Chapter 26: A Sense of Déjà Vu

Glancing back at the towering palace walls, I looked at the coiled-dragon jade pendant in my hand. I tucked it into my robes, but feeling uneasy, I pulled it back out. I plucked a few strands from my horsetail whisk, braided them, and hung the pendant around my neck.

Covering it with my clothes and patting it to ensure it was secure, I felt relieved enough to sneak toward Chaotian Gate. I was not yet in a position to be seen, so I had to remain in the shadows.

Slipping out of Chaotian Gate, the world inside and outside felt entirely different. Calculating the time, it was the end of the Chou hour, roughly three in the morning by later standards. Yet, more than half the shops on the street were still open for business. Although traditional festivities like fireworks and temple fairs had been canceled due to the Crown Prince’s passing, there were still plenty of acrobats and street performers entertaining the crowds in open spaces.

Qiu Zhiqing bought a few crispy cakes and strolled along while eating. Before long, he reached a performance area. One of the performers was wielding a broadsword with such force it whistled through the air. Qiu watched intently; when the performance ended, another man struck a copper gong.

"Many thanks for your support!" the man shouted, seeking a reward. Qiu placed the four remaining copper coins he had saved from his entry fee into the gong.

Next came feats like breaking a boulder on one's chest and shooting an apple off a head with an arrow. The crowd cheered in delight, tossing coins in appreciation—a system of tipping that one might imagine inspired the donation mechanics of later digital platforms.

Half an hour later, the performers took a break, likely waiting to attract a new wave of customers. During the lull, Qiu stepped forward and handed the crispy cakes he had just bought to the troupe leader. The leader hesitated, wanting to pay, but Qiu stopped him, explaining he merely had a question and hoped for some insight.

The leader’s guard dropped. After having one of his men taste the food first, the others stood by, waiting for Qiu to speak.

Qiu, understanding their caution, asked, "I observe that you gentlemen are neither simple farm laborers nor typical wandering martial artists. I suspect these are techniques from the battlefield, are they not?"

The men exchanged glances, hesitant and wary. Finally, the leader gave a strained smile. "The Daoist must be mistaken. We are just ordinary farm boys from outside Lin'an, here to earn a little extra for the Mid-Autumn Festival."

It was clearly not the truth, and Qiu could see they did not want to elaborate. He glanced at their bows and blades—weapons he was not only familiar with but had once captured himself. Since they would not speak, he did not press. Offering his thanks, he went back to wandering the night market. Yet, he couldn't shake a strange feeling: soldiers meant to defend the country were reduced to performing street tricks to survive.

This Southern Song night market was no less vibrant than those of the future. There were sugar-figure blowers, magicians, craftsmen forging gold and silver jewelry on the spot, and even the occasional pickpocket.

Qiu did not interfere. The thief only took half and targeted only the sons of the wealthy; there was no need to cause trouble. Mostly, he feared that his usual streak of bad luck would drag him into some melodramatic mess.

The front lines were in crisis while the rear indulged in excess. According to Meng Gong, the Jin army had once reached the gates of Xiangyang, yet in Lin'an, Qiu heard no talk of the war. People only spoke of who had bought new jewelry or how well porcelain was selling to the Western barbarians.

Perhaps the front was too far away for the biting northern winds to blow the smoke of war to the prosperous shores of the West Lake. But what could he do? He felt like a mere grain of sand in the rolling tide.

***

By the time he had walked half of Lin'an, day had broken. The night market shops had not yet closed, and the daytime storefronts were already opening. Truly, this was the bustling Qiantang and the magnificent capital of Lin'an.

Once the city gates opened, Qiu went to Fuxing Temple to request a stay. Located only three miles from West Lake and four from the Imperial City, it was the perfect place for a Daoist to study and sightsee.

