Taoist Temple in the City

Fang Jun recounted the whole scheme of fake online shopping reviews and kidnapping.

Many found the story too bizarre to believe.

Making money through fake reviews was understandable—plenty had heard of it before.

And the idea of being scammed through fake reviews? After some thought, that made sense too.

In fact, a few teams in the back were already planning to try their hand at fake reviews for profit.

If done right, maybe they could earn a few thousand like Fang Jun did.

Upon hearing this, Lin Mo could only smile to himself. Truthfully, it was just Ming’s little team that was foolish—too greedy, too reckless.

Those who truly aimed to scam you played the game of profit without investment, mixing real reviews with deception.

They’d let you earn a little first, all while sizing you up as a potential mark.

The greedier you were, the easier it was to fall into the trap.

But Fang Jun didn’t go into too much detail, so many believed they could pull it off too.

As for these people, Fang Jun didn’t bother dissuading them. Say too much, and they’d just think you were getting in their way.

So he simply kept quiet.

......

March 16th, Saturday.

A drizzling rain fell, the temperature barely twenty degrees.

In Yangcheng, the weather only knew two seasons—winter and summer.

Either you were plunging into summer, or you were still clinging to winter.

Spring and autumn had existed in earlier years, but as global warming worsened, they gradually vanished.

Though strictly speaking, Yangcheng was still lingering on winter’s tail.

An old saying in eastern Guangdong went: "Until you’ve eaten the Dragon Boat Festival’s zongzi, don’t put away your winter clothes."

There was still some truth to it now, but in another decade, even before the Dragon Boat Festival, the air conditioning would already be blasting.

Lin Mo stood in the bustling fabric market, crowds flowing around him.

Just ahead lay Zhongda University, a place of great reverence for the older generation of Yangcheng residents.

But today, Lin Mo’s destination wasn’t Zhongda, nor was he here to buy clothes or fabric.

He turned his gaze toward a Taoist temple nestled within the city.

It was hard to imagine such a place still existed amid the urban sprawl.

Lin Mo walked to the entrance. Though there were people coming and going, the crowd was nothing compared to the packed Buddhist temples nearby.

With a slight tilt of his head, Lin Mo read the temple’s name aloud.

"Chunyang Temple."

The name "Chunyang" was derived from the title of the Taoist immortal, Pure Yang Zhenren.

Of course, this Chunyang Temple wasn’t the only one in existence.

Lin Mo stepped inside.

He wasn’t particularly familiar with the temple’s history, but he figured he’d take a look around.

Unlike Buddhist temples, the incense here wasn’t thick in the air.

Even in the main hall, there were few devotees paying respects.

Most were just tourists passing through, occasionally clasping their hands in a Buddhist-style bow toward the statue of Pure Yang Zhenren.

Of course, that was a Buddhist gesture.

A proper Taoist greeting would be the ziwujue—a bow with the left hand over the right.

The more common version, seen in martial arts films, was the opposite—right over left—but that was actually a fighting stance.

Lin Mo entered the hall and performed a koushou bow.

His divine sense spread outward, but everything felt ordinary. Nothing out of the ordinary happened.

Even the Taoist priests here seemed like regular people.

Wait—there was one who stood out.

Lin Mo passed through the main hall. Behind Chunyang Temple lay a garden.

A cold wind rustled the leaves.

Beyond the garden, a small hexagonal pavilion came into view.

The pavilion had seen better days. Though its pillars had been repainted, the tiles above were covered in moss.

Inside stood a stone table and stools. On the left stool sat a figure, his back turned to Lin Mo.

The man wore a faded blue Taoist robe, old but neatly kept.

His hair was tied in a meticulous topknot, secured with a simple wooden hairpin. Not a strand of gray could be seen—thick, dark locks framed his head.

Lin Mo softened his steps, stopping a few paces outside the pavilion. He didn’t speak, simply observing the man in silence.

Five minutes passed, and still, Lin Mo said nothing.

He watched as the blindfolded Taoist moved black and white stones across the board with precision, despite the dark glasses covering his eyes.

Interesting.

Lin Mo walked over and took a seat.

He didn’t know how to play Go, had never learned.

So the board, nearly filled with stones, meant nothing to him.

Finally, after placing a white stone, the old Taoist stopped.

"My apologies for the wait," the Taoist sighed.

Lin Mo remained silent, his eyes on the board.

The old Taoist seemed to lack patience. He spoke again, "Esteemed senior, this humble priest has not offended you, has he?"

Only then did Lin Mo reply.

"No."

The Taoist relaxed—but then his brow furrowed behind his blindfold.

"Young? Impossible!"

Lin Mo continued, "Why impossible?"

"Young people are impatient, their edges unrefined. But you..."

"I’m seventeen."

The old Taoist paused. "Seventeen? Such composure... I am ashamed of my own lack of cultivation."

Lin Mo picked up a white stone, rolling it between his fingers. "Do you believe in immortality, Taoist?"

The old man shook his head.

"No. I cultivate truth—to discard the false and seek the genuine. That is true cultivation."

"Then tell me," Lin Mo said, "who in this land can cultivate immortality? Or who already has?"

The Taoist chuckled. "Young man, don’t believe such rumors. There is no path to immortality—just fiction meant to deceive."

"You read fiction, Taoist?"

Lin Mo didn’t press further. Instead, he said lightly, "In that case, tell me—where did your divine sense come from?"

As he spoke, Lin Mo’s divine sense surged like a tide, enveloping the old Taoist.

"Didn’t you know? Lying makes one grow red fur in old age, doomed to misfortune."

The once-calm Taoist paled in terror.

"This... this level of divine sense!"

He lashed out with a fist, but Lin Mo blocked it effortlessly.

The strike was only slightly stronger than what Lin Mo himself could muster after his first dose of Body-Strengthening Pills.

"Not bad for a hundred-and-twenty-three-year-old man. Still spry."

Lin Mo withdrew his oppressive divine sense, studying the blindfolded Taoist.

The old man’s composure was gone, replaced by grim tension.

"Who are you? Even the former Celestial Master of Longhu Mountain couldn’t wield divine sense like this."

The former Celestial Master of Longhu Mountain?

Lin Mo had barely exerted any pressure, yet the old Taoist had crumbled.

His ability to play Go blindfolded relied on a divine sense that barely extended a few meters.

Under Lin Mo’s suppression, even that had failed.

Before the Taoist could ask more, Lin Mo was already gone.

So this was humanity—ordinary, after all.

But perhaps this was just an exception. Lin Mo decided he’d visit Longhu Mountain during summer break.

These days, there was no true Celestial Master left there anyway.

Lin Mo pondered, had all the truly capable ones perished in that great battle?