Chapter One: The Beginning

  In the deep mountains, in the village of the Ying family, smoke curled from the chimneys as dusk fell. The setting sun was still faintly visible, and five moons impatiently emerged in the sky.

  Middle-aged Ying the Carpenter paced back and forth restlessly in the courtyard. The midwife rushed out of the house to congratulate him:

  “Carpenter Ying, congratulations! It’s a big, healthy boy!”

  Ying hurried into the house and came to the edge of the kang bed. Seeing his exhausted wife and the swaddled baby beside her, his face lit up with joy.

  “This truly fulfills that auspicious divination I sought for a child. After years of prayers and offerings, with the blessings of our ancestors, the single bloodline of the Ying family finally bears fruit. Let’s name this child Ying Guo—Fruit of the Ying family.”

  Spring passed, autumn came…

  At the small Ying courtyard, the house was packed with relatives and neighbors who had come for the baby’s one-month celebration. A table overflowed with gifts like eggs, cured meat, corn, and dried vegetables. On the kang bed in the main hall were placed symbolic objects representing various professions—wooden knives, abacuses, books, and so on. Ying Mantang called toward the inner room:

  “Wife, bring the child out for the zhua zhou ritual!”

  A sturdy village woman carried Ying Guo to the kang and sat him in front of the objects. Little Ying Guo pointed to the book and looked up at Ying Mantang.

  Ying Mantang laughed and said, “Book.”

  Little Ying Guo followed suit in a tender voice: “Book~”

  Ying Mantang pointed at other items and named them one by one, and Ying Guo repeated each name after him.

  Those around were amazed and praised:

  “A child prodigy! Not even a year old and already learning to talk!”

  “Old Ying, your ancestors must be smiling down on you!”

  “Hey Ying Guo’s mother, how about we arrange a child marriage between him and my little girl?”

  Ying Mantang replied with a chuckle: “He started babbling before even turning a month old. Once we finish today’s feast, we’ll head to Ganye Temple to fulfill our vow.”

  Little Ying Guo crawled over to a book, hugging it with a happy grin as he looked around at the many faces.

  “This boy’s the reincarnation of the God of Literature, Old Ying!”

  “Looks like your boy loves books, Old Ying. He probably won’t follow in your carpentry footsteps.”

  “My son-in-law runs a scribe and book stall at the marketplace. Let Ying Guo start learning characters early—half price for village folk like you.”

  “Ying Guo’s mother, you’ve got a bright future ahead!”

  The courtyard echoed with laughter, cups clinked, and both guests and hosts enjoyed themselves.

  Chapter Two: Livelihood

  Time passed, six years later.

  Ying family village lay deep within the Ruoqi Mountain Range, which divided the Taiping Sea from the Eastern Plains. The western slopes, caressed by moist sea breezes, enjoyed long springs and short winters—an ideal climate. Ruoqi was a land of towering peaks and extreme temperature differences, teeming with rare flora. The eastern slopes, connecting to the dry Eastern Plains, stretched flat into grasslands and deserts. Ying family village lay in a valley along both banks of a river called Jiudeng.

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  One day, Ying Mantang took Ying Guo and the village hunter Tu Da upstream into the mountains along the Jiudeng River. As they walked, the three chatted merrily.

  Ying Guo asked, “Father, why are we going deep into the mountains along the river?”

  Ying Mantang replied, “Our workshop’s high-grade timber is nearly used up. We need to find a fine tree to cut and dry for future use. You and I can’t carry a whole tree, so we must cut it, trim the branches, and float it downstream.”

  Ying Guo asked, “Father, other carpenters fell trees and bamboo to build houses and sheds. Why do we just draw pictures and carve small trinkets?”

  Ying Mantang smiled and was about to respond, when Tu Da cut in:

  “Guozi, you really don’t know how lucky you are. Most carpenters do hard labor—building earns only a little money to feed the family. But your father’s fine carvings fetch good prices at the market. Whenever there’s a temple fair at Ganye Temple, even high monks and lamas place orders with him. Other people burn scrap wood as fuel; your family uses scraps to make incense. His craftsmanship is unmatched within a hundred miles.”

