Dao Xuan Tianzun's grand temple was rising at a speed that could only be described as religiously motivated.
Ever since Tianzun had casually toyed with the provincial officers—like a bored deity flicking ants off a table—the newly arrived villagers had undergone a rapid spiritual upgrade. Overnight, they stopped being refugees and became full-fledged believers.
Not the gentle, incense-burning kind.
The frightening kind.
Because once a person starts working for their faith, productivity stops being human.
For six straight days, Gaojia Village had been in a state of controlled madness.
Today was the seventh.
Blistering Noon
The sun was vicious.
Not warm.
Not bright.
Venomous.
The temperature clawed its way toward forty degrees Celsius again, pressing down like a punishment handed out personally by Heaven.
Li Daoxuan leaned over the diorama to inspect the progress when Gao Yiye called up from below:
"Tianzun! The two sculptor-uncles request an audience!"
"Let them speak," Li Daoxuan replied calmly.
Inside, he smiled.
Finally.
The two sculptors hurried forward, knelt, knocked their heads against the ground, and reported in unison:
"Tianzun, your clay image—and the wooden Sun Wukong you commanded us to carve—are complete. We await painting."
"Excellent."
Li Daoxuan had been waiting for this moment.
He dropped a small square of aluminum foil into the box. Then, using a straw, he carefully drew up a bead of red paint—no more than five millimeters across—and let it drip onto the foil.
To him, it was nothing.
To the villagers—
SPLACK!
A three-inch-wide sphere of crimson lacquer smashed onto the ground like divine blood, glossy and thick.
The sculptors shuddered.
One cautiously poked it with a stick, brought the tip to his nose, and inhaled deeply.
"…So this," he whispered reverently, "is heavenly lacquer."
And honestly? Compared to Ming-era paint, it was.
Traditional lacquer peeled, dulled, and needed tung oil to shine. This modern polymer paint—fifteen yuan a can—was bright, durable, glossy, and utterly shameless.
The difference was roughly the same as comparing a polished jade bowl to a greasy middle-aged man's forehead under fluorescent lighting.
The sculptors took exactly two glances before reaching a verdict:
"No mortal hand could create such color."
"Red first," Li Daoxuan said. "Green and blue later."
Two more beads dropped—measured precisely to scale.
In the early days, Li Daoxuan had wasted resources by dumping entire eggs and oversized objects into the box. Now, he was a master of micro-delivery.
The sculptors trembled with joy.
Back in their world, they'd had three—maybe five—usable colors. Gold paint was guarded like a family heirloom; touching it required permission and supervision.
Now?
Tianzun tossed down enough "gold paint" to bankrupt a county yamen.
They dipped their brushes eagerly, painting Sun Wukong with expressions of pure bliss—like children handed an entire candy store and told, No one's watching.
Heatstroke Under the Sun
Li Daoxuan shifted his attention to the temple builders.
Then he noticed it.
A villager staggered. Another barely caught him before he hit the ground.
Heatstroke.
Of course it was.
July. Drought. Noon sun. Backbreaking labor.
San Shier rushed over, shouting for water from the pond as villagers clustered in alarm.
Li Daoxuan felt a pinch of guilt.
Time to intervene.
He ran to the refrigerator, grabbed a chunk of crushed ice, and gently lowered it into the diorama.
The villagers were preparing a damp cloth when—
A massive block of ice descended from the sky.
They froze.
Then gasped.
"Heaven… has bestowed ice?!"
Someone immediately pressed the wet cloth against the block. Others chipped off ice and dropped it into bowls of water, feeding the chilled liquid to the collapsed man.
Within minutes, his breathing steadied.
Li Daoxuan exhaled.
But one case wasn't enough. Others would fall.
So he did what any modern man would do.
He made miniature iced Coke.
Ice into a bottle cap.
Coke poured