thank you, Daoist Master." The elder bowed to Chen Jin with clasped hands.

"There's no need for that," Chen Jin replied, helping the old man up.

Then Chen Jin turned his gaze once more to the Lord of the Land who hovered in the center of the temple. Judging by the spirit's words, he had not been old when he died, yet now he looked frail and aged, his face deeply lined, his beard white as snow—he seemed to be in his seventies or eighties, no different from the elders in the village.

Chen Jin wondered if it was the villagers' faith that had shaped his appearance into this, or if it was simply the soul itself withering with age.

Souls could age too—unless one attained divinity, there was no escaping time’s erosion. A soul's existence took two paths: becoming a lonely wandering ghost, or obediently reincarnating. As a wandering ghost, barring any accidents, the soul could linger in the world for twelve hundred and sixty years. If it chose reincarnation, it might be reborn three hundred times, again unless fate intervened. Of course, if one took up cultivation and became a practitioner, there was the chance to exist far longer, even to become an immortal or a god, sharing in heaven and earth’s longevity.

In short, countless beings in this world had chances to escape their destined fates—Chen Jin himself had managed to break free, at least in part.

The Lord of the Land before him, however, did not seem so fortunate.

"May I ask who wounded you, Lord of the Land?" Chen Jin inquired telepathically.

"If I tell you, young friend, I fear you too will be drawn into trouble. Better to leave it be," the spirit replied with a bitter shake of the head.

"Oh, very well then," Chen Jin nodded.

"…" The Lord of the Land’s face remained etched with misery.

In fact, he seemed even more forlorn.

Chen Jin had not received any mission regarding this, so he did not concern himself further. The world was full of suffering—was he to help everyone simply because he had some skill? His surname was Chen, not Lei.

Of course, Chen Jin was selfish, but that was not unique to him. At least he did not let that selfishness lead him to evil deeds. He believed it best to mind his own affairs; there was no need to pass moral judgment on others. He never commented on news stories online—he had never been a keyboard warrior.

The world needed good people, but Chen Jin was not one of them; he would only be himself.

He had already made an effort by asking after the Lord of the Land’s troubles, but the spirit had been evasive, hoping Chen Jin would press him, so that he might finally be persuaded to reveal his woes, and then Chen Jin would be compelled to help. Such roundabout pleas only served to annoy those who might otherwise be willing to assist.

There was nothing more to say. Chen Jin was only passing through—he had no intention of staying even a few days.

So, after exchanging a few words with the villagers, he departed.

However, he had barely gone a hundred paces from the village when he encountered a Mountain Sprite.

The Huainanzi describes Mountain Sprites as human-like, covered in black hair, with feet reversed from those of ordinary people; when they see a person, they always grin foolishly like a simpleton.

Chen Jin found it strange—he had just left the village and already there was a Mountain Sprite?

The creature stuck out its tongue and spoke in the dialect of Suzhou, "Where do you come from, Daoist? Are you here to fight my king for food?" The Sprite shouted loudly, full of the bravado of a bandit: "This is my mountain, that is my tree; if you want to pass, pay the toll!"

Yet clearly the Sprite recognized Chen Jin as a Daoist—it was not without some knowledge of the world.

But what did it mean by "fight for food"?

The Sprite’s shout had drawn the villagers, who seemed familiar with its voice. Young men came running, wielding hoes, shoulder poles, and hatchets.

"You wretched fiend, this time I’ll finish you!" one man bellowed, charging ahead and swinging his hatchet at the Sprite.

The Sprite yelped and leapt backward—its reversed feet sent it farther than any normal person could jump—evading the blow.

The man, having driven it off, turned to Chen Jin, "Be careful, Daoist Master—this Sprite knows foul magic and can beguile people."

He watched the Sprite warily, positioning himself protectively in front of Chen Jin.

The Sprite stuck out its tongue and laughed with a strange, guttural sound.

"It’s coming," the man growled.

Then—

"He-ey… ho-ha… ho-ha… ho-ha…"

Clang… crack… bang…

The villagers behind suddenly raised their voices in a rhythmic chant and beat their tools as if they were instruments.

The pounding and chanting echoed at the village entrance, drowning out the Sprite’s bizarre laughter in an instant.

The Sprite’s face, no longer grinning, twisted in misery. It turned and fled toward the mountains.

Yet the villagers did not stop their chant; indeed, they grew even more spirited, their joy unmistakable.

"Woo-woo-woo!" With a final cry of triumph, they fell silent.

It seemed this village had found its own way to deal with such mountain spirits and monsters—though their Lord of the Land remained wounded.

Chen Jin watched, his heart stirred.

He seemed to glimpse the ancient ancestors as they tamed the wilds, facing strange creatures with courage and wit, conquering them, and then flourishing, spreading humanity across the world.

Such scenes now existed only in legends, taken as mere stories by later generations—never as truth.

Chen Jin decided he would stay in this village a while.

These villagers were brave and wise, deserving of help.

Oh, the village was called Qiannan—"Southward Migration"—for they still cherished memories of their northern homeland.

Chen Jin stopped the young man, who had been waiting for him.

"That chant just now—what do you call it?" Chen Jin asked.

"It’s hardly a song," the man replied, laughing. "We just came up with it recently to deal with the Mountain Sprite, so it has no name."

His words were fair—the chant was rousing, but lacked melody, rough and unrefined.

But in an age like this, what use was rhythm or tune? So long as it helped people, it was enough.

Such was humanity’s enduring, simple will to survive.