[Translation] I'm Not An Immortal (我不成仙) by Shi Jing (时镜): Chapter 002 — A New Grave in the Dragon Vein

 

The rain had passed.

The sky was an endless, brilliant blue without a single cloud, clear beyond measure.

At the foot of a cliff deep within a valley surrounded by mountains, a low new grave had appeared at some unknown time. The mound of loose earth rose to a sharp point, and before it stood a crude wooden marker with several carved characters upon it.

The air carried the fragrance of soil and fresh grass. Dewdrops hung from the dense branches overhead, occasionally slipping free and moistening the earth below.

The distant mountain ranges rolled in soft curves. A gentle breeze drifted through, carrying the sound of a shepherd boy’s flute.

Along with it came a strangely off-key singing voice.

The singing gradually drew nearer.

The one humming was a gaunt old man with a filthy face, broken straw sandals on his feet, ragged clothes hanging from his body, and a wine gourd tied at his waist.

In one hand he held a thin, battered bamboo staff; in the other, a chicken drumstick. His cheeks bulged as he gnawed on it happily.

“Chicken in the left hand, duck in the right…
Today I’ve got chicken legs, what’ll I eat tomorrow?”

He muttered indistinctly through mouthfuls of food, yet his movements never paused. Before long, the plump drumstick had been stripped clean, leaving only a bare bone without a trace of meat or grease.

Stopping in place, the old man raised the gleaming white bone and sighed dramatically.

“So hungry…”

“Burp.”

What followed immediately was a full-bellied belch.

The old man showed not the slightest embarrassment. He casually tossed the bone behind him onto the road and lifted the muddy hem of his tattered clothes to wipe his hands vigorously.

After cleaning his hands, he prepared to continue on his way. Yet just as he lowered his head, his nose twitched. He sniffed sharply several times, then frowned.

Where was that smell of blood coming from?

Faint though it was…

The old man’s expression instantly turned solemn. Peering carefully into the grass, he soon noticed something unusual.

He stepped forward and pushed aside a cluster of tall mugwort.

Amid the sea of green, he spotted a dark red stain.

At once, a strange pale-blue glow flickered within his pitch-black eyes.

The old man widened his eyes and tensed all over, looking around in every direction while muttering to himself:

“Mountains on all four sides… a gathering point of spiritual energy. A winding stream before it, returning beneath the moon…”

This was actually a place where heaven-and-earth spiritual energy converged. In mortal terms, it was a feng shui dragon vein.

The old man pinched his fingers together to calculate, then shook his head in confusion.

“Even the Great Divination Numbers can’t reveal anything. How strange.”

After wandering the mortal world for so many years, he had never encountered such an oddity before. Rather than feeling wary, he grew curious instead.

Following the dried traces of blood, he noticed broken patches within the weeds, as though someone had once passed through there.

Following the flattened trail, he continued onward.

Then suddenly, the view before him opened up.

The lush grass vanished, replaced by a low cliff.

The old man’s gaze fixed upon a certain point beneath it, and his brows knitted together once more.

It was a grave mound.

The earth was still fresh, marked only by scattered traces of rain. Clearly, the grave had been piled up just as the storm was ending.

The old man raised a brow and let out a surprised “Hm?” before leaping directly off the cliff.

Yet rather than breaking his bones, he landed steadily before the grave.

Upon the crude tombstone were deeply carved seal-script characters:

The Grave of My Wife, Xie Jianchou.

The old man stroked his scraggly beard and let out a snort of laughter for some unknown reason.

After glancing around and confirming no one was nearby, he formed a hand seal without hesitation. His filthy fingers snapped together, and immediately blue light burst forth like thunder igniting fire.

The radiance poured out like a waterfall and swept across the grave.

Whoosh—

The blue glow dissipated.

The loose soil atop the grave was swept away entirely. Even the coffin lid inside was lifted by an unseen gale and hurled aside.

Bright sunlight poured down.

Inside the coffin, fashioned from freshly split logs, lay a newly dead body.

A young woman.

Her eyelids were tightly shut, her brows still furrowed as though countless pains had remained unsaid before death. A dried bloodstain spread across her chest. The coarse cloth there had been pierced cleanly by some mortal blade.

“Tsk, tsk.”

Shaking his head, the old man paced around the coffin, muttering continuously under his breath.

“Well, your fate shouldn’t end here.”





Jianchou sat blankly inside the coffin, staring at the furious old man standing before her, still unable to process what had happened.

