When the boat reached the dock, Qin Sang listened as the old man recounted numerous tales about Daoist Jixin.

The Qingyang Temple on Cuiming Mountain had once flourished but gradually declined over time. The temple's Daoist monks left one after another, leaving only a few elderly monks who eventually passed away as well.

Without anyone to maintain it, the temple fell into disrepair, with weeds overtaking the grounds. If it hadn't been for Daoist Jixin, in just a few years, the Qingyang Temple would have been reduced to nothing but crumbling walls and ruins.

What people admired most about Daoist Jixin was not his role as the temple's master, but his benevolence.

After taking over the Qingyang Temple with a young disciple, he did not seek offerings. Instead, he climbed the mountain daily to gather herbs, which he used to treat and medicate the poor.

Whether someone suffered from injuries, colds, or fevers, as long as they came to him, Daoist Jixin would carefully diagnose and treat them. Although his medical skills were not exceptional, his consultation fees were very low.

For those who truly could not afford to pay, he allowed them to record the debt, but even after three or five years without repayment, he never demanded it. His reputation spread, and combined with his status as the temple's master, he earned the nickname of a living immortal.

As the old man docked the boat, he assisted Qin Sang off the boat and advised him, "Brother Qin, your leg injury isn’t severe. The living immortal will surely help you. However, Cuiming Mountain lies between the City of Three Witches and the dock, ten li from here. You’ll need to hire a carriage to get there. I know a few honest drivers who charge fair prices..."

Qin Sang politely declined the old man's offer. Despite the disappointment in the old man's eyes, he leaned on a wooden cane and hobbled into the crowd.

As he walked through the throngs of people, with voices from all over the country echoing in his ears, Qin Sang silently acknowledged that the City of Three Witches truly lived up to its reputation.

Due to his leg injury, Qin Sang moved slowly, often stopping. Eventually, he overheard someone speaking in his hometown dialect. Looking over, he saw a group of well-dressed men by the riverside, directing laborers to load goods onto a boat.

He watched as they finished loading the cargo and sailed away, but Qin Sang remained silent, turning resolutely to enter a nearby tavern.

After enjoying a meal of fresh river fish, Qin Sang sat on the second floor, sipping tea as he gazed out over the vast river and the bustling people below, lost in thought.

"Waiter, the bill, please!"

Qin Sang took out a piece of silver, watching as the manager weighed it on a scale. After receiving his change, he asked, "Excuse me, sir, I’d like to go to the City of Three Witches. Where can I hire a carriage?"

The manager gave Qin Sang a once-over before pointing outside. "Head west along this street. At the end, you'll find a cluster of carriage companies. They all do legitimate business, and many carriages go to the City of Three Witches and the major docks."

Perhaps noticing that Qin Sang had eaten well, the manager kindly advised, "These days... it’s best not to travel alone, young master. Find a few people to share a carriage with; it’ll be cheaper too."

From the first intersection to the City of Three Witches, the terrain gradually rose. The main route to the city from the docks was well-traveled, with many pedestrians and a wide, smooth road, making the carriage ride relatively comfortable.

Qin Sang disembarked at the foot of Cuiming Mountain. He looked up at the towering peak before him. The path up the mountain seemed treacherous, and with his leg still weak, he felt a twinge of anxiety.

The Wuling River was flanked by rolling hills, with Cuiming Mountain being just one of many peaks in the long mountain range. It was not particularly prominent among the surrounding mountains.

However, Cuiming Mountain had a unique aura and charm. The dense forests occasionally revealed glimpses of temple rooftops, and the occasional sound of a long bell echoed through the mountain forest, calming the soul.

From the carriage driver, Qin Sang heard several legends about the spirits and creatures that supposedly dwelled within Cuiming Mountain. He couldn’t tell whether these temples and Daoist sites chose Cuiming Mountain because of these legends, or if the legends arose after their arrival.