  Ying Mantang added: “Son, you’re gifted, and already skilled in our family’s art of painting and carving. If we find quality wood this time, I’ll teach you how to make incense using the scraps. I’m getting old, and my legs aren’t what they used to be. You’ll have to take over the family trade before long.”

  Tu Da chimed in, “Old Ying, don’t worry. Guozi’s a good kid. You’ll live a happy life yet.”

  They reached a shallow part of the river, crossed it, and set up camp near a boulder on a gravel bank. Ying Mantang pitched the tent, Ying Guo gathered firewood, and Tu Da went hunting. Half an hour later, Tu Da returned with a large fish. Ying Guo brought back firewood and wild greens. They cooked fish soup and, along with dry rations, had a hearty meal before resting early.

  In the middle of the night, Ying Guo woke up, added wood to the dying fire, and looked up at the star-filled sky. The five moons—some full, some gibbous, some waning—each in different phases—seemed strange to him. Though common, something about the moonlight always felt a little off, but he couldn’t quite explain why. A faint unease stirred in his heart...

  The next morning, the three packed up and continued upstream. As they went, they saw occasional signs of beasts, but with Tu Da’s hunting experience, they either detoured or killed the animals for food. Ying Mantang used the journey to teach Ying Guo about plants, occasionally gathering medicinal herbs. Every day, they gained something.

  After a month, the Jiudeng River grew narrower and shallower. There were more branches in the flow—this was near the source. The terrain steepened, vegetation thickened, and the ground was littered with stones and dry branches. Paths faded, and the three had to cut vines and underbrush to move forward. Their cloth shoes were in tatters. They used animal hides to wrap their feet and eventually made wooden clogs and hide wrappings.

  As they climbed a peak, they barely had time to admire the sea of clouds below before spotting, on a cliff of a nearby mountain, a dense, unmoving fog bank. Below the cliff, a winding stream flowed.

  Both Tu Da and Ying Mantang exclaimed at once:

  “Spiritual mist!”

  Seeing Ying Guo’s puzzled look, Ying Mantang explained:

  “Old trees and rare woods often develop spiritual energy. The mist formed around them doesn’t disperse easily—wind and rain can’t clear it. That fog there must hide some kind of sacred wood. We came looking for good timber and found a spiritual treasure.”

  Tu Da excitedly added: “I’ve only heard the elders speak of such mist—never thought I’d see it myself. This peak just happens to be the right height to spot it. Other peaks are too low or too high or blocked—no one else would see it. Old Ying, you struck gold! Don’t forget my share, eh?”

  “Of course,” Ying Mantang replied.

  They descended and gathered grass to make rope. That evening, by the firelight and moonlight, they began braiding the grass. By the next day, they were making coarse ropes and sharpening axes. They picked a lucky date for felling and spent days preparing.

  On the chosen day, they climbed the mountain and descended by rope into the misty cliff. Inside the fog stood a gnarled, mighty spruce with wide leaves. After offering incense and prayers, they chopped off a thick branch. The cut wood showed deep-to-light purple rings—it was Purple Spruce, a legendary wood.

  Ying Guo asked, “Father, since it’s such a rare spiritual wood, why not cut the whole thing?”

  Ying Mantang replied solemnly:

  “We must never forget heaven’s grace when blessed with sacred material. To overharvest is to destroy. Leave it living so it can benefit future generations. If this tree ever completes its spiritual cultivation, we won’t be guilty of cutting it short. If not, we’ll still have a place to harvest sacred wood again someday.”

  Ying Guo nodded seriously, “I understand, Father.”

  Ying Mantang then said to Tu Da:

  “This Purple Spruce branch will be split into three. Each of us gets a share. But such rare materials shouldn’t be flaunted. If it must be sold, we’ll discuss it and plan carefully—together.”