“O-Old sir… what did you just say?”

“Aiya, aiya, you’re going to anger this mountain hermit to death!”

The old man nearly exploded, frantically scratching the few hairs remaining on his head.

“I’ve already said it eight hundred times! I passed by this place, dug you out of your grave, and saved your life! Stop calling me ‘old sir’ all the time! I am Fudao Shanren—Fudao Shanren! Didn’t your parents teach you how to respect your elders?!”

“…I… I don’t have parents…”

Jianchou answered quietly.

The self-proclaimed “Fudao Shanren” froze with his mouth wide open, as though her single sentence had choked him half to death. His eyes bulged, and for a long time he could not say a word.

After quite a while, he suddenly began pounding his chest and stamping his feet.

“Serves you right for meddling! Serves you right for meddling! Since when was doing good deeds and saving lives something you should do?! Serves you right! Bet you won’t meddle again!”

Jianchou could not understand why this “Fudao Shanren,” who claimed to be her savior, had suddenly become enraged.

She only wanted to know what had happened.

Her mind felt numb and empty. Even the mountains, trees, and flowers around her seemed strangely unfamiliar.

Fragmented images flashed through her thoughts.

The farmhouse courtyard.

The stormy sky.

The rattling windows.

The umbrella emerging through the rain…

That was her husband—the man to whom she had entrusted her entire life.

Xie Buchen.

At last, Jianchou remembered.

She lowered her head toward her chest.

That sword hanging on the wall… he had personally thrust it into her burning heart.

Yet when she looked down now, there was no blood.

The wound no longer hurt at all.

It was as though that sword had never pierced her.

As though…

Xie Buchen had never killed her.

Yet the hole in her clothes still gaped open silently.

At that instant, it felt as though something stabbed her heart anew. Her face turned deathly pale, and her fingers trembled.

Every moment they had shared surged uncontrollably through her memory.

Beneath a tree thick with leaves, Xie Buchen hid within the shade, a scroll in hand as he softly read:

“The world has a beginning, which may be called the mother of the world…”

She had sat beneath the tree copying scriptures requested by Madam Xie.

Even the noisy cicadas could not disturb their quiet companionship…

…

In a narrow alleyway, Xie Buchen—hiding from enemies—looked utterly exhausted, barely able to stand.

She had supported his shoulder and helped him flee through the dark alleys. When they finally reached a dead end, Xie Buchen pulled her into a pile of firewood, covering them both with prickly straw…

Held tightly in his embrace, she had not dared make a sound…

…

On the day of their wedding, Xie Buchen had lifted her bridal veil with the ceremonial rod.

Jianchou still remembered the warmth of his smile.

It had shaken her heart more deeply than the red wedding candles beside them.

…

The flashing memories finally stopped upon the image of Xie Buchen’s sword-holding hand.

That was the hand whose shape she had traced in her heart thousands upon thousands of times.

The hand belonging to the man she had given her true heart to—the man to whom she had entrusted her entire life.

Yet it was that very hand which held the sword against her.

The sword stained with her blood.

Weren’t they husband and wife?

Overwhelming grief and hatred crashed into Jianchou’s reason in an instant.

She had ten thousand questions.

Why?

Why did he kill her?

They had shared hardship and joy alike.

She had even carried their child…

“One day as husband and wife means a hundred days of grace.”

Was that bond repaid only with a sword thrust?

Jianchou felt heat burning behind her eyes, as though scalding tears were trapped there.

Yet she could not cry.

Instead, she wanted to laugh.

To laugh loudly.

To laugh at how “a hundred days of grace” was nothing but empty words.

To laugh at how sincere devotion had flowed away like water, leaving everything meaningless in the end…

Her shoulders trembled uncontrollably as she laughed.

Mocking.

Desolate.

All her tears flowed inward instead.

Sitting within the damp coffin, she appeared even thinner and more fragile.

Around her lay scattered earth and flourishing green trees.

The world after the rain brimmed with life; everything thrived and grew.

Only her heart had turned to ashes.

Watching her like this, Fudao Shanren felt chills run down his spine.

“Y-you… you’re alright, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine.”

Once the laughter faded, her heart became utterly empty.

Instead, one sentence she had heard before losing consciousness continued echoing through her mind:

“You have severed your worldly ties, and your temperament is exceptional. One day, when you seek immortality and the Dao, there will surely be a place for you among the great powers who reach the heavens.”

