Chapter Twelve: The Legend of Mount Tai

Feng Yisheng touched his nose and wondered silently—was this some kind of supernatural ability he possessed? To sleep and wake up in a place he had always longed to visit. They say spring dreams leave no trace; though the dream seemed real, it lacked the tangible sensation he yearned for. Had he surrendered his seventeen years of virginity so easily?

He smiled again at the thought. The woman whose body carried the fragrance of peony—who could say which of them had lost more? She had no key, yet managed to enter his home on the fourth floor. How had she done it? And why did she leave? Where was she now? The lingering tightness he felt last night suggested she, too, had never experienced such intimacy before.

She had brought him to Mount Tai, but for what purpose? Was it merely a prank? Questions crowded Feng Yisheng’s mind, and the scent of peony still clung to him. It didn’t resemble perfume, but seemed natural, as if she herself exuded it—a pure, innate aroma.

Could it be her body’s fragrance? Feng Yisheng, an avid reader of countless web novels, had always scoffed at the trope of women possessing a natural scent. Unexpectedly, such an encounter had happened to him. And given her peony fragrance, she must not have been unattractive.

His first woman was someone who carried the scent of peonies—he considered himself fortunate. As for why she had chosen him, Feng Yisheng attributed it to his own handsome looks. Being handsome was a blessing! He chuckled internally, admitting to himself how shameless he was.

…

Feng Yisheng looked around, gazing up at the towering trees overhead. He muttered, “Youthful hearts are always full of dreams, but right now, I need to find a way out.”

He had long wished to climb Mount Tai, a famous peak he understood well. In the age of information, there’s nothing you can’t learn if you wish to. Most people, before traveling somewhere, would consult guides and strategies for the trip.

…

It was said that long, long ago, in the age of myth, when the world had just formed and heaven and earth split into two realms, there lived a giant named Pangu, whose existence spanned between heaven and earth. Each day, the sky grew taller by a yard, the earth thicker by a yard, and Pangu himself grew alongside them. Day after day, year after year, he lived supporting both sky and earth.

After an unimaginably long eighteen thousand years, the sky was high, the earth thick, and Pangu himself stood as tall as the gap between them. His breath became wind; the sound of his breathing turned into thunder. When his eyes blinked, blue flashes shot forth—these were lightning. When he was happy, the sky shone bright; when angry, it was shrouded in rain and gloom.

Perhaps because he felt lonely, Pangu began to age and finally died. When he fell, his head became the Eastern Mountain, his abdomen the Central Mountain, his left arm the Southern Mountain, his right arm the Northern Mountain, and his legs the Western Mountain. His eyes became the sun and moon, his hair transformed into the flora and trees, and his sweat became rivers.

Because Pangu created the world and all within it, he was revered as the ancestor of humanity. And since his head became Mount Tai, the mountain was called “the greatest under heaven.” Thus, Mount Tai became the foremost of the Five Sacred Mountains, attracting emperors who came to perform sacrificial rites.

…

Of course, this was myth; Feng Yisheng usually told it only to children under five. If told to older kids, they would retort, “You’re lying! You didn’t pay attention in class, you just want to fool us,” and mock him.

There was little he could do. In this modern, hyper-connected era, with media growing at a staggering pace, anything one wishes to know can be found instantly—strange videos, images, articles. This age is hard to define, and in some hands, the internet can be a dangerous weapon. Was there a shortage of online violence recently? Still, every tool is double-edged; it all depends on how people use it. The web has brought convenience and accessibility.

…

Feng Yisheng never aspired to be a paragon of virtue, but he often helped elderly people cross the street when he could.

…

After walking a few hundred meters, Feng Yisheng glanced around again. Trees stretched everywhere. He had no idea where he was on Mount Tai. If he hadn’t often looked up features of Mount Tai online, he might even doubt if this truly was the mountain.

If this was really Mount Tai, it was unbelievable—a thousand kilometers away from Changnan City. He found it hard to believe; unless he flew, for someone to cross such a distance overnight would sound absurd.

…

He looked up at the sun above the tall trees, dozens of meters high—it seemed to have just risen, so it must be early morning. He had no idea of the exact time, but he could wait for tourists to arrive; perhaps they could lead him out. Yet, he realized that tourists rarely ventured deep into Mount Tai. He ought to move toward the mountain’s edge, but he didn’t know whether he was deep inside or near the border. With trees everywhere, he couldn’t distinguish direction.

Which way should he go—forward, backward, left, or right? Alas, he was hopeless with directions. Feng Yisheng sighed. He often got lost even in unfamiliar cities despite using maps; here, he couldn’t even distinguish north, south, east, or west—only front, back, left, and right.

He was out of options.

With a resigned heart, Feng Yisheng wandered aimlessly until he came upon a stream, deciding to follow its course. If he kept going but failed to reach the mountain’s edge, he could retrace his steps; with luck, he’d meet tourists and be led out.

He was glad it was Saturday; when his parents woke and found him gone, they’d assume he’d gone out early with classmates and wouldn’t worry too much.

What Feng Yisheng hadn’t expected, however, was that from today, Mount Tai would be closed for half a month.