Chapter 4: Another Ordinary Day

The sky at five o’clock was just right. With the rain from two days ago having washed the air clean, everything felt especially fresh—an ideal hour for all living things to stir.

Zhou Qing strolled along the shaded roadside, passing through the neighborhood. One hand carried a cage with a thrush bird, the other idly rotated two walnuts, and his loose, slovenly clothes completed the picture: his entire bearing exuded nothing but “laziness.”

Pedestrians in the community brushed past him one by one. Every now and then someone would glance back, as if trying to determine whether the person who’d just walked by was a young man of twenty, or an old retiree halfway through life.

Walking birds might sound simple, but it’s a pastime full of hidden knowledge.

The time had to be chosen carefully—either when the dew still clung to morning or as the sun began to dip in the evening. The location needed to be natural, with flowers, grass, and trees. For timid, less adaptable birds like the thrush, you started with the cage covered so it could get used to the outside sounds, then gradually lifted the cloth, giving the bird time to adjust.

Once it had adapted to the wild, the next step was to let it meet other people’s birds, helping it get used to a group, and afterwards transition it into places bustling with people, moving every half hour or so.

Step by step, exposing the bird to both nature and humanity, its temperament would gradually smooth out—what enthusiasts called “kindling the fire.” After such an excursion, caged birds would become lively, eager to sing, and increasingly affectionate.

This was the method Zhou Qing had learned two months ago from the old bird-walking hands in his community.

When he first heard it, he was surprised: to commune with nature, absorb the spiritual essence of heaven and earth; then return to the world of men, enduring the trials of mundane existence—this was, in essence, a summary of cultivation practice.

Crude for a true cultivator, perhaps, but for animals whose spirits were thin, this process could begin to awaken their intelligence. If a creature happened to possess even a hint of innate spirit, it might well one day become enlightened.

Ordinary people knew nothing of the immortal path, yet in these small details, they had stumbled upon its very core—the wisdom of it all was truly admirable.

He glanced at the thrush in its cage. The bird seemed to have understood his earlier musings, now huddling in a corner, wings folded, head bowed as if in apology.

Ordinary thrushes don’t mimic speech. But this little creature, kept by his side day and night, seemed to have absorbed some intelligence, not only grasping a bit of human language but occasionally blurting out a word or two. Enlightenment was clearly not far off.

Unfortunately, when the bird first showed signs of awakening, Zhou Qing had been engrossed in a lively card game with his neighbors, and had hung the cage amid a crowd of mynas. The bird’s first glimmer of intelligence was born amid a chorus of “Hello,” “Wishing you prosperity,” and “Human nature is kind at birth”—and down that path it was now set.

That wouldn’t have been a problem, except a few days ago Zhou Qing happened to overhear those mynas cursing up a storm. To keep his own bird from being led astray by those foul-mouthed, black-feathered rascals, he decided to put the cage elsewhere today.

Passing the squat neighborhood committee office, he arrived at the green belt outside the community.

The surrounding area was full of old apartment blocks, their residents mostly elderly. Every afternoon, plenty of people gathered here. The energetic ones performed tai chi or danced in the square; the more indolent dragged folding chairs into the shade to sun themselves and doze away the afternoon.

Most of the time, Zhou Qing belonged to the latter group.

Just looking at those rows of chairs in the sunshine was enough to make him drowsy. But today someone had arranged to meet him early, so he had to forgo his precious nap.

“Ah, Xiao Zhou! There you are! Good, good, I’ve been waiting half the day for you!”

The speaker was an elderly man with a snowy beard. He called out while patting the iron table in front of him, signaling Zhou Qing over. A chessboard was already set up, the pieces ready for the generals to take their seats.

The old man’s surname was Wu. He’d been retired more than a decade, and his lifelong passion was Chinese chess.

In the past, Old Wu’s chess skills were said to be unrivaled in the old city, but once Zhou Qing arrived, that reputation was quickly overturned. Old Wu had never reconciled himself to this, and when he heard that Zhou Qing worked nearby, he would challenge him every few days, losing time and again but never giving up.

