Not a Lifesaver

North Jambudvipa, Guguayting.

A brand-new temple stood in this land of winding streams and maple forests, where late autumn painted everything in shades of gold.

Its roof was a deep red, its pillars a vivid yellow.

Carved dragons and painted phoenixes adorned the vermilion gates.

Before the gates sat majestic stone beasts, while inside, a divine statue—half stern, half merciful—raised a stone whip as if to strike.

Further in, within the outer courtyard, stood a massive incense burner carved with nine coiled dragons, their claws bared and eyes spirited.

This burner, as large as a door, was now packed solid with incense, leaving hardly any gap.

And in this shrine, there were seven such cauldrons, each equally full.

Incense smoke drifted upward, mingling with the clamor of voices.

Countless prayers converged in the noise.

The main hall’s bells chimed crisply.

The temple grounds were vast, packed with devotees holding smoldering incense sticks.

Embers and ash fell, burning hot, yet even though the incense urns were too full to fit another stick, some worshippers still pressed their wishes into the flames, enduring the scorching heat.

The main hall’s doors stood wide open. The statue atop the high seat was majestic, its eyes tilting downward, clad in finely painted battle armor, with a long sword resting at its side.

At first glance, it seemed human, but upon closer inspection, it merely resembled one.

Beside the statue stood an elderly man in plain hemp robes. His hands were somewhat withered, clutching a ladle as he stood before a massive crimson cauldron. From the pot came a faint, nauseating stench.

“When the incense is steady, the heart must be sincere,” the old man intoned, his voice rich with emotion and oddly melodic. “Today, Lord Zijun blesses Guguayting, granting divine favor.”

“A wisp of incense, a ladle of grace.”

“For the ill, healing; for the healthy, protection from calamity.”

“The divine miracle comes as the god is present; devotion brings peace.”

The old man’s gaze swept over the devotees who had already offered incense and now stood nearby, clutching bowls of all kinds, their eyes full of hope.

Many had exposed their arms, blistered from the hot incense, as if to display their fearless devotion.

But it mattered little to Lord Zijun, and it mattered little to the old man.

He dipped the ladle into the cauldron, scooping the faintly red water, and poured it into the offered bowls—about three sips per serving.

His mouth repeated the same words while his hands moved without pause.

Some drank the water on the spot, then bowed with refreshed expressions before leaving.

Others took it cautiously, clutching their bowls of blessed water with gratitude and relief, as if they’d narrowly escaped some danger.

This water had healed the dying.

This water had eased the suffering of the gravely ill.

One bowl of it was worth a century-old pharmacy.

A stick of incense was cheaper than medicine, yet more effective.

Lord Zijun—a new god of unknown origin—had first taken root here with nothing but a bowl of talisman water, in the heart of a central area where news and people flowed freely.

He had built a grand temple and gathered a faithful flock.

The old man’s ladle suddenly stopped its rhythm, and his repetitive chanting paused. His gaze fixed on a youth in tattered clothes, holding a broken bowl, face covered in grime and soot—so filthy he was indistinguishable as male or female. He appeared to be about fifteen.

A pungent stench seemed to have seeped into his very skin.

The youth kept his head down, raising his bowl.

“This is before Lord Zijun,” the old man said, raising his ladle, though he did not pour the remaining talisman water into the bowl—which, though washed, was still stained.

The youth raised the bowl higher, trying to lower his voice, but the anxiety crept through. “I… my heart is sincere.”

The old man narrowed his eyes. The voice, though forced deep and practiced—enough to fool most people—still betrayed a subtle quality to him. The youth before him was unmistakably a girl.

But whether male or female made no difference to him.

The old man’s tone remained gentle, with a hint of curiosity. “Sincere heart, but no incense?”

The girl’s hands trembled, clutching the broken bowl, but she didn’t lower it.

The old man reached out, grabbed her thin arm, and pulled her behind him.

She had no strength to resist and stumbled backward, but he steadied her. Then he gently pushed her away, his voice turning cold.

“Since you claim sincerity, I’ll let it slide this time. You know the rules. Leave quickly.”

The girl steadied herself, panic crossing her face. She was about to speak when she felt something damp under her fingertips in the bowl. She paused, looking down. Somehow, two sips’ worth of talisman water had appeared in the bowl.

She looked up, but the old man had already turned back to distributing the water.

Her gaze shifted to the statue of Lord Zijun, so unlike a human, and something shimmered in her eyes. But she quickly lowered her head, shielding the bowl with her hand so no one could see, and slipped through the crowd, bent low.

The old man listened to her retreating steps and a faint smile curled at the corner of his lips.

A gift on prosperous days was nothing compared to fuel in snow.

He didn’t care who needed the water or for whom. One day, this girl would prove useful.

A temple without deep roots didn’t rely on these desperate devotees alone.

What mattered most were the exceptional ones—the lost souls saved by singular acts of grace.

When storms of blood and conflict came, this girl would surely step forward to defend some wretched rat or spirit.

The old man resumed ladling smoothly, his lips reciting the worn-out words. The angle of the ladle was perfect, pouring just the right amount of water.

Leakwater Alley: Guguayting’s most notorious slum.

Crooked, crumbling houses huddled together in a low-lying area. After a heavy rain, the place reeked of filth and rot, streets covered in grime. The paths had turned pitch-black over the years, leading locals to joke they were paved with layers of ancient dirt and mire.

A figure hunched over, clutching a bowl to her chest, stumbled into the alley.

The girl who had procured the talisman water pushed open a door that seemed ready to collapse. She peered into the pitch-black room, feeling her way to a broken bed in practiced steps. Her hand found the thin form lying there.

“Little sister… I brought it,” the girl’s voice cracked with excitement. “Come, listen to your sister. Take this medicine, and you’ll get better. Then you can go into the water and catch fish and shrimp for me again.”

“Mm…” came a weak, soft reply from the bed.

The girl helped her sister sit up, then pressed the bowl to her lips.

The little sister raised her head, forcing her eyes open. Seeing the boundless hope in her sister’s gaze, she asked nothing and simply brought her lips to the bowl.

“Sigh…”

A helpless male voice came from the doorway.

Both of them froze, turning wary and angry eyes toward the entrance.

A young man in splendid robes stood outside, peering into the darkness with eyes that seemed to see everything inside clearly, his gaze fixed straight on them.

He clasped his hands and sighed, speaking with a hint of resignation.

"We just agreed not to make decisions on our own and to discuss things first. Now look what's happened—just a glance outside, and it's almost over."

The man first muttered to himself, then his expression turned serious and he said,

"That water isn't life-saving."

"Drink it, and you'll die."