33: Spring breeze and rain, official boots knocking on the door

Time flew by, and another half month passed. While the atmosphere of the Lunar New Year had yet to fade, the clamor on Yuntai Mountain had grown even louder.

The popularity of the spectacle brought by Qingfeng Temple, far from diminishing with the end of the Spring Festival holiday, instead accumulated like a rolling snowball. Word of mouth from returning tourists, continuous pushes from internet algorithms, and the curiosity-driven secondary creations of self-media had actually pushed this deep-mountain Daoist temple to become the first 'viral check-in spot' of early spring.

Zhaojiaao Village was now unrecognizable.

The threshing floor at the village entrance was now crammed with all sorts of vehicles: SUVs from Shanxi jostled with tour buses from Hebei, and RVs from Shanghai were parked next to business vans from Guangdong. The dirt road had been repeatedly crushed by wheels; the mud after the melting snow mixed with ruts, deep enough to reach the ankles. Experienced drivers abandoned their cars and walked three miles outside the village—the road ahead was already a dead end of traffic.

Agritainment signs were springing up like mushrooms after rain.

The courtyard of Fourth Zhao's home was the first to hang a 'Yuntai Inn' light box. Eight side rooms were stuffed with twenty camp beds, and at a hundred per night, they were still in short supply. Next door, Widow Wang set up a 'Wild Food Shop,' where a pot of local chicken stewed with mushrooms sold for three hundred, yet diners still formed long queues.

Along both sides of the village road, dried mushrooms, straw insoles, and even strange stones picked up by children were labeled with cards saying 'Infused with the Spiritual Qi of the Daoist Temple,' and their prices had tripled.

The mountain path leading to Qingfeng Temple had become a crawling river of people.

The outdoor gear of professional hikers mixed with the down jackets of tourists, and long lenses of SLR cameras squeezed beside mobile phone selfie sticks. Children cried, the elderly panted, and the shouts of streamers pierced through the treetops: 'Look, family! This is the divine tree that's gone viral online! Double-tap the little red heart, and your host will take you on a secret exploration!'

The mountain forest was groaning.

Water bottles rolled down steep slopes, snack bags hung on thorns, and tissues dotted the withered grass like pale mountain flowers. To take a photo of 'a land without people,' some stepped into the fragile tundra, leaving deep footprints; to seek the 'best camera angle,' some broke low-hanging branches, the sap at the breaks flowing like tears.

In front of the mountain gate of Qingfeng Temple, the scene was even more peculiar.

People stood in long lines as if on a pilgrimage, just to take a photo under the ancient cypress tree for three seconds. Mobile phone screens reflected one excited face after another, the sound of shutters as dense as heavy rain. Although there was no trash in the courtyard—some invisible field made those who would litter feel uneasy, and villagers silently cleaned it every day—the din of voices was as loud as a marketplace; the birdsong and morning bells of the past were completely drowned out.

Li Muchen had already pushed the Daoist temple's field to its limit.

The Main Hall, ancient cypress tree, Spirit Well, and vegetable plots were all shrouded in an invisible barrier. The restless felt chest tightness upon entering, the malicious felt mysterious palpitations, and those who were too loud felt a lump in their throats. Only ordinary tourists with reverence in their hearts could feel that bone-deep tranquility and would spontaneously lower their voices and hold their breath.

However, the tide of people was like a flood; even with a dam, it was difficult to completely block it.

During morning prayers and chanting, there were no longer hundreds of birds coming to pay homage at the eaves; only two or three frightened old sparrows stood on distant branches. Thirty percent of his Purple Mansion Spiritual Sense had to be used to maintain the Formation, and he also needed to constantly organize the Spiritual Qi field that was being disrupted by the complex human presence. This was no longer cultivation; it had become mere preservation.

Down in Zhaojiaao Village, the people's hearts were also split into two currents.

Zhao Desheng squatted on his home's millstone, his dry tobacco pipe thumping rhythmically. He stared at the shoulder-to-shoulder tourists on the village road, his brow locked in a tight knot: 'Is this worshiping at a temple? This is going to a temple fair! Daoist Master Li's place of quiet cultivation has now become a monkey show!'

