The Little Immortal Troupe of Spirit Mountain

Mornings at the foot of Lingshan are always wrapped in the fresh fragrance of grass and trees.

A-Zhu, a young herb gatherer, had just rounded a bend in the mountain path when he spotted a little bundle curled up beside a boulder. The child looked only three or four years old, dressed in a faded little shirt. Their cheeks were soft and pale, but now their face was scrunched up like a steamed bun, tears clinging to their eyelashes. They had clearly fainted from hunger.

“Oh dear!” A-Zhu hurriedly set down his herb basket and carefully scooped the little one up. The child felt feather-light in his arms, like a leaf that had not yet dried. He was just about to run up the mountain to the temple when the little one in his arms suddenly smacked their lips and waved a tiny hand, grabbing the mugwort pinned to his lapel to ward off insects.

And with that, something miraculous happened.

The wilted mugwort suddenly sprouted a tiny green shoot. Even the nearby clumps of dandelions, which had seemed so unremarkable, burst open into fluffy white seed heads, as if someone had breathed a puff of immortal qi over them...