Bamboo shadows sweep the steps, yet the dust remains unmoved; the moon’s disc pierces the marsh, yet the water shows no trace.
Days on Tai Xu Mountain flowed by unhurriedly, passing through two springs and autumns.
If calculated by the time of the main world, it was only a few short hours.
But for Arthur, these were a solid seven hundred-plus sunrises and sunsets—two years of harvesting and replanting cabbage and pulling up radishes in the Vegetable Garden.
This morning, Arthur squatted by the edge of the Vegetable Garden, which had tripled in size, plucked a tender yellow cucumber with its flower still attached, wiped it on his sleeve, and took a crisp bite.
Refreshing, slightly sweet, with the coolness of the morning dew.
“Hmm, this batch of cucumbers grew well.” He nodded with satisfaction and plucked two more, planning to make a cold salad later.
The Vegetable Garden was no longer the small twenty-square-meter plot it once was.
To the east were seasonal vegetables, to the west were several rows of medicinal herbs, to the south were bamboo trellises covered in beans and loofahs, and to the north, he had carved out a special area for tomatoes and potatoes—seeds that were rare in this era and had cost him quite a lot of effort to obtain.
The Bamboo House had changed as well.
The originally simple house had been expanded into three rooms; it remained rustic, yet every corner reflected the care put into it.
The thatched roof had been replaced with more durable bamboo tiles, and the walls had been replastered with clay mixed with straw, keeping it warm in winter and cool in summer.
A string of wind chimes made from dried bamboo tubes hung before the window, tinkling whenever the mountain breeze blew by.
Beside the Quiet Chamber, Arthur had even tinkered together a small workshop filled with various self-made tools—improved hoes, more convenient watering cans, and even a simple set of woodworking tools.
As for that shower device, it had long since been upgraded to the third generation.
Now it could not only draw water through bamboo pipes but also featured a mobile “solar stove” made of thin stone slabs, which could warm the water on sunny days.
Though Fu Hua never said she needed it, Arthur noticed that on every clear day, the water in the device would always disappear a bit faster.
“Tsk, even immortals fear the cold,” Arthur thought at the time, stroking his chin, unable to suppress a bit of smugness.
how should he put it?
Great.
Unprecedentedly great.
The corporate slave life of his past life, the walking-on-thin-ice at Saint Freya in this life—all those days that required calculation, disguise, and bowing for a pittance had vanished on Tai Xu Mountain.
He woke up naturally every day—though usually around the hour of the Rabbit, as his biological clock had adapted.
He would get up to tend to the Vegetable Garden first, watching the seeds he planted with his own hands break through the soil, sprout, bloom, and bear fruit.
That sense of fulfillment was something no KPI could ever match.
Then he would practice his arts.
Yes, practice.
He had already reached the third stage of Taixu Sword Qi, Sword Intent.
His progress wasn’t fast, but his foundation was terrifyingly solid.
Perhaps his mindset was completely different now—at first, he practiced for missions and self-preservation, driven by sheer grit; now, practicing was as natural as breathing or eating, a part of his life in the mountains.
Afternoons were usually free time.
Sometimes he would go down the mountain to the small town thirty li away.
He’d buy necessities like salt, iron, and thread, and listen to the storytellers in the teahouses recount tales of the martial world and rumors from the imperial court. The source of this chapter is novelping(.)com.
Occasionally, he would scour the market for a couple of storybooks—mostly tales of scholars and beauties or fox spirits and ghosts.
The writing was crude, but they were enough for entertainment.
Most of the time, he stayed on the mountain.
He would test new recipes in the Bamboo House—scrambled eggs with tomatoes was now his specialty.
Although people of this era were afraid to touch the bright red fruit at first, Fu Hua silently finished an entire plate after tasting it once.
Or he would tinker around in the workshop, making little gadgets.
A while ago, he made a simple reclining chair and placed it under the old pine tree in front of the house.
Lying on it in the afternoon, watching the clouds drift and listening to the wind in the bamboo, he could nap for an entire afternoon.
There was also a regular monthly event: he and Fu Hua would pack up the surplus vegetables and mountain goods to sell down the mountain for some silver.
Though it wasn’t much, Arthur enjoyed the feeling of being self-sufficient with a surplus.
As for questions regarding cultivation, Fu Hua would always answer them.
But their relationship had long since exceeded that of a simple Master and disciple.
It was more like…
cohabiting roommates?
Or perhaps family members accustomed to each other?
Arthur couldn’t say for sure.
He only knew that now, when he made a new dish, Fu Hua would take the initiative to come and take a look; when he said “the sun is good today, the quilts should be aired,” she would silently bring out her own bedding as well; on rainy days, she would sit in the room and watch him tinker with his gadgets, occasionally asking, “What is this for?”