'Uncle Desheng, you're an old fogey,' Fourth Zhao said, strolling over with a newly bought Zhonghua cigarette in his mouth. 'Daoist Master Li is a living immortal; would he care about this? Look at our village—who could afford ten catties of meat for the New Year before? Now we eat meat every day! This is the fortune the Abbot has given us!'

Auntie Liu, who was selling mountain goods nearby, chimed in while counting her cash: 'Exactly! I sold thirty catties of walnuts this morning, which is as much as a whole season in previous years! I bottled that well water from the Abbot and sold it for twenty a bottle, and people went crazy for it! If you ask me, the Abbot would want the incense fire to be prosperous!'

'Incense fire?' Zhao Desheng stood up abruptly. 'You're desecrating it! That well water is a blessing from the Abbot, and you're selling it for money? Has your conscience been eaten by dogs?'

The argument drew more villagers. The younger generation mostly stood with Fourth Zhao, while the older generation mostly followed Zhao Desheng. Interests and reverence were like two undercurrents, silently wrestling in the village. Eventually, Zhao Desheng was pulled home by his grandson—the child was clutching fifty yuan given by a tourist and clamoring to buy a toy gun.

Reality was like warm water, gradually softening one's persistence.

This out-of-control fever finally alarmed the authorities.

The Yuntai Town government was the first to be overwhelmed.

The phone in the Town Mayor's office didn't stop ringing all night: the County Culture and Tourism Bureau asked for tourist data, the Public Security Bureau asked for security plans, the Health Bureau asked for epidemic prevention measures, and the Transportation Bureau asked about road pressure. The Town Mayor smashed his teacup: 'How the hell should I know! In previous years, even ghosts didn't go to that mountain, and now there are more people than ants!'

Three days later, a research team from the County Culture and Tourism Bureau arrived.

The Deputy Director was surnamed Wang, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and looking refined. The group abandoned their cars and walked, squeezing through the river of people; by the time they reached the gate of Qingfeng Temple, everyone's backs were soaked with sweat.

With just one look, Director Wang's eyes behind his lenses lit up.

That ancient cypress tree was aggressively green amidst the withered mountains of early spring, with an almost eerie vitality flowing through its branches and leaves. The air in the courtyard was as warm as spring, a completely different season from the biting cold outside. Although the tourists were numerous, they spontaneously lowered their voices in the courtyard—some indescribable majesty permeated the air.

His gaze moved past the crowd and landed on the Main Hall.

A figure in a moon-white Daoist robe stood quietly before the steps, pointing out the position of the incense burner for an elderly woman. His profile was handsome and refined, his temperament as calm as an ancient pool; though he stood in the center of the clamor, he seemed to be in a world of his own.

'A talent... no, he is the 'spectacle' itself,' Director Wang whispered to his secretary. 'The tree, the temple, and the person—the three combined are a top-tier tourism resource.'

That night, the town's conference room was brightly lit.

Research reports were produced like an assembly line, with a decisive core conclusion: 'The Qingfeng Temple area of Yuntai Mountain possesses rare resources for creating a provincial-level cultural tourism benchmark.'

The report listed four major advantages:

1. Uniqueness of the core attraction—counter-seasonal ecological spectacle, ancient Daoist cultural heritage, and a transcendent character IP;

2. Market popularity has been verified—spontaneous tourist flow has already exceeded that of 3A-rated scenic spots during the same period;

3. Significant poverty alleviation benefits—Zhaojiaao Village's single-month tourism income has exceeded the total of previous years;

4. Huge room for improvement—infrastructure shortcomings are exactly the entry points for investment.

A three-step plan was suggested: achieve 3A status within the year, aim for 4A within three years, and build it into the 'Northern Shanxi Secret Realm · Health Sanctuary' within five years.

The end of the report emphasized: 'Government-led intervention is needed as soon as possible to bring the spontaneous and disorderly state into the track of scientific planning, prevent safety, ecological, and public opinion risks, and maximize economic and social benefits.'

Three days later, the county government held a special executive meeting for discussion.

Smoke curled around the oval long table as the report was passed around. The Director of the Culture and Tourism Bureau was the first to speak, his voice booming like a bell: 'County Magistrate, leaders, this is a golden pie falling from the sky! We've calculated that with an initial investment of eighty million, we can break even in three years, and after five years, the annual tax revenue could exceed ten million!'

