Song You hadn’t walked far when he spotted a horse ahead. It was a jujube-red horse.

Judging by its appearance, it was a

Beiyuan

breed, slightly thin, with a coat that stood out starkly against the snowy landscape.

The moment it saw him, the horse trotted over.

“Huh?”

Song You was a bit surprised. As it stopped in front of him, he couldn’t help but ask, “How did you end up here?”

“...”

“Well, this must be fate,” he said, as if speaking to himself.

Behind him, the calico cat was visibly delighted.

It truly did seem like fate.

The last time he had parted ways with this jujube-red horse, it had been in a completely different direction from Changjing. Moreover, this place was far from Changjing, yet the horse had made its way here and happened to cross paths with him.

It must have been drawn here by the abundant spiritual energy of Mount Beiqin.

“Let’s go, then.”

“...”

“We’ll be leaving Changjing in just over a month. Until then, you’re free to stay wherever you like.”

As Song You spoke, he continued following the serpent’s trail.

The jujube-red horse followed close behind.

After crossing a mountain ridge, he soon saw the lake nestled in the valley below. Beside the lake was a small hut. The mountain winds seemed unable to touch this place; the lake’s surface was as still as a mirror. Upon it floated a small boat, where an old man in a bamboo raincoat and hat sat fishing—a scene so tranquil it looked like a painting.

Song You stood there for a moment, gazing at the scene. He couldn’t help but wonder if the Snake Immortal’s uncharacteristic hobby of fishing was something it had picked up from Grandmaster Fuyang in the past.

Just like Daoist Elder Heiyu’s laziness and penchant for fighting.

What hobbies might Lady Calico develop in the future?

The last time Song You came here, he had learned of the Snake Immortal’s past relationship with Grandmaster Fuyang, and it had already moved him. Now that his master had passed, and Daoist Elder Heiyu had ventured off to see the same heavens and earth that they had once explored, returning to this place naturally brought about new reflections.

Time flowed endlessly, and change was constant. Before arriving, who could have known what awaited?

Song You stepped forward.

From a distance, he saw the figure on the solitary fishing boat make a motion to reel in the line. It seemed the fisherman had caught something. After securing the fish, the figure stood up, used the bamboo pole to push the boat slowly to shore, and disembarked with a bucket in hand.

By the time Song You reached him, the Snake Immortal was already on land, one hand holding the bucket, the other a fishing rod. As their eyes met, the Snake Immortal spoke, as usual, with a familiar tone, “There’s nothing else in the mountains to offer you, especially at this time of year. I had no choice but to catch a few fish.”

“Greetings, Snake Immortal.”

“No need for formalities.”

“My master has passed away.”

“I know. Earlier this year, a crested myna flew here to tell me.”

The Snake Immortal spoke calmly, as though he had witnessed such events multiple times since the founding of the dynasty.

As he carried the bucket and fishing rod toward the hut, he paused briefly to say, “It’s always like this.”

“It is,” Song You replied with equal calm.

He followed the Snake Immortal into the hut, and the door was closed behind them. Inside, the warmth of a brazier drove away the cold.

The Snake Immortal settled into a seat, his movements slow and deliberate, resembling those of an elderly human. He said to Song You, “I’ve heard about the commotion you stirred up in the North. Compared to those who came before you, it wasn’t exactly minor.”

“You flatter me,” Song You said with a modest smile.

“And that swallow outside in the sky...”

“He’s a descendant of the Swallow Immortal. He prefers open spaces and values his independence. Letting him fly freely suits him best.”

“Take a seat.”

“Thank you.”

Song You sat down.

The lighting in the hut was poor, and with the overcast skies outside blocking the sun, the dim light that filtered in was even weaker. Yet this subdued, shadowy setting, combined with the warmth of the fire, created a surprisingly comfortable atmosphere.

“I heard that Doctor Cai entrusted the latest version of the first half of

Doctor Cai’s Medical Canon

to you, Snake Immortal?”

“You’re rather straightforward.”

“Though I only met you three years ago, I know you’re an old friend of my sect and therefore a senior of the Hidden Dragon lineage,” Song You replied calmly. “With a senior, there’s no need for me to be shy.”

