Late spring in March, when grass grows tall and orioles take flight.
On the official road, a somewhat old but not yet decrepit carriage moved along unhurriedly, its wheels pressing into the moist soil, leaving shallow imprints.
Inside the carriage, Zhang Junrui felt like he was about to grow mold.
He, Zhang Sheng, courtesy name Junrui, was a poor scholar in his early twenties with dreams of "possessing knowledge vast as five carts and wealth rivaling the emperor's household," on his way to the imperial examinations in the capital. Put nicely, he was a potential stock with limitless prospects; put bluntly, he was nothing but a "poor nobody" with only his learning to his name.
It had been over a month since he left home, his travel funds gradually depleting, his buttocks nearly blistered from the bumpy ride, and the scenery before him had transformed from novel to monotonously green. He lifted the carriage curtain, and a breeze carrying flower fragrance mixed with earthy scents rushed in, instantly refreshing his spirits.
"Young master, we're approaching Hezhong Prefecture. That mountain ahead houses the famous Pujiu Temple, known for its flourishing incense offerings and beautiful scenery. Shall we head directly to the city, or...?" Old Li the carriage driver asked, looking back.
Zhang Sheng squinted at the majestic temple nestled among lush green woods in the distance, with its flying eaves and interlocking brackets, imposing in grandeur. "We won't go into the city," he pondered, then said, "This temple is tranquil, perfect for reviewing my studies. Let's stay there for a few days."
Mainly because inns in the city were too expensive.
The carriage turned and slowly ascended the mountain path, soon arriving at the entrance of Pujiu Temple. The monk greeting visitors, upon learning he was a scholar heading to the capital examinations, was quite courteous, leading him through several courtyards and arranging his stay in a quiet west wing guest room.
After settling in, Zhang Sheng strolled out of his room. Pujiu Temple truly lived up to its reputation—magnificent halls, solemn Buddha statues, and courtyards filled with exotic flowers and plants. He walked to a release-life pond, watching the koi fish leisurely swimming, feeling as if the weariness from days of travel was washed away by this serene atmosphere.
Just then, a faint sound of a woman weeping, accompanied by gentle words of comfort, came from behind a nearby Buddha hall.
Zhang Sheng's curiosity was piqued, and he looked toward the source of the sound.
He saw a group of handmaidens in plain clothes surrounding a woman dressed in mourning attire, slowly emerging from the side door of the Great Buddha Hall. The woman at the front, despite her simple hairpin and plain dress, with a sorrowful expression, could not conceal her breathtaking beauty.
Her figure was so delicate that it seemed a gust of wind could topple her; her skin was as white as snow, appearing almost translucent in the afternoon sunlight; her eyes, clear as autumn waters, now brimming with tears, resembled rain-dampened pear blossoms—pitifully beautiful, evoking tenderness in all who beheld her.
Who was she?
Zhang Sheng's heart skipped a beat in that instant.
He had read "Rhapsody on the Goddess of the Luo River," imagining the peerless beauty "graceful as a startled swan, elegant as a dancing dragon"; he had memorized the "Book of Songs," contemplating the fair maiden with "a charming smile and beautiful, glancing eyes." Yet this young lady before him made all words seem pale and powerless. She seemed not to belong to this mortal world, but rather to have stepped out from the pages of ancient poetry or the white spaces of a painting scroll—a banished immortal.
[Ding! Your heart has come online.]
A non-existent voice seemed to explode thunderously in his mind.
Zhang Sheng stood frozen in place, staring blankly at the procession, forgetting even to breathe. He felt as if his soul had been seized by an invisible hand, instantly leaving his body, floating along behind them.
The young lady seemed to sense this burning gaze, and instinctively glanced back.
Their eyes met.
In Zhang Sheng's world, time seemed to stand still.
A flash of surprise crossed the young lady's eyes, then she quickly lowered her gaze, a faint blush rising on her cheeks—that blush more captivating than the most gorgeous peony in the temple. She quickened her pace, almost fleeing into a separate courtyard nearby.
"Miss, please slow down." A pretty maid with double-loop buns supported her while casting a vigilant glare back at Zhang Sheng, her eyes seeming to say, "What are you looking at? Haven't you seen a beautiful woman before?"
Only then did Zhang Sheng awaken from his trance, realizing his impropriety. He awkwardly rubbed his nose, though his face burned intensely.
"Master Facong," he grabbed a passing young monk, pointing at that courtyard and asking with feigned casualness, "May I ask who resides in that courtyard?"
The young monk joined his palms and said: "Benefactor, those are the family members of the late Minister Cui. Lady Cui is escorting her daughter, son, and the minister's coffin back to Boling for burial. They are passing through and temporarily staying at our temple."
The former minister's daughter, Cui Yingying!
This name immediately surfaced in Zhang Sheng's mind. He had heard that Minister Cui had a beloved daughter named Yingying, not only possessing unparalleled beauty but also excelling in poetry and all literary arts. So it was her!
His heart beat faster.
An unprecedented impulse, like wild grass, grew frantically in his heart.
What fame and fortune, what academic honors—in the face of that fleeting glimpse just now, all became tasteless.
He turned and strode back to his west wing guest room. That small courtyard and Yingying's residence were separated by just one wall.
One wall between, two different worlds.
Zhang Sheng stood by the window, gazing toward the courtyard wall, his eyes burning with fierce flames.
He silently resolved.
I, Zhang Junrui, will stay at this Pujiu Temple. Not for scholarly achievement, not for worshipping Buddha, but only for that ethereal beauty from the painting.