The projection screen lit up with renderings: a cable car like a silver Dragon winding around the mountain, sightseeing buses shuttling through the forest, and the glass curtain wall of the visitor center at the foot of the mountain shining brightly. The words 'Yuntai Mountain Secret Realm Resort' on the rendering glowed with golden light.

Deputy County Magistrate Liu, who was in charge of culture and tourism, was more cautious: 'Will that Daoist temple and the Daoist priest be resistant? After all, it's a religious site.'

'The property rights are very clear,' the Director of the Culture and Tourism Bureau was well-prepared. 'We've checked the archives; the land of Qingfeng Temple belongs to the village collective, the building is a historical relic, and the management rights belong to the County Daoist Association. That Li Muchen is just a resident staff member; he can be coordinated at any time.'

The Director of the Investment Promotion Bureau laughed: 'A little Daoist in his early twenties, how much of the world has he seen? We'll give him the treatment of a scenic spot's deputy general manager and a share of the incense money; how could he be unwilling? This is helping him make a name for himself!'

The Director of the Finance Bureau flipped through the calculation tables: 'The return on investment is indeed tempting. It's just that for the land compensation, the appetite of the Zhaojiaao Village villagers might be quite large now.'

'That's why we must be fast,' the County Magistrate, who had been silent, finally spoke, his knuckles lightly tapping the table. 'Popularity doesn't wait for anyone. The internet can make you famous today and forget you tomorrow. We must set up the framework before the popularity fades.'

He looked around at everyone, his tone final: 'Establish the Yuntai Mountain Tourism Development Leading Group, with me as the leader. The United Front Work Department will take the lead, with Culture and Tourism, Religious Affairs, Natural Resources, and townships cooperating to form a work group to go up the mountain and communicate first. There's only one principle: development is the big picture, individuals must submit to the collective, and religion must serve society.'

He paused and added, 'The method must be refined. Be polite before using force; explain the reasoning thoroughly and lay out the benefits clearly. I believe that Daoist Master Li is a reasonable person.'

The meeting ended amidst sounds of approval.

In the hallway, Deputy County Magistrate Liu caught up with the Director of the Culture and Tourism Bureau and said in a low voice, 'Old Zhang, I always feel... that Daoist temple is a bit strange. Those rumors online...'

'Old Liu,' the Director of the Culture and Tourism Bureau patted his shoulder. 'We are materialists. Whatever ancient tree blooming in spring must be a special microclimate; if the Daoist has skills, he probably just knows some traditional Chinese herbal medicine. What we need to do is scientifically package these 'selling points'—this is called cultural tourism innovation!'

The two walked away, laughing and talking.

As dusk fell, Li Muchen finished his evening prayers.

He stood on the stone steps in front of the hall, the hem of his moon-white Daoist robe fluttering slightly in the rising mountain breeze. His Spiritual Sense, like an invisible spider web, had already taken everything below the mountain into his 'sight': the villagers' arguments, the town's meeting, the county's decisions, and even that flood named 'development' that was spreading toward the mountain peak.

Below the mountain, the lights of Zhaojiaao Village were like stars, and the neon of the agritainments lit up the mountain village's night sky for the first time.

On the mountain, the Daoist temple was shrouded in the descending curtain of night; only the top of the ancient cypress tree still held the last glimmer of daylight.

Li Muchen looked up at the sky.

The spring night sky was clear, and the first stars had already appeared in the east.

What is meant to come will eventually come, and those who are meant to be met will eventually be met.

I just wonder what kind of sparks will be produced when this surging 'momentum' of the Mortal World crashes into the 'Dao' of a hundred years of quiet cultivation?

He turned and returned to the hall, the corner of his robe brushing over the threshold.

The hall doors closed silently behind him, shutting out the rising mountain breeze and the clamor below the mountain.

Inside the hall, the flame of the ever-burning lamp flickered slightly.

The clay statue sat quietly, its features compassionate and majestic in the dim light.

Spring thunder was already brewing deep within the clouds; one just didn't know where the first bolt of lightning would strike.