Journey to the West: The Immortal Clan Begins by Feeding Monkeys at Five Elements Mountain

Chapter 2 Your breathing is off.

For the next few days, things remained the same as before.

The sun still rises from the east as usual, and the sunset still spreads a red tapestry across the west.

But Jiang Ming seems to have a special connection with the back mountain; whenever he has free time, his feet itch to go there.

The steamed buns and fruit at home disappeared in a flash.

He openly chewed on it, but secretly slipped it into his pocket, and in the blink of an eye, he vanished as if he had grown wings.

Jiang Yi became suspicious and, taking advantage of the approaching dusk, secretly followed the small figure to find out what was going on.

Unfortunately, as soon as I stepped into the mountain pass, a fog rolled in, not too thick or too thin, just enough to obscure my vision.

The path in the woods was still there, but I had no clue where to turn.

After going around in circles, I finally found my way out, my shoes wet and covered in mud.

Standing at the foot of the mountain, Jiang Yi began to ponder the situation.

Perhaps, not just anyone can enter that mountain.

Only a child with a pure heart, free from any ulterior motives, can see the clues within.

Since that's the case, Jiang Yi will leave it at that.

Back home, he pretended not to know anything about it, even to his wife, and kept quiet about it.

The days passed by as usual, like the gentle breeze on the ridges of the fields and the wisps of smoke rising from the stove, drifting by leisurely.

After dinner, we rested for a while, and the yard was filled with the fresh scent of vegetable leaves.

As usual, Jiang Yi took out his brush, ink, paper, and inkstone and taught the two boys to read.

The ink was ground by Old Li's family in the village, and the paper was ordinary stuff, but under this dim light, it still exuded a sense of the passage of time.

The little hand holding the pen at the table was clumsy, like it was holding a disobedient feather duster.

The pen tip moved across the paper, crooked and uneven, like newly sprouted weeds growing on the edge of a field, scattered here and there, not a single one fitting properly.

But Jiang Yi looked at it with a smile in his eyes, as if those crooked characters were a fresher hope than the wheat seedlings in the field.

Learning to read has always been a somewhat tedious task.

Whether it's the scent of ink or the shadows of lamplight, nothing is more interesting to a child than the mud in the yard.

Before long, the youngest son, Jiang Liang, could sit still.

Her little body leaned back in the chair, her voice soft and sweet, as cloying as the rice porridge skin hanging on the edge of a pot:
"Dad! Stop writing, tell me a story instead..."

Her tone was a mix of coquetry and scheming; her small eyes darted around like beads on an abacus, she was incredibly shrewd.

The eldest son, Jiang Ming, remained silent, but quietly raised his head, a glint of light already hidden in his eyes.

Upon seeing this, a smile slowly spread across Jiang Yi's lips.

He put down his pen and called Liu Xiulian over. The four of them then sat down around the lamplight.

The wind couldn't blow the lamp away; instead, it added to the warmth.

He cleared his throat, as if to cleanse himself of the day's dust, and then began to speak.

"There was once a woodcutter who got lost while gathering firewood in the mountains. He came across two old men playing chess..."

The voice was neither too fast nor too slow, carrying a touch of rural simplicity and a hint of storytelling rhythm.

Telling one or two short stories every night has long been a routine for the Jiang family.

Jiang Yi, through his past and present lives, certainly had no shortage of idle gossip and strange tales.

But today, whether intentionally or unintentionally, I can't seem to escape the word "immortality" and the plot of "accidentally entering" the story.

Which woodcutter stumbled into the Peach Blossom Spring, only to find the world had changed when he turned back?
Which scholar strayed off course in the middle of the night and ended up receiving a secret technique from an immortal?

He spoke casually, as if he'd picked up a random topic from the roadside.

The younger one, still with his little hand on the edge of the table, was already snoring in his mother's arms halfway through the conversation.

A pen fell with a clatter, but it didn't wake me; a faint smile lingered on my lips, a smile I couldn't bear to part with even in my dreams.

But Jiang Ming was different.

His eyes grew brighter and brighter as he listened, as if they held a flame yet to be lit.

Jiang Yi saw this and his heart stirred slightly.

If this fire can truly burn into the mountains and illuminate something, then that can be considered a karmic connection.

However, he knew it clearly.

That mountain is most averse to those with obsessive thoughts, and most afraid of people entering with the word "seeking".

If you ask for it, it will hide it; if you forget about it, it will pull you back.

Therefore, he neither exposed it nor pressured him.

Just in this storytelling night, in this warm and gentle place of human warmth, gently and slowly, a seed is planted in the child's heart.

Seeds don't know what the outcome will be; just plant them and wait for them to sprout on their own.

If rare and exotic flowers and plants grow, it is naturally a matter of fate;

If it all turns out to be just an empty dream, then living a peaceful life, guarding this small plot of land and the people in this house, is not necessarily a bad thing.

