This place isn’t far from Baicheng. Taking another county road, it’s even closer than going to the mountain gate. The cemetery is divided into two sections. The outer section is older, unplanned, and looks extremely chaotic. There are stone tablets, white marble, and even some poor families who simply put up a wooden plaque, buying a palm-sized spot in a corner, which looks truly pitiful.

Inside is much better. The cemetery has uniformly built square bases, hollow in the middle for placing urns, all lined up in neat rows. A few years ago, this place was still empty, but now it’s filled with tombstones.

William Grant rode over on his bicycle, with a bamboo basket tied to the back seat containing joss paper and gold ingots. A plastic bag hung from the handlebars, holding incense, firecrackers, cigarettes, and alcohol. He parked his bike at the entrance, carried his things to the innermost area, and stopped in front of a tombstone.

A white tombstone, black characters, inscribed: The grave of Grandfather Charles Grant.

He took out three sticks of incense, his expression calm as he lit them and placed them in a small incense burner. The incense was nothing special, just made with care—simple, honest, and balanced.

He didn’t bring any fresh flowers or fruit, because there were scavengers everywhere. If they saw any pretty flowers, wine cups, or even offerings of melons, pears, or peaches, they would shamelessly steal them.

These days, even urns have become a new target for extortion.

Besides the three sticks of incense, he also lit a cigarette and placed it on the edge, then began burning joss paper. The government encourages civilized rituals, but such is tradition—if you don’t burn some joss paper when visiting a grave, the living always feel uneasy.

Two bundles of yellow paper, a bag of gold ingots, all caught fire easily, wisps of black smoke rising and gradually fading away in midair.

William Grant used a tree branch to gather the ashes while glancing around. This place is at the foot of Phoenix Mountain, separated by a brick wall. The eastern slope hasn’t been developed; all you see are jagged rocks, wild trees, and weeds, exuding a kind of raw, untamed energy.

It’s not the Qingming Festival, so there aren’t many people visiting graves.

Today is his grandfather’s death anniversary. He stayed for a long time, only leaving when the joss paper had burned to ash, then moved outside—there was another tombstone there, where his parents’ ashes were buried.

When he was very young, his parents went out to work. He didn’t know what they did, only that one day a fellow villager who went with them brought back word that there had been an accident, seven or eight people died, and his parents were among them.

After that, his grandfather raised him alone until he passed away a couple of years ago. His memories of his parents are actually quite faint, and he doesn’t feel much for them—just a touch of sadness and loneliness when he thinks of them occasionally.

William Grant burned some more joss paper for his parents, then, instead of going home, slung the bamboo basket on his back and circled around the cemetery, planning to go up the mountain to gather incense materials.

Phoenix Mountain is rich in resources, with many plants suitable for making incense. He was looking for a kind of round-leaf herb that blooms white flowers. Because its leaves look like dog paws, locals call it “dog paw grass.”

His grandfather had studied it for years and found that it had a slightly sweet taste and a mild nature. After processing, it could emit a very subtle, soothing scent, making it an excellent material for refreshing incense.

“Fweee!”

He put his thumb and index finger in his mouth and blew a sharp whistle, which sounded especially clear in the empty mountains and quiet woods. He walked a bit further and whistled again.

William Grant looked around but didn’t see his chubby companion. He figured maybe it was playing somewhere or just lazing in its den enjoying some alone time.

The eastern slope is quite wild and hard to traverse, but he was agile and moved as if on level ground.

Dog paw grass grew very densely, and he quickly filled a bamboo basket, picking some other incense materials along the way. The air here was better than on the north slope. While resting, he found a slab of bluestone to sit on, quietly meditating and feeling the spiritual energy of heaven and earth.

He was already very skilled at entering this meditative state.

As they say, “the mind is empty when there’s nothing in it; still when no thoughts arise.” Maybe because of his personality and experiences, he found himself well-suited to this state. Every time he came out of it, his mind was calm and focused, as if reborn.

“Hm?”

But this time was different. William Grant quickly opened his eyes, a look of doubt on his face. That faint ripple seemed to have grown a little stronger, but maybe not—it was so subtle he couldn’t be sure.

He frowned. Ever since he ate the red fruit, not only had there been no miracles, but everything had become even more confusing and chaotic, with no sense of order—he actually felt more at ease in his previous, ordinary life.

Cultivation, cultivation—it really does seem like a joke…

He sat on the bluestone, leaning on his arms, troubled. Occasionally, a breeze would rustle the leaves, sunlight struggling to filter through the dense forest. In the thin light, the grass grew lush, and butterflies flitted among the flowers.

Not far away, birds perched on branches, and a swarm of tiny insects floated by. These were midges, commonly called “no-see-ums,” notorious for their relentless summer attacks on humans—utterly annoying.

He’d already noticed those little pests and couldn’t be bothered with them. But unexpectedly, that small cloud of black mist drifted closer and closer, and only when it was right in front of him did it suddenly buzz and veer away.

“……”

William Grant blinked and instinctively pressed his pocket. No mistake—he had his insect repellent pills! Why were they becoming less and less effective?

He’d tested it before: animals with sensitive noses, like mice, would avoid him by five or six meters. Even those with less sensitive noses would keep a buffer of two or three meters.

But now, damn, they were flying right up to his face! He didn’t think there was a problem with his incense, so it had to be the midges—their resistance seemed to be getting stronger.

“Could it be that even no-see-ums can eat spiritual treasures of heaven and earth?”