27: Distributing porridge on Laba Festival brings blessings to the villagers.

The eighth day of the twelfth lunar month, at the end of the Yin Hour.

When Li Muchen pushed open the hall doors, a thick mountain mist hung in the air. White frost clung to the branches of the ancient cypress tree, reflecting tiny silver glints in the brightening dawn. Steam curled from the mouth of the Spirit Well, creating illusory rainbow shadows where it met the cold mist.

He stood before the steps, his breath forming clouds in the air.

It was Laba.

In the memories of his past life, this day was a time for temples and monasteries to distribute porridge, and for the common folk to boil mixed grains. In this life, deep within Yuntai Mountain, half a year had passed like a white horse leaping across a crevice—from the initial bewilderment upon arriving at the desolate mountain, to the perseverance after the System's activation, and now to his successful Foundation Establishment and the Daoist temple finally taking shape. This path had been lonely, yet it was not entirely without warmth.

The simple faces of Zhaojiaao Village at the foot of the mountain gradually surfaced in his mind: Zhao Desheng, who brought mountain produce; Second Aunt Li, who sought medicine for her grandson; and those villagers who, though they said little, came every month to offer incense. Their trust and offerings were like a stream moistening parched land, allowing him to take root in this small Daoist temple.

Cultivation emphasizes Karma and destiny, but it also values accumulating merit through worldly involvement. Since he had received their incense, it was only right to give something back.

“I shall brew a pot of Laba porridge then,” he murmured to himself.

It would fulfill his neighborly obligations and serve as an act of charity. By adding a few spiritual ingredients to the porridge, he could silently improve the villagers' Physique, resolve a portion of Karma, and accumulate blessings for the temple.

After the morning lessons, he called for Zhao Desheng.

Upon hearing that the Abbot intended to distribute porridge, the honest man was first stunned, and then his eyes actually turned a bit red: “Abbot... this, how can we allow this! You have already shown us so much kindness; we cannot trouble you further...”

“It is no matter,” Li Muchen waved his hand. “Sharing porridge on Laba is also a form of cultivation. However, the temple is short on grain and needs the villagers' help.”

“Rest assured!” Zhao Desheng patted his chest, his voice booming like a bell. “I’ll head down the mountain right now to spread the word! I’ll make sure everyone brings their best grain!”

With that, he turned and left, his pace so hurried he nearly tripped.

The news spread through the hollow like a spring breeze.

Before noon, figures could already be seen flickering on the mountain path. The villagers of Zhaojiaao Village and the nearby mountain hamlets, hearing that Daoist Master Li was going to distribute porridge, all began rummaging through their stores.

“Quick! Pack that bag of new millet!”

“Mother, the red beans are at the bottom of the cabinet, and there’s half a bag of peanuts!”

“Dates! There’s still a basket of dates!”

“My family has Job’s tears!”

“I’ll go to town to buy lotus seeds!”

Every household brought out the treasures they had hidden away. Freshly harvested rice, aged beans, dried red dates, plump peanuts... each portion was small, but together they formed a small mountain. Young men carried sacks on their backs, women held bamboo baskets, and children cradled clay jars, climbing the mountain in an endless stream.

In the temple courtyard, various grains were piled into small mounds, covered with clean burlap. Red beans were as bright as agate, mung beans as green as emeralds, red dates were round, and lotus seeds were pure white, with chestnuts, longans, Job’s tears, and glutinous rice mixed among them, glowing warmly under the winter sun.

The villagers stayed to help of their own accord. They hauled the largest iron pot and stove from the village and set them up in the open space before the temple. Some carried water, some chopped wood, some washed rice, and some peeled shells; everyone was nimble and quick, their faces bright with smiles. Usually, they held Li Muchen in great awe, but because of this 'grand event,' the atmosphere became lively, and their low conversations were filled with anticipation.

Li Muchen did not say much, only controlling the key steps.

The water for the porridge was taken from the freshest layer of the Spirit Well, clear and sweet, faintly exuding Spiritual Qi. The grains and beans were washed three times by the most careful women until every grain was distinct. He stood by the pot personally, and when the water boiled, he added the ingredients one by one according to the order of the Five Elements—beans first, then rice; hard ingredients first, then soft—secretly aligning with the principles of the world's growth.

The long-handled wooden spoon in his hand was like a brush moving in calligraphy, stirring with its own rhythm. A trace of extremely faint Wood-attribute True Essence, mixed with the clear light of Karma, was quietly channeled in as he stirred. The True Essence acted as a catalyst to bring out the essence of the ingredients, while the Karma acted as a harmonizer, removing heat and adding blessings.

That was not enough.

While no one was looking, he took three items from his sleeve:

[A small pinch of Low Grade Spirit Rice]—the grains were as translucent as shattered jade, containing a faint Spiritual Qi.

[A bit of Qi-Boosting Grass powder]—its medicinal properties were as gentle as a spring breeze.

[A few tender leaves of heart-clearing grass]—green as jade, peaceful and soul-soothing.

The Spirit Rice was mixed with the ordinary rice, and the grass powder and tender leaves were sprinkled in while stirring. The amounts were tiny, and when mixed into the vast quantity of grains, the effects would be diluted until they were nearly undetectable. However, for the villagers who worked all year round and suffered from hidden ailments, this bowl of porridge would be like a light rain on parched land, silently nourishing their foundations.

The firewood crackled, and a bubbling sound gradually rose from the iron pot.

