Unintended Immortality-Chapter 304: Within a Story

Beneath the towering parasol trees that reached into the clouds, the small fire appeared especially insignificant. Surrounded by thick miasma, its glow barely reached far. The Daoist sat on a wool mat, sharing a thin blanket with the middle-aged man, sitting across from him.

The water in the pot had long since boiled, bubbling steadily.

The Daoist ladled out a bowl and handed it to the man.

“Careful, it’s hot.”

“Thank you.”

“I am Song You, from Lingquan County in Yizhou. May I ask for your name?”

“Oh, pardon my rudeness. I am Dong Zhi. My ancestral home is in Yuezhou, but I’ve come here from Hanzhou this time around.”

Dong Zhi accepted the bowl, feeling the comforting warmth emanating from it. The steam rose, damp and hot against his face, bringing an unusual sense of reassurance.

His eyes discreetly wandered to the scene before him.

The young Daoist and the little girl, both sitting calmly in the miasma that could make most people sick. The Daoist exuded composure, and the little girl’s complexion was pristine, her appearance fair and pure.

There was also a jujube-red horse, lean but clearly a Beiyuan breed. It bore neither reins nor saddle, with a well-stocked saddlebag resting nearby.

What stood out most, however—

Perched on the jujube-red horse’s back was a swallow. Forget the fact that a swallow shouldn’t even appear in this freezing weather—it stood obediently on the horse’s back, neither flying nor flinching, its jet-black eyes fixed on him. Clearly, it was no ordinary bird.

This Daoist didn’t seem like a demon or ghost. But he didn’t seem like an ordinary human either.

But it was hard to say.

Demons and spirits were known for their deceit, whether out of malice or kindness, and lies were a staple of their tales.

“Huff…”

Dong Zhi disregarded such thoughts for now and blew across the rim of the bowl, sending steam wafting into the air.

The water here, even when boiled, didn’t seem as scalding as in other places. And with the biting cold today, the heat dissipated rapidly. In mere moments, the water wasn’t as hot anymore. Carefully bringing his mouth close to the bowl without touching it, he inhaled sharply, making a slurping sound as he sipped the warm water.

The heat coursed down his throat like a comforting stream, spreading warmth into his chest—a sensation almost like swallowing an immortal’s aura.

“What brings you to this place?”

“To be honest…” Dong Zhi paused, cradling the bowl in his hands, and began to explain. “I’m a storyteller by trade—a craft passed down in my family. I used to perform in Yuezhou, but during the war, I fled to Hanzhou and continued my trade there.”

As he spoke, a shiver ran through him.

“Being from Yuezhou, when performing in teahouses, I often told tales of gods and ghosts to entertain the patrons. Naturally, stories about the northern Qingtong Forest came up frequently.

“But to my embarrassment, I’ve spent half my life telling tales of the divine bird in the northern part of Yuezhou, just as my father did, and our ancestors before us. Yet, none of us had ever seen it ourselves. All our stories were merely retellings of what we’d heard from others.”

“That made you decide to come here?”

“More or less,” Dong Zhi replied. “Whenever we told those tales with great conviction, there would inevitably be someone asking if we’d seen it with our own eyes. We never knew how to respond.

“So, as I grew older and heard that Yuezhou, once plagued by demons and ghosts, had been pacified by the gods above and been restored to peace, I thought I’d take the chance while I could still walk and come see it for myself.”

“I see.” Song You suddenly thought of the elderly Mr. Zhang in Yidu. That gentleman also worked in a family trade, passing down stories—some heard from others, some inherited, and a few personally witnessed by him or his ancestors.

It seemed storytellers must gather their material from far and wide.

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“You have the heart of a craftsman,” Song You commented.

“I just felt that I couldn't find peace in my heart if I didn’t see it with my own eyes, since I’ve spent most of my life talking about it.”

“But this place is so far and fraught with challenges. How did you make it here?”

“I’m originally from Yuezhou,” Dong Zhi began. “Though I fled to Hanzhou over a decade ago, the roads here aren’t entirely unfamiliar to me. Back when I was escaping the chaos, I picked up some survival skills to avoid starving along the way.

“This time, I brought some dried rations and managed to obtain talismans from a knowledgeable master to ward off the miasma. With those in hand, I traveled all the way from Hanzhou to Guangzhou before making my way here.”

He paused to take another sip of water, his eyes still covertly observing Song You. “Knowing how far it was and how difficult it would be to find the place, I set off as early as September. First, I visited Mount Tianzhu, and then I came here. Then I slowly counted the days, waiting for the winter solstice.”

“And how did you manage your supplies along the way?”

“As long as you can identify what’s edible, there’s always something to eat, unless a natural disaster strikes. Once my rations ran out, I relied on the fruits of the parasol trees to stave off hunger. They’re quite filling.”

“Impressive,” Song You remarked.

The fruits of the parasol trees in this region seemed to ripen perfectly in the late autumn and early winter. Resembling small scoops that cradled a few scattered beans. Once the beans were shelled and cooked, they could be eaten.

Song You himself had tried a few over the past couple of days. He couldn’t help but wonder how Dong Zhi had managed to subsist on them entirely.

This man undoubtedly possessed remarkable perseverance.

“Since you came seeking the divine bird, did you witness the scene of its night flight three evenings ago?” Song You asked.

At this, Dong Zhi froze.

His expression grew distant, as though he were vividly recalling what he had seen that night. For a long moment, he seemed lost in thought.

“I did, indeed…” he finally replied, his tone laden with awe.

He thought of how many generations had told this tale, how many had spoken of Yuezhou’s divine bird. No matter who recounted it, every storyteller would go to great lengths to describe it as mystical and divine, incomparably beautiful, all to win the favor of their audience.