Why had Xie Buchen killed her?

She had clearly died, been sealed inside a coffin, yet now she had revived without a single scar remaining…

Seek immortality and the Dao.

Did immortals truly exist in this world?

Subconsciously, Jianchou looked toward the old man—Fudao Shanren.

His beard was filthy, his eyes sly and shifty, and every inch of him practically screamed one word:

Shameless.

At that moment, his eyes darted around suspiciously while his hands moved without pause. From somewhere unknown he produced another chicken drumstick and stuffed it into his mouth.

“The world’s really gone downhill. Saving someone these days is like rescuing your own ancestor! Hah…”

“Shanren.”

Jianchou suddenly called out.

Fudao Shanren had been wholly absorbed in devouring the chicken leg. Hearing that elegant “Shanren” so suddenly made goosebumps erupt all over him, and he nearly flung the drumstick from his hand.

“What’s with suddenly calling me Shanren…”

“Shanren, are there immortals in this world?”

Jianchou’s voice carried a trace of lingering sorrow, scattered away by the wind.

“Immortals?”

Fudao Shanren was startled. The chicken leg finally dropped from his hand.

Pointing a greasy finger at Jianchou, he cried out:

“Y-you-you-how did you know I’m not human—ah no, not a mortal?!”

“…”

Why did this suddenly feel absurd?

Yet Jianchou could not laugh.

“Shanren,” she asked again, “are there immortals in this world?”

Fudao Shanren stared at her for a long moment before realizing she was not questioning his identity at all—she was genuinely asking.

It was he himself who had overreacted.

How embarrassing.

He coughed solemnly.

“There are… supposedly. But those are stories from thousands of years ago…”

As he spoke, he bent down to retrieve the fallen chicken leg, wiped it vigorously, and stuffed it back into his mouth without the slightest disgust.

Mouth full, he muttered:

“What? Don’t tell me you also want to seek immortality and live forever?”

Seek immortality.

Live forever.

No.

Jianchou braced herself against the rough edge of the coffin carved from a tree trunk. Tiny splinters dug into her palms, but she paid them no mind as she slowly rose to her feet.

Her slender, almost fragile body stood perfectly straight.

The sky was brilliantly blue.

Her gaze drifted across that boundless expanse as she quietly said:

“I do not want to seek immortality. Nor do I desire eternal life. I only want to ask one question—

Why?”


Chapter 003 — The Mountain Hermit

From the book: I Won’t Become an Immortal

To be honest, Jianchou’s words startled Fudao Shanren.

From the immortal sects of the Nineteen Continents to isolated mortal islands, he had seen all kinds of people who wished to seek immortality and the Dao.

Some coveted the heaven-shattering power of immortals and longed for strength.

Some were growing old and nearing death, unwilling to part with worldly desires, and thus sought eternal life.

Others pondered the cycles of Heaven’s Dao yet could not understand why the Dao operated as it did, eventually becoming trapped in endless contemplation and stepping onto the path of immortality…

Fudao Shanren had heard every kind of reason imaginable.

But something so simple and yet so strange—this was the first time.

Licking the last traces of meat from the chicken bone, Fudao Shanren looked rather reluctant to part with it as he asked Jianchou:

“What do you mean, ‘why’?”

Jianchou had already risen to her feet. Carefully lifting the hem of her cloth skirt, she stepped onto the slightly damp earth.

She climbed out of the coffin and stood before Fudao Shanren. Hearing his question, her expression dimmed.

Family shame should not be spread abroad.

Jianchou did not wish to speak of Xie Buchen.

But then again, what did it matter now?

The moment he thrust out that sword, all ties between them had already been severed.

“My husband likely went off to seek immortality and the Dao. I only wish to find him and ask him one thing—

Why did he kill me?”

“What?!”

Fudao Shanren nearly choked to death on a chicken bone lodged in his throat.

“Your husband killed you?”

“Yes.”

A trace of tears seemed to flash briefly in Jianchou’s bright eyes before drying away.

“Even Shanren finds it hard to believe?”

“…No…”

If an ordinary person heard such a thing, they would surely cry out in disbelief. Yet after his initial shock, Fudao Shanren instead shook his head.

He narrowed his eyes slightly while looking Jianchou up and down.

“I don’t know whether immortals truly exist, but there are indeed many who cultivate and seek the Dao. To pursue immortality and comprehend the truths of heaven and earth, one must extinguish worldly attachments and sever mortal ties. Thus there is a saying—

‘Sever worldly bonds.’”

