Edward Clark glanced around; this could already be considered a state where worship had ceased to exist. For deities who relied on incense offerings, such a bleak scene was nearly one of demise. Even if a passerby happened upon this place, seeing its condition, they might not be willing to offer incense.

However, Edward Clark still entered, set the book basket on the ground, and sifted through a pile of incense sticks, picking out three that were still usable. He lit them with a firestone and placed them in the incense burner.

Even if the deity had already fallen, at least nominally, this temple still belonged to them. According to tradition, one could not stay without first paying respects.

“Passing scholar on a journey, seeking shelter for the night, may the deity not take offense.” Edward Clark silently recited in his heart, then, following the proper etiquette, slowly withdrew.

He gathered some dry grass to use as bedding, found some firewood in the old kitchen behind the temple, and used the grass to kindle a campfire. The crackling of burning wood mixed with the howling mountain wind outside the temple. Moonlight poured down at the entrance, a sheet of silver radiance mingling with the red glow of the fire, illuminating his face.

It was a kind of loneliness that involuntarily brought memories of his previous life, leaving him momentarily melancholy.

His offering of incense was merely a formality. Having survived a great calamity in his past life, all sorts of opportunities had arisen with it. If his memory served him right, three years from now, a poor scholar named Benjamin Harris would pass by this place, see the toppled deity statue, feel a sense of shared misfortune, and thus offer incense and write a memorial text here.

Unexpectedly, this would awaken the temple’s deity, who would then grant him fortune and luck, allowing him to pass the imperial exam as a xiucai. The story would spread as a local anecdote, becoming known throughout the county.

Now, he was merely taking advantage of foreknowledge, seizing an opportunity.

But as long as he achieved success, it would not be difficult to return the title of xiucai to that person later, making up for it then.

At that, he chose a section of intact wall, steadied himself, and began to write.

“A later scholar passes by on his journey, filled with emotion, and respectfully leaves this message:

The general was born in the previous dynasty, emerging from humble origins. When the emperor lost control of the realm and chaos broke out, the general campaigned north and south, repeatedly quelling rebellions. Fourteen years on the battlefield, yet the fortunes of the world must reach their end. Each follows their own virtue, thus came this defeat—not the fault of war. Now, though the deity has fallen, their spirit endures, bearing witness to the present. May you accept this offering!”

He wrote each character with full concentration, and in an unseen perspective, the writing seemed to emit faint white light. Whether it was an illusion or not, he felt as if a gaze was cast upon him.

In the underworld, in the corresponding space of this region, there stood a palace—ancient in design, solemn in atmosphere. Though more than half had collapsed, it was not completely ruined, and now, faint strands of power were flowing in, slowly repairing it.

Deep within the palace, on a jade bed of ice, a wisp of incense smoke carrying the memorial text descended.

An unknown being sensed this change, golden eyes opening in surprise: “Which scholar is writing a memorial in my temple?”

Yet the entire palace remained silent, the empty, desolate voice echoing through the great hall!

This being suddenly recalled—this was not the past; he had long lost his worshippers and fallen into slumber. Now, hearing the hollow echoes around him, he felt both sorrow and joy, and spoke no more.

In front of the temple wall, having finished writing the memorial, it should have been enough. But at the end, gazing at this forgotten shrine to a heroic spirit, Edward Clark was suddenly overcome by an indescribable feeling.

Such is the fate of this deity, and perhaps of mortals as well. Hence the saying, “Human life is but a guest passing through heaven and earth”—only mortals are unaware of it.

But a transmigrator cannot deceive himself—unless he completely denies his own origins.

Suddenly, he recalled a famous poem from Earth. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked up his brush, dipped it in ink, and composed a poem beside the memorial, murmuring softly.

“Before me, no ancients are seen;

Behind me, no followers come.”

This is from Chen Zi’ang’s “Song of Ascending the Youzhou Terrace” of the Tang dynasty, expressing the author’s frustration at his unfulfilled political ambitions. But at this moment, it resonated even more with the situation of this deity, and with his own identity as a transmigrator.

Edward Clark’s hand did not pause, the brush moving with vigor and strength, forming characters in the Yan style he brought from Earth, refined through his previous life into a unique style:

“Contemplating the vastness of heaven and earth,

Alone, my tears fall in sorrow!”

Having written this, a strange sadness enveloped him. He paused for a long time before adding, to the right of the text: “Song of Ascending the Ancient Wei Battlefield”

When he finished, Edward Clark looked at the writing, tears streaming down his face…

“Before me, no ancients are seen;

Behind me, no followers come.”

“Contemplating the vastness of heaven and earth,

Alone, my tears fall in sorrow!”

Who else but a transmigrator could so deeply feel this loneliness and lamentation across time and space?

At last, Edward Clark composed himself, turned to the campfire, took out a flatbread to eat, then slowly lay down, lips tightly pressed together from beginning to end.

The matter was done. Regardless of success or failure, tomorrow had its own arrangements. The timing was so urgent that Edward Clark could not afford to waste energy or emotion.

It was not heartlessness, but self-awareness.

Gradually, as Edward Clark fell asleep, the temple grew quiet. On the wall, the memorial text alone would have been enough, producing only a faint white mist tinged with red.

But from those mere twenty-two characters of poetry, a continuous stream of white energy emerged, as if the poem itself had gained some kind of enduring fortune.

In the end, the entire wall shone, streams of white radiance spreading out, the literary aura illuminating the temple hall. As time passed, it rapidly deepened, turning crimson, then orange-yellow, until finally it became pure gold and slowly subsided!

The campfire crackled and flickered for a while. A flash of spiritual light appeared on the deity statue, but then fell silent once more.