Qin Sang struggled up the mountain path until he encountered a group of people who were also heading to Qingyang Temple for medical treatment. With their help, he finally reached the temple, situated halfway up the mountain on the far side.

Qin Sang stood at the entrance of Qingyang Temple, leaning on his cane.

The temple was quite large, surrounded by a vast bamboo forest. The afternoon sunlight was mild, with the bamboo leaves rustling in the cool breeze.

Due to the steep terrain, even from outside, Qin Sang could see the tiered eaves of the buildings within. The architectural style was similar to the Daoist temples Qin Sang had seen in his previous life, but this one was in severe disrepair. Broken roof tiles were scattered everywhere, with clumps of straw peeking out from underneath, suggesting that few roofs were free from leaks.

From outside, he could hear the voices of several people inside.

Qin Sang carefully stepped onto the stone-paved stairs, moving slowly as he entered. The lintel above the door was engraved with the words "Qingyang Temple," and two decayed wooden doors hung askew on either side, their metal rings, which acted as handles, covered in rust.

Upon entering, he found himself in a large courtyard filled with haystacks, a donkey pen, an ancient well, a pulley, a millstone, and stone mortars. There were two large gardens—one planted with vegetables, and the other with plants Qin Sang didn’t recognize, likely medicinal herbs.

Behind the courtyard were several steps leading up to a grand hall, the largest and most imposing structure in the entire Qingyang Temple, and also the one in the best condition.

A wooden plaque hung above the hall, inscribed with the words "Qingyang Hall" in bold, vigorous characters, though the paint was nearly worn off.

It doesn't look like a place where immortals reside.

Qin Sang sighed quietly and was about to enter when three people pushed the door open from inside. Two raggedly dressed men were helping a pale-faced old woman. As they walked out, they turned back repeatedly to express their gratitude, promising to bring the consultation fee by the following month.

Qin Sang, knowing that immortals truly existed in this world, dared not show any disrespect. His expression became solemn as he quietly stepped into the Qingyang Hall.

The hall was spacious, with large sections of the murals on the walls peeling away, leaving the original images unrecognizable.

Only the three statues in the main hall retained their vibrant colors, their lacquer and carving exceptionally exquisite.

A single incense stick burned on the offering table, its smoke curling upward, filling the room with a pleasant fragrance.

To the side of the offering table was a long desk, flanked by two cabinets—one filled with medicinal herbs and the other with scriptures. Behind the desk sat an emaciated, elderly Daoist, as motionless as a pine tree, taking the pulse of an old man.

The elderly Daoist’s hair and beard were entirely white, yet his face did not show the signs of age. His eyes were particularly bright and full of vitality. A long, snowy beard cascaded down to his chest, giving him an air of otherworldly grace. He wore an azure Daoist robe that had been washed so many times it had faded, but it was still very clean.

To his right were writing brushes, ink, paper, and an inkstone. To his left was a medicine chest, along with a herbal hoe, cinnabar, yellow paper, and other strange tools.

He must be Daoist Jixin.

Qin Sang thought to himself.

"Sir, are you here to offer incense or seek medical treatment?"

Qin Sang followed the voice and saw a young Daoist monk, about thirteen or fourteen years old, stepping out from the group of people waiting for treatment. The Daoist robe hung loosely on him, looking a bit oversized and comical. He had a fair complexion.

Recalling that the old boatman had mentioned Daoist Jixin had a disciple, Qin Sang smiled warmly. "Greetings. My surname is Qin. I injured my leg a few days ago and would like the master to take a look."

The young Daoist brought over a small wooden stool. "Please, Mr. Qin, have a seat."

Qin Sang sat down as instructed. The young Daoist lifted Qin Sang’s injured leg, feeling the bone with his hands. "Mr. Qin, your leg bone isn’t broken, but it might be slightly fractured. With some bone-nourishing decoctions, you’ll recover in no time. If you’re not in a hurry, you can sit and wait for my master to examine you."

Qin Sang had come specifically to see the old Daoist, so he readily agreed. "I’ll be in your care."