Yet, no one could have imagined that seeing it with one’s own eyes would reveal a creature even more extraordinary and breathtaking than any legend or description.

The world was full of countless legends, and people reveled in tales of divine beings. But how many mortals had truly seen an immortal?

How many had ever laid eyes on a divine bird?

“If I froze to death here, it would still be worth it,” Dong Zhi said with a sigh. “My only regret would be not being able to leave this place and tell my descendants about it.”

After speaking, he held the bowl in his hands and couldn’t help but glance at the Daoist. Several times, he seemed like he wanted to say something but stopped himself.

Finally, he said, “May I ask, sir… Are you real?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“I once heard a tale,” Dong Zhi began nervously, “about a man named Mr. Xu from Angzhou, who spent a winter night sleeping on the streets. As the story goes, he was woken by someone who invited him to a meal. The table was laden with exquisite dishes, jade plates, fine grapes, and fragrant wine. The other guests were all local dignitaries and elites.

“After the meal, they entertained him with music and dancing, offered him a hot bath, and showed him to the finest chamber, warmed with high-quality smokeless coal. The bedding was soft and luxurious, and the room was warm. Just as he was about to drift into a blissful sleep, he suddenly realized he was still curled up on the street. It was merely a hallucination in his final moments before death.”

Dong Zhi's expression grew troubled. “I've told this story many times before.”

“Interesting…”

Song You didn’t ask the obvious question—“If it was a death hallucination, how was it ever told?”—and instead said, “It’s just a shame that here, there are no jade plates, exquisite food, fine grapes or fine wine. All we have are plain millet paste, yesterday’s rabbit meat, and a pot of boiled snow water.

“There are no dignitaries, no songs or dances, no hot bath, and no luxurious chambers—only a wandering Daoist, a campfire, and a thin blanket.”

“I wouldn’t dare ask for more. I already owe you my gratitude,” Dong Zhi replied, pausing before adding, “When I used to tell that story, it didn’t feel like much. But after nearly freezing to death under a tree a few nights ago because I wasn’t prepared for the heavy snow, I understand now how excruciating it is to freeze. At that moment, I thought, if death comes with such a pleasant illusion, it’s a blessing.

“Not waking up would be even better. Even if it’s the doing of a demon, planning to eat me, casting spells to keep me calm and pain-free so my flesh doesn’t turn bitter, a painless death was still a good thing. I’d still be thankful to the demon.”

The idea of terror or pain affecting the taste of meat—how peculiar.

Song You caught the underlying anxiety and hint in Dong Zhi’s tone, but he merely smiled and said, “You’ll likely know if this is all an illusion only when you leave this place and return to Hanzhou.”

“Perhaps…” Dong Zhi murmured, his voice trailing off.

At that moment, the pot of millet paste made from millet cakes with shredded rabbit meat had finished cooking. Song You once again served a bowl to Dong Zhi first, handing it to him.

He glanced around but didn’t spot the deer in the dense mist and fog.

So he asked, “Do you recall what you encountered before you passed out or while you were unconscious?”

“Thank you…” Dong Zhi expressed his gratitude again.

But as for what he encountered… Dong Zhi fell into thought.

When he focused, memories began to surface.

“I remember that after entering this forest, the trees were so enormous, and the gaps between them so vast, that combined with the pervasive miasma and the obscuring mist, I couldn’t tell one direction from another and lost my way,” Dong Zhi said, his face thoughtful.

“No matter how I walked, it seemed impossible to get out. I ran out of the time I had planned for, and the talismans for dispelling miasma were all used up. Then, it began to snow heavily. Cold and hungry, I collapsed and lost consciousness.”

“Later, in a hazy state, I felt incredibly warm, and it seemed like I began taking off my clothes. Then, it felt as though a young man came over to check on me and asked what was wrong. Although I could hear him, I couldn’t respond. After a while, he dressed me back up, dragged me under a tree, and crouched down to hold me, warming me with his body heat.”

“That explains it…” Song You glanced at Dong Zhi’s disheveled clothing.

“What do you mean?” Dong Zhi also noticed how messy his clothes were, as though someone had taken them off and hastily put them back on.

“Have you not wondered,” Song You asked, “how we found you here, when this spot is two li from where you collapsed?”

“This…” Dong Zhi froze, visibly startled. Naturally, he had been curious and puzzled before.

But encountering them here, there were so many things to be curious and puzzled about. By comparison, this didn’t seem significant anymore.

“Please enlighten me, sir.”

“When we arrived at this spot, we had just lit a fire and were preparing to rest. Suddenly, a deer came to find us and led us to where you had collapsed. Thinking back now, it must have seen the fire and smoke from afar or heard the sounds we were making, so it came seeking us,” Song You explained with a smile. “That’s why I said, you’re very lucky.”

“…” Dong Zhi froze upon hearing this.

Then, the Daoist pointed to his clothes, and Dong Zhi looked down. The dark-colored clothing, though worn and covered in dust, had become quite dirty. However, it was evident that it was also covered in a significant amount of fur.

It was unmistakably deer fur.

“Ah!” Dong Zhi gasped in shock.

As a storyteller, he had often recounted tales of such encounters, especially since arriving in the north.

For instance, one of his most frequently told stories—

The hunter in the great mountains of Zhaozhou hunted for a living. Yet even a seasoned hunter who spent his life hunting in the mountains could face missteps. A sudden blizzard could trap an old hunter on the mountain, leaving him to freeze or starve to death.

There were stories of the hunter, on the brink of freezing to death, feeling someone hold them tightly, helping them survive. When the storm subsided the next day, there was no trace of anyone, only a few tufts of animal fur. From then on, the old hunter gave up hunting, changing his livelihood and never returning to the mountains.

Having spent a lifetime telling such stories, Dong Zhi never imagined he would one day find himself within one.