Sever worldly bonds?

Jianchou vaguely sensed what Fudao Shanren was implying.

“You mean…”

“When a person has no attachments, abandons desire, and devotes themselves wholly to the Dao, only then may they achieve the Great Dao. Therefore, cultivators usually wait until their worldly ties are naturally severed before focusing entirely on cultivation. Most cultivators live far longer than mortals. By the time their mortal family and loved ones have all passed on, those ties naturally disappear.”

At this point, a strange brilliance seemed to appear upon Fudao Shanren’s face. For the first time, he resembled an immortal sage rather than a beggar.

He pointed at Jianchou.

“But there are extreme individuals—people too impatient to wait through decades of time. Such people may resort to extraordinary methods.

“You said your husband went to seek immortality and then killed you. He was likely one of those people.”

To seek the Dao by killing one’s wife?

How cold-blooded.

Jianchou almost laughed upon hearing it.

“And Heaven still permits such cruel and heartless people to become immortals?”

“No. Heaven and Earth are impartial; the Heavenly Dao is emotionless.”

Fudao Shanren lightly tapped the ground with his bamboo staff, both hands resting upon it as he looked at her with interest.

“It is like how I regard you now—you are merely some unrelated wild girl. Today, I saved you because fate brought us together; it was Heaven’s will. But if I had simply walked past today, there would have been no connection between us at all.

“To Heaven and Earth, cultivators are no different from you and me passing one another on the road.”

To Jianchou, such ideas were far too profound.

She could not understand them.

Just as before, she only wished to ask Xie Buchen one question:

Why?

Could the bond between husband and wife—companions through hardship and suffering—truly be so fragile before the promise of immortality?

A soft, bitter laugh escaped her.

Jianchou bowed deeply to Fudao Shanren.

“I know well that I should already have crossed into the Yellow Springs today. It was Shanren who dragged me back from the gates of death. Such life-saving kindness is equal to giving me a second life. Yet I truly have no way to repay you—”

“With your body?”

Fudao Shanren’s eyes lit up instantly. Leaning forward eagerly, he looked at Jianchou with anticipation.

The old beggar who had just spoken grandly of “Heavenly Dao and righteousness” now had the word lecherous written all over his face once again.

“…”

At once, every grateful and heartfelt word Jianchou had intended to say became lodged in her throat.

She had already sensed that this Fudao Shanren was hardly reliable, but she had never expected him to say something so shameless outright.

After hesitating for quite a while, she finally forced out an awkward smile.

“Shanren jests…”

So that meant rejection.

The light in Fudao Shanren’s eyes immediately dimmed. He sighed dramatically in disappointment.

“The world truly has changed. People’s hearts are no longer what they once were… Shanren here went through so much trouble to save you…”

Jianchou silently thought that yes, the world truly had changed.

People nowadays repaid kindness by demanding repayment—and even that kind of repayment?

Wasn’t it said that cultivators were supposed to sever emotions and desires?

Clearly, no one was going to answer Jianchou’s confusion.

Seeing that Jianchou still showed no reaction, Fudao Shanren awkwardly rubbed his nose. His old face could not quite maintain dignity, so he coughed and changed the subject.

“Uh… anyway, now that you’re fine, what do you plan to do next?”

What did she plan to do?

The first thing Jianchou thought of was still Xie Buchen.

The next was the little farmhouse courtyard they had lived in for only a few months.

Lowering her head, she smiled faintly.

“I want to go home and take a look.”

Home.

Could that still be called home?

Even Jianchou did not know what awaited her there.

She looked up toward the cliff above.

Fudao Shanren explained:

“I came from up there when I found you. There were bloodstains and flattened grass along the way. Whoever buried you probably came from that direction too.”

Whoever buried her?

Hearing this, Jianchou suddenly remembered something and turned toward the pit.

The damp wooden coffin still lay within it. Beneath it spread a glaring patch of dried blood. Nearby, a wooden plaque had toppled onto the ground.

Her gravestone.

Jianchou walked over, crouched down, and turned it over.

Though stained with dirt, she still recognized the handwriting instantly.

It was Xie Buchen’s.

The Grave of My Wife, Xie Jianchou.

Ha.

There could hardly be anything more ironic.

Xie Jianchou?

No.

She no longer bore the surname Xie, nor was she Xie Buchen’s wife anymore.

She had a given name but no family name.

No father. No mother.