Zhou Qing slowly set down the birdcage, pocketed the walnuts he’d been toying with, and sat across from Old Wu.

“Are we playing for money today?”

“No, no gambling!” Old Wu waved his hands in haste. “You cleaned out half my monthly pension last time. If my son finds out, he’ll have something to say. Let’s just play for fun today.”

But halfway through, feeling perhaps that he’d lost face, Old Wu gave the table a resounding slap. “Still, I’ve been studying some new strategies these past two days. Today I’ll show you a thing or two!”

“Alright, show me.” Zhou Qing picked up a piece and placed it on the board with casual elegance.

Tap, tap, tap.

The pieces landed, interlacing like raindrops.

Playing chess at the edge of the neighborhood was like tilling a field: plant one old man in a seat, and soon a whole crop would spring up around him.

It wasn’t long before the chessboard was ringed with onlookers—old men tapping their canes, spinning in wheelchairs, each one brimming with grand opinions.

“Whoa! Xiao Zhou’s move is fierce!”

“Old Wu, what are you thinking? Move your cannon? Jump your horse! Block him with the horse!”

“What horse? If you don’t move, he’ll checkmate you in two more steps!”

“Damn... damn? Damn! This game!”

A crowd gathered behind Old Wu, their voices rising and falling with the moves. Facing them, Zhou Qing felt less like he was dueling an opponent than facing a war council.

But as it happened, being outnumbered was one of his special talents.

Another round of pieces fell; once again, the outcome was clear. The bystanders heaved sighs, uncertain whether they lamented or admired.

“Quiet, quiet! Every time I listen to you lot I lose!” snapped Old Wu, faced with his fourth checkmate.

“This time, nobody says a word—I’ll play on my own!” He dismissed his council with a wave, commander-in-chief dispersing his staff. “I’ve played chess for thirty years; I refuse to believe I can’t win a single game!”

For most people, talk of talent is just empty air; the real difference lies in experience—at least in chess. Zhou Qing agreed with this wholeheartedly.

Old Wu’s confidence was built on thirty years of practice. Zhou Qing himself was no chess master, but his own practice time simply exceeded Old Wu’s by several dozen times.

In the past, once he had the advantage, he would press it mercilessly, not giving his foe an inch. But he was not as he once was.

The pieces fell again—another game that seemed a rout.

But after a few rounds, silence fell among the onlookers, while Old Wu’s expression grew animated—from furrowed brow, to thoughtful, to delighted, and finally triumphant.

“Check!”

He placed a piece, and the crowd cheered, clustering around the beaming Old Wu. “How about it, Xiao Zhou? My new strategy’s not bad, eh?”

“Very impressive,” Zhou Qing nodded, hands leaving the board.

He’d planted a tiny mistake more than twenty moves earlier. No one present could spot the concession; to them, it seemed a fierce battle, won only by a desperate breakthrough.

Like a boss in a game: when you’re stuck it feels like some madman designed it, but once you break through, it’s a masterpiece of artistry.

A bit of encouragement now and then kept Old Wu from losing heart. He was the best chess partner around, and without him Zhou Qing would have one less way to pass his time.

“Again, again! Haven’t played so well in years—one more round!”

Rarely had Old Wu tasted such sweet victory; his eyebrows danced with excitement as he reset the board. But Zhou Qing said, “No more, it’s getting late. I need to go home and sleep.”

“Go home to sleep? It’s barely eight o’clock!” Now even the commander-in-chief joined the bystanders in protest. “You’re already tired at your age? You sleep more than I do, old as I am!”

“Exactly, exactly. Xiao Zhou, your health isn’t great—don’t spend all your time lying around, get some exercise,” chimed in Adviser One. “Young people these days never go out. You’re already so feeble in your twenties; what’ll you be like when you’re old?”