“Three years ago, you weren’t this casual.”

“I’ve had some revelations,” Song You said, stroking the cat by his side.

“You’ve figured out quite a bit since leaving the mountain, haven’t you?”

“A great deal,” Song You admitted.

This, after all, was one of the reasons why Hidden Dragon Temple sent its disciples down the mountain.

“There is indeed a copy here,” the Snake Immortal said leisurely. “As entrusted, it remains intact.”

“In your hands, it stays safe. Yet in Doctor Cai’s or his students’ hands, accidents keep happening,” Song You said bluntly. “That’s no coincidence, is it?”

“Who knows...”

The Snake Immortal picked up a long-handled clay pot unhurriedly.

He gave it a shake, and though it was empty, water began pouring out.

“You live right here in Mount Beiqin. Haven’t you sensed anything unusual over there?” Song You pressed.

“You’re overthinking it. Harming mortals is a grave taboo for gods—let alone interfering with something as obvious and beneficial to all as this. Ha, such gods do exist, like the one you recently struck down,” the Snake Immortal said as he placed the clay pot over the fire to boil. “Even if this were the work of gods from the Heavenly Palace, it would be imperceptible to most.”

“That’s reasonable,” Song You nodded.

Indeed, gods who failed to act like gods—or worse, brought harm to humanity—were not uncommon. Hidden Dragon Temple had spent considerable effort dealing with such entities in every generation. One classic example was Grandmaster Fuyang, an old friend of the Snake Immortal, who was famously known as the “God Slayer.”

The Thunder Division was led by martial gods. Even Duke of Thunder Fu, a straightforward military man and something of a hothead, wouldn’t openly flaunt his actions. When caught by Song You, he still tried to argue his way out. If even someone like Duke of Thunder Fu couldn’t act with impunity, how much more cautious would other gods of the Heavenly Palace need to be?

Among the gods of the Heavenly Palace, aside from a lucky few, those who remain were either individuals of exceptional virtue or manipulators of human hearts. After all, for deities to win people's devotion, they either relied on strength or other means.

Most of these deities were shrewd and cunning individuals during their mortal lives. After death, with extended lifespans and extraordinary divine powers, they naturally possessed even greater patience and methods. Trying to obtain solid evidence against them would undoubtedly be very difficult.

Take the repeated setbacks faced by Doctor Cai, for instance.

One time, a torrential rainstorm destroyed his hut—an entirely natural occurrence. Another time, an earthquake caused a landslide, burying his home in mud and debris. Such an event, requiring a significant effort by a powerful deity to deliberately trigger, could hardly have been orchestrated over something so minor.

And then there’s the most recent incident.

Doctor Cai’s disciple fell into the river, soaking the manuscript. When they tried to dry it, a gust of wind blew it away. The river didn’t ripple or form whirlpools, there was no storm, no water spirits causing trouble, and not even the boat was leaking. The disciple simply lost his footing because his pack was too heavy and lacked experience with boats.

Every decision after that—choosing where to dry the manuscript, using small stones to weigh it down—was made by the disciples themselves.

Even if a god were involved, all they did was stir up an ordinary mountain breeze.

A completely mundane gust of wind.

“What do you think?” Song You asked directly.

“During the chaotic times, I followed your ancestor and saw countless gods,” the Snake Immortal began, his tone leisurely. “After assisting that mortal in founding the Great Yan dynasty, I had several opportunities to ascend to divinity myself. Eventually, the court bestowed upon me the title of Snake Immortal. It’s more or less a title for an Earth God. At least, when the Heavenly Palace encounters me, they don’t treat me as an ordinary demon. Some even come to offer sacrifices.”

He paused, then smiled faintly. “Over the years, my greatest understanding of humanity and gods is this: the people of Great Yan lack true reverence for the gods.”

Song You’s expression grew serious.

With his insight, he immediately understood that the Snake Immortal’s words, though casually delivered, cut straight to the heart of the matter.

The people of Great Yan lacked genuine, heartfelt reverence for the virtue of gods. Such reverence was something only a select few gods, at the moment of their ascension, truly received in abundance.