Only a drifting duckweed rootless beneath heaven and earth.

“Killed you, yet still buried you… I wonder whether this fellow truly severed his worldly ties or not…”

Behind her came Fudao Shanren’s muffled voice, accompanied by loud smacking sounds.

Without turning around, Jianchou knew he had started eating chicken legs again.

She straightened up and gave the gravestone one final look before turning back to him.

Sure enough, he was chewing away happily.

Unable to stop herself, she finally asked:

“Shanren, where exactly do these chicken legs come from?”

“This?”

Fudao Shanren’s eyes rolled mischievously as he glanced at the drumstick in his hand.

“You want some too? I’m not giving you any!”

The moment he finished speaking, he opened his mouth wide and swallowed the entire chicken leg whole in one bite.

“Gulp.”

It slid straight into his stomach.

Fudao Shanren looked at Jianchou triumphantly.

At last, the corner of Jianchou’s mouth twitched.

“How have you not choked to death yet?”

“You!”

Fudao Shanren stared at her as though he had seen a ghost.

“What did you just say?”

Jianchou turned to look at the cliffside.

The yellow earth had been soaked by rain, staining the exposed black stone beneath. Several ancient trees rooted themselves within cracks in the rock, their trunks twisted and sturdy.

The cliff was not high. On the left side, a sloping path covered in weeds appeared passable.

As though she had said nothing offensive at all, Jianchou calmly walked toward the slope.

“Did I say anything?”

Fudao Shanren puffed up his eyes and hurried after her.

“You said, ‘How have you not choked to death yet?’ I’m your lifesaver! How can you say something like that to me?!”

“I never wanted your chicken leg.”

Jianchou had merely been curious earlier and tried to speak to him seriously. Yet somehow their conversations always drifted onto entirely different paths. At last, she had lost patience and spoken bluntly.

“I was only asking why you didn’t choke to death.”

“That tone is definitely wrong!”

Fudao Shanren grew even more indignant, stamping his feet.

“I possess cultivation that reaches the heavens! How could I possibly choke on some tiny chicken leg? I already told you I’m Shanren! How could you ask such a foolish question?”

Jianchou had already stepped onto the slope, which proved rather steep.

She had to climb carefully to avoid falling, leaving her in no mood to deal with Fudao Shanren. Gritting her teeth, she continued upward.

Unlike her, Fudao Shanren walked as though on level ground.

As he followed beside her, poking at weeds with his broken bamboo staff, he continued complaining loudly.

“Do you know how much effort it took to save you? Cultivators’ spiritual power doesn’t just fall from the sky! I’ve saved so many people, and someone as ungrateful as you is only the three hundred and sixty-seventh I’ve ever met!”

At last Jianchou could not help stopping. Turning around seriously, she asked:

“Shanren, how many people have you saved?”

“Well… let me count…”

Fudao Shanren quickly calculated on his fingers before answering:

“Including you, three hundred and sixty-eight.”

“Oh. Then how many were ungrateful?”

“Three hundred and sixty-seven.”

His voice carried indescribable grief and indignation.

“Oh…”

Jianchou suddenly understood.

“So in the end, only one person wasn’t ungrateful? That’s wonderful.

“I’ll be the second.”

“Hm?”

Fudao Shanren looked at her in surprise.

The second person who wasn’t ungrateful.

Jianchou did not explain.

Her pale complexion had become flushed with a sickly redness from the strain of climbing. She merely forced a faint smile before turning around and continuing onward.

The weeds along the path were thick, occasionally slicing the skin on her hands as she pushed through them.

Her brows gradually furrowed.

Fudao Shanren walked beside her, carefully observing her.

For some reason, the usually noisy old man had fallen silent.

Jianchou did not notice.

She only thought that the slope did not seem very long…

With one final effort, she climbed to the top.

At once, the world before her opened wide.

Grass spread out like a green carpet. Dense trees stood in the distance, and a broad road wound through the forest toward the far-off mountains.

The sky was nearing dusk and gradually darkening. Thin curls of cooking smoke rose from the small village nestled among the hills.

Jianchou thought to herself:

She had climbed back from the underworld into the mortal realm.

Below the cliff, everything had seemed foreign. But now that she stood above it, she immediately recognized the nearby village as the place she once called home.

And with that realization, a flood of unanswered questions surged into her heart.

Was Xie Buchen still there?

After burying her, where had he gone?

Did the villagers know she had died?

And what about the house?

Was it still the same as before?