“Old Xu’s got a point. It’s fine while you’re single, but what about when you get married?” Adviser Two jumped in. “When I was your age, I could date three girls in a day, stay up all night, and still feel great!”

“Is that so? Maybe I should ask your wife about that!”

“Hey, hey, what do you mean? I’m just giving the young man some advice...”

As the war council descended into bickering, Zhou Qing just smiled quietly, picked up his birdcage, and headed down a side path.

By now, most people leaving work had already gone. The lane was nearly empty, the world returning to silence—a sign that the day was drawing to a close.

A cushy, undemanding job, a handful of trivial chores, and a few pointless hobbies—this was the sum of his life these days.

By modern standards, such a life would be called “retirement,” and he thought the term quite fitting.

On the way home, he bought an egg-stuffed pancake from a street vendor and ate as he walked toward his rented old apartment. The evening wind swept down the street, yellow-green ginkgo leaves swirling in the air. Looking up, he saw the sunset burning at the horizon, its fiery colors unchanged through a thousand years.

When he first came down this road, it was a rutted dirt track connecting the town’s grain and timber markets. Traders would often pass by with mule carts, stopping for provisions or a cup of wine from the tavern keeper.

Back then, as he passed through the mortal world, he would sometimes sit at a wooden table outside a shop, drinking with the proprietor while discussing the year’s harvest or which local prodigy had passed the imperial exams.

In those days, people along this road called him Immortal, Master. Now the dirt path had become asphalt, the old shops replaced by concrete buildings, and people called him Zhou Qing.

Could it be that among those who brushed past him now were descendants of people he’d once known?

A wave of drowsiness suddenly washed over him. He yawned deeply, his senses growing distant and unfocused—yet after a single breath, everything returned to normal.

More than seven years, and his spirit still hadn’t fully stabilized... He sighed inwardly.

Because of this, drowsiness would often overtake him, keeping him from ever visiting Liangzhou’s night markets, or joining friends for a late-night gaming session—a constant nuisance.

He looked up again, glancing at the sun.

Cultivation is said to be a path against heaven. Once, he’d shrugged off such talk; only now, shouldering the weight himself, did he truly feel the burden of heaven.

Still, at this rate, the end was in sight.

Since setting aside his identity as a cultivator and returning to the mortal world as an ordinary man, he could clearly feel his periods of drowsiness growing shorter. The mortal world, with all its bustle and smoke, was slowly washing his spirit, bringing it closer to calm. At this pace, within a year at most, he’d be fully restored.

Birds needed human contact to awaken their intelligence; he relied on the tempering of the mundane world to stabilize his soul. In a way, it was a return to simplicity.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out to see a message from Qin Jiajia on WeChat.

Qin Jiajia—she was the first friend he’d made since returning to mortal life.

A few years ago, newly arrived in this world centuries after his time, he’d found himself lost: he couldn’t read the ubiquitous numbers and English letters, and things like computers or smartphones, which couldn’t be scanned with spiritual sense, were a complete mystery. Concepts like “QR codes,” “mobile payments,” and “the internet” were unheard of. There were countless bits of common knowledge he needed to learn from scratch.

From past experience, he knew every human dynasty would establish academies to spread learning. After some investigation, he discovered that the academies were now called schools, but their essential function was unchanged.

Learning about the changes in schools was easy; infiltrating one under a false identity was child’s play.

The decision had been the right one. A few years of study provided a buffer, and now—though far from fully versed in modern society—he had basically adapted to this new world. For that, he owed much to Qin Jiajia.

Schools could teach him the history of the last few centuries, but not how to use WeChat or scan a QR code. Without Qin Jiajia’s help, he would have figured it out eventually, but not without plenty of awkwardness.

Though they’d only known each other for seven years—a blink, given his lifespan—he nonetheless considered this “recent acquaintance” a true friend.

He opened her message, a short white chat bubble appearing on the screen.

“I’ve got some new developments I want to talk to you about. Are you free to meet next Saturday?”

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