What kind of reverence was this?

Take a more recent example: Prime Minister He, decades ago. In a time of national crisis and widespread suffering, he introduced superior rice strains from the East, enacted reforms, and returned land to the people, alleviating their plight. He did so knowing it would incur the wrath of many and lead to his own downfall, yet he accepted his fate with grace.

Before his death, he composed a poem that resonated throughout the land, sung by people far and wide. Even now, his words inspired officials—some used them to motivate themselves, while others cynically used them to feign dedication to the people.

The common people indeed did not let him down; they voluntarily built a temple for him, elevating him to the ranks of the immortals. The reverence they held for him back then was precisely this kind of devotion.

As time passed, people inevitably began to forget the achievements of figures like Prime Minister He. They grew accustomed to the benefits he brought to their lives and, having been born into them, regarded these advantages as if they had always existed.

Even if later generations read about his deeds in books or heard tales of him, their admiration paled compared to the gratitude of those he personally lifted out of suffering. Occasionally, there might be someone who, while reading about him, could vividly feel his greatness, as if they had transcended time and witnessed the events firsthand.

Such individuals were rare, and one imagined that even the gods would take comfort in their reverence.

But when did people typically turn to the gods? Most often, it was when they needed something.

The idea of not keeping “idle gods” stemmed from this reality.

Hidden Dragon Temple understood this better than anyone, and so did Song You. Back in Xuzhou, he taught local scholars how to invoke gods to exorcize demons. On the grasslands of Yanzhou, he advised a group of ghost soldiers to serve the people and thereby seek recognition as local earth gods or yin gods.

Gods existed because of the people, but it was a mutually dependent and utilitarian relationship.

The problem was, this relationship was often unbalanced.

“As the saying goes, ‘No one visits the temple unless there’s something to ask for.’ Most people only offer incense to the gods when they have a request. The word

help

in the phrase

praying to gods and Buddhas for help

[1] embodies this reality. Even those who worship regularly often do so out of a desire for divine protection or help—or out of fear that neglecting offerings will result in divine punishment. In essence, they don’t revere the gods themselves but their magical power and divine abilities,” the Snake Immortal said, his tone relaxed and his face showing a hint of amusement.

He added, “When they need something, they run to the temple eagerly. The more urgent their request, the more devout their faith, and the stronger the incense and power of prayer they offer. Surely, the disciples of Hidden Dragon Temple understand this better than anyone.”

Song You listened, reflecting deeply.

The Snake Immortal was correct. This was one of the fundamental issues.

It was true that gods existed in this world, and it was not inherently wrong for people to seek divine assistance when they encountered difficulties. The problem was that gods often lacked the omnipotence that people believed they possessed.

The notions of eternal existence, boundless power, and omnipotence were exaggerations by mortals and tactics gods used to maintain their worship. In reality, the greatness of gods didn’t lie in these attributes. Their powers and abilities were limited—they didn’t have countless arms and legs or infinite incarnations, and they couldn't care for the countless millions of people in the world.

Take, for example, the sick who frequented temples and monasteries seeking divine intervention. The gods they worshipped might not specialize in healing. Even if they did, they could not cure every sick person in the world.

Some gods, however, understood this reality very clearly.

Take, for instance, Divine Lord Yuewang, who boldly wrote a couplet at the entrance of his temple:

“You seek fame and fortune;

he divines good and ill.

Poor me, heartless and soulless—

how could I possibly advise you?”

“Clouds shroud the hall;

bells and cauldrons adorn the chamber.

Laughable, how people worship mere clay and wood,

wasting so much wealth in vain.”

This deity openly declared his inability to help and left it up to people whether they wished to worship him or not.

Straightforward, clear-headed, and bold. He was a remarkable deity.

But some gods weren’t like that—they relied on this worship to survive.

“Is it only the court that seeks to keep the people ignorant?” the Snake Immortal said with a chuckle, handing Song You a freshly brewed cup of tea.

1. The phrase 求神拜佛 is a common phrase in Chinese meaning to pray to gods and Buddhas for help or blessings. ☜