Upon arrival, Qiu stated his background and recited scriptures, successfully gaining entry. In his spare time, he helped with cleaning and greeting guests. He told them he could not interpret fortune sticks but offered free medical consultations in the afternoons. The temple master was called Wuweizi, a name derived from the twelfth chapter of the *Tao Te Ching*. Why his master gave him such a name was likely because he had been a glutton in his youth.

The next day, Qiu arrived early at the Donghua Gate, east of the Hening Gate at the rear of the Imperial City. He presented the coiled-dragon jade pendant his junior uncle had given him. He was not immediately granted entry but was asked to wait.

Twenty minutes later, a young attendant scurried over. Seeing Qiu, he asked, "Are you Daoist Chonghe?"

When Qiu nodded, the attendant said, "Greetings, Daoist. I am here on the orders of the Old Immortal to guide you. Please, follow me."

He was entering the palace through official channels, so he naturally did not carry his sword—he had that much common sense. The guards did not search him thoroughly, merely waving a magnet over him, which felt strangely like a security checkpoint from the future.

As they walked, the palace was much busier in the daylight than it had been at night. Lower-ranking officials in green robes bustled about; seeing Qiu, they pointed and whispered about "evil Daoists ruining the country" and the "warning of Emperor Huizong," leaving him baffled. The young attendant dared not speak, keeping his head down and hurrying along.

Passing the Little West Lake and a temple, they reached a small hill near the eastern wall. Before them stood another temple, with a plaque inscribed in seal script: "Guan Hall." Inside was a high platform, roughly thirty feet tall, with stairs spiraling up.

"The Old Immortal is up there," the attendant said. "You may go up yourself; I shall take my leave." Without waiting for a response, he bowed and departed.

Qiu shook his head and ascended. At the top, he found his junior uncle, Cuixuzi, tinkering with a strange instrument made of bronze rings and disks.

"You're here?" Cuixuzi said, not turning his head.

"Uncle, what is this?" Qiu asked.

"An armillary sphere! For observing the stars."

"You know how to observe the stars, Uncle?"

"Not really. I’m just maintaining it so it doesn't break."

Qiu was speechless. He suddenly remembered the old man he had met the previous day, who had claimed his uncle had ascended to immortality. Curious, he asked, "Uncle, I heard people say you ascended seven years ago. What was that about?"

Cuixuzi paused, then laughed. "Though a thousand-year tree grows on the mountain, it is rare to meet a centenarian in the world. My master lived less than two cycles of sixty years; as a disciple, shouldn't I have ascended by then?"

Qiu was silenced. It made sense. His uncle’s master had lived to be over a hundred and ten; it would be embarrassing for the disciple to live any longer! Besides, with his own disciple already over eighty, he was likely just hiding in the palace for peace.

And so, Qiu spent his mornings practicing Dao and medicine with Master Cuixuzi, and his afternoons were free—just like in the Zhongnan Mountains. Master Cuixuzi was a master of both Dao and medicine; at a hundred and twenty years old, every word he spoke was filled with wisdom.

Autumn turned to winter, and then it was early spring. As Han Yu’s poem goes:
*The spring rain on the city streets is as fine as cream,*
*The grass is lush in the distance, but gone when you draw near.*
*This is the best time of the year,*
*Surpassing the misty willows that fill the imperial capital.*

The West Lake was stunning, and so was the beauty—a beauty that held Qiu’s gaze firmly.

The spring breeze, ignorant of human sentiment, stirred the heart of the young man.

Holding his horsetail whisk, Qiu followed the wedding procession in a daze. He didn't know why he was there, only that he needed to know if she was inside the sedan chair.

Lost in his stupor, he followed the crowd through the Qiantang Gate. Even the tax collectors ignored him—perhaps because there were too many people, or perhaps he looked like trouble.

The procession arrived at a grand mansion where the plaque read "Qin Residence." When the gatekeeper stopped him to ask for a gift, Qiu absentmindedly handed over the medical fee the Magistrate of Xiangyang had given him.