Initially, it was the sound of boiling water, followed by the tumbling of beans and rice, which gradually melded into a thick fragrance. The rice aroma was rich, the bean scent steady, and the date fragrance sweet, with the unique peaceful scent of heart-clearing grass interwoven between them. Steam billowed up, condensing into white mist in the air, and within the mist, a faint golden halo flickered—a sign of the fusion of Karma and Spiritual Qi.

The villagers who were helping all stopped their work and took deep breaths.

“It smells... it smells incredibly good!”

“Just smelling this makes my whole body feel comfortable!”

“The porridge brewed by Daoist Master Li must have the flavor of the immortals!”

The porridge simmered for three full hours.

From the first light of dawn until the sun was high in the sky, the porridge thickened, the rice grains bloomed like lotuses, the beans softened into a paste, and the red dates and longans melted into an amber syrup. The essences of various ingredients blended together, the surface of the porridge took on a warm luster, and the thick fragrance wafted beyond the temple gates.

By now, the queue on the mountain path had stretched into a long dragon.

The elderly and the young arrived, carrying bowls and basins. Almost the entire Zhaojiaao Village had come out, and most of the neighboring mountain villages were there as well. Everyone's face was filled with anticipation, yet there was no noise or shoving; the line was as silent as people practicing meditation.

At the hour of Wei, Li Muchen nodded: “The auspicious hour has arrived. Distribute the porridge.”

Zhao Desheng and several young men carried the pot to the open space in front of the mountain gate. As the large pot hit the ground, the heat rushed toward them, and the fragrance of the porridge grew even stronger.

Li Muchen stood behind the pot holding a ladle, his white clothes pristine and his expression peaceful. As the first ladle of porridge was scooped up, the morning sun happened to pierce through a gap in the clouds, shining upon the porridge in the ladle—it actually shimmered with a very faint golden halo.

At the front of the line was an old man leaning on a cane, holding up a clay bowl with trembling hands.

A ladle of porridge entered the bowl, steam rising from it. The old man looked down and saw that the porridge was amber-colored, the rice, beans, dates, and chestnuts blending like a painting, with tiny golden glints swirling on the surface. He was stunned for a moment, and then suddenly, old tears began to stream down his face.

“taoist greeting,” Li Muchen said softly. “May you be healthy and strong, Elder.”

The old man nodded repeatedly and stepped aside holding the bowl, unable to bring himself to eat it immediately. He just looked down at it, his tears splashing into the porridge and creating tiny ripples.

The distribution continued.

Women held the porridge and fed their young children first; men took their bowls and walked carefully toward home; children held their bowls with both hands, taking small sips, their faces blooming with smiles.

As the porridge entered their mouths, the flavors unfolded layer by layer.

First was the richness of the grains, then the softness of the beans, followed by the sweetness of the dates and chestnuts, and finally, a trace of clear, sweet aftertaste lingered in the throat. A warm current rose from their stomachs, like a spring breeze over frozen ground, seeping into every limb and bone. The aches in their waists and legs from years of labor actually eased significantly in that moment, and the worries and anxieties in their hearts dissipated like mist seeing the sun.

“Good porridge... such good porridge!”

“After drinking it, my whole body feels warm!”

“My mind is so clear, it’s like I’ve had a good sleep!”

Low voices of praise rose and echoed through the valley.

Li Muchen scooped ladle after ladle, nodding to every villager. He saw elderly women with smoothing wrinkles, children with bright eyes, and the long-absent relaxed smiles on the men's faces. With every bowl of porridge sent out, a thread of pure, warm 'gratitude' Power Of Will rose, merging into the temple's Luck and further nourishing the clear light of Karma in his Purple Mansion.

This was not just porridge; it was the circulation of goodwill and the rooting of merit.

At the beginning of the Shen Hour, the bottom of the pot was visible.

The last villager was a lame youth who had come with an empty bowl, hoping to beg for some leftovers from the bottom of the pot. Li Muchen looked at the pot and scraped the wooden ladle against the rim three times, actually scraping out half a bowl of thick porridge—the concentrated essence.

The youth took it with both hands and bowed deeply. When he turned to leave, his steps were significantly steadier.

The villagers who had helped cleaned the pot and stove, returned the borrowed items, and swept the inside and outside of the temple clean. Before leaving, everyone bowed to Li Muchen in unison before heading down the mountain in the twilight.

After a day of clamor, the Daoist temple returned to tranquility.

The setting sun cast long shadows of the ancient cypress tree. Li Muchen stood at the mountain gate, looking at the lights that were gradually turning on at the foot of the mountain. Those lights were like scattered stars in the twilight, warm and real.

Within his Spiritual Terrace, the clear light of Karma had brightened another degree, as warm and smooth as jade. Within the temple's Luck, a new, heavy sense of 'goodwill' as solid as earth had been added—the most simple gratitude of the villagers, purer than incense Power Of Will and more grounded than the Golden Light of Merit.

The mountain breeze brushed past, carrying the lingering scent of the porridge.

He turned back to the temple. The clay statue in the hall sat quietly in the twilight, its features seemingly carrying a gentle smile.

A bowl of Laba porridge had warmed the deep winter, and even more so, it had warmed the mundane life on this path of cultivation.

Cultivation was not just about sitting in withered silence deep in the mountains.

This bowl of porridge, these smiling faces, and this circulating goodwill were also indispensable scenery and resources on the path of the Great Dao. They ensured the Daoist temple was no longer just bricks, tiles, wood, and stone, but something with temperature and roots, truly growing upon this land.