Time always flows slowly and steadily, like water in a field, passing by day by day.

The autumnal equinox has passed in the blink of an eye.

The rice in the fields was ripe and golden, spreading out in waves with the wind, all the way to the foot of the mountain, shimmering in the sunlight. The two little ones, like the rice in the field, had grown taller in no time, their bodies having shot up quite a bit.

The eldest son, Jiang Ming, has passed the age of six and, when he stands still, he already shows signs of becoming a teenager.

Although he hadn't yet stopped speaking in a different tone, there was already a certain calmness in his eyes, and occasionally, he even resembled his father in his youth.

That afternoon, Liu Xiulian sewed shoe soles in the village and stepped into the doorway, her feet covered in dirt and dust.

Before the person even arrived, the sound of chatting entered the house first:
"You know, Xiao Bao isn't little anymore, shouldn't we send him to a private school to study?"

Jiang Yi was squatting in front of the stove turning over firewood. When he heard what she said, the piece of firewood in his hand paused for a moment, and he didn't say anything.

There is a private school in the village.

The teacher was an old scholar who had made a living outside the village in his younger years. As he got older, he returned to the village to retire and teach.

He can read and write, but his level is just so-so; he can't be considered a truly learned person.

Jiang Yi felt from the bottom of his heart that the old scholar's writing was probably not as detailed as his explanation.

However, his vast knowledge, mixed with past memories, contained some deeper truths that he couldn't easily reveal.

Furthermore, studying in a private school and learning to read and write is a natural part of life in this secular world.

We shouldn't let our child go astray so early.

After thinking it over, Jiang Yi carefully placed the piece of firewood down, stood up, clapped his hands, and nodded, which was his way of agreeing.

Sending a child to a private school requires some proper etiquette.

This is called "shuxiu".

To put it nicely, it's a gift; to put it bluntly, it's paying tuition.

Whether it's oil, salt, eggs, or a whole pig's leg, you have to show some appreciation.

Jiang Yi rummaged through the chicken coop and picked out a lively old hen.

Then, from the corner of the chicken coop, he took out about twenty round eggs and put them into the basket.

The chickens fluttered and clucked at the bottom of the basket, while the eggs clattered and rattled on top, making the basket lively.

The father and son then took the gift and went to the private school at the end of the village.

The old scholar was dozing in the sun when he heard a knock at the door. He looked up and saw eggs and chickens, then he saw a person.

Without hesitation, he pinched it, and his face beamed with a smile that made his wrinkles bloom:
"Tsk tsk, good apprentice, good tuition."

The disciple accepted it.

According to the village's old custom, in addition to this initial tuition fee, twenty catties of grain must be sent over every season thereafter as tuition fees.

After Jiang Yi returned, he didn't rest anymore.

The rice paddies are now a golden expanse, and when the wind blows, it creates waves of rice, like someone has spread gold leaf across the fields.

He shouldered his sickle and went to the fields without stopping.

Although the autumn sun is not harsh, it is still unforgiving, making people's skin feel tight.

Jiang Yi bent over, his arms rising and falling, slashing one blade after another.

According to past practice, once the rice harvest is finished, we should put down our work and take a break.

Let the land and people rest, let the soil that has been turned over for a season catch its breath, and let yourself loosen up your muscles and bones as well.

But Jiang Yi didn't take a break this year.

Immediately afterwards, bean sprouts were planted in the field.

Before the ground had cooled down and before people had a chance to rest, the hoes were already being turned over.

Jiang Yi isn't one to exploit the land, but with the family's resources at the moment, he really can't afford to be lazy.

Jiang Ming would run to the back mountain every few days. He became picky about food, and his appetite increased, causing the family's food reserves to be depleted rapidly.

In addition, the tuition fees for private schools added another expense, and things were quickly becoming tight.

Jiang Yi didn't say much, but he wielded the sickle and hoe with more agility than in previous years.

That afternoon, after finishing his work, he straightened up, put his hands on his knees, and panted heavily on the edge of the field.

Sweat trickled down his forehead, down his cheeks and neck, and into his clothes, mingling with the smell of mud and rice.

Just then, the sound of footsteps approached from afar.

When Jiang Ming came home from school, he walked carefully along the ridge of the field, holding a large, rough porcelain bowl in his hand, which contained cooled boiled water.

The child's steps were light, his face was a little tanned, but his eyes were still as bright as autumn water.

"Dad, drink water."

He tilted his head back and handed the bowl over.

Jiang Yi took it, tilted his head back and gulped it down. The cool water rushed down his throat, bringing a refreshing and invigorating feeling.

I let out a long breath and felt my waist relax a bit.

Just as he was about to smile and reach out to rub his son's head, he saw the child tilting his head back, his eyes bright, staring straight at him.

Then, the child suddenly spoke, his voice soft yet direct, revealing an indescribable earnestness within his childishness:

"Dad... your breathing isn't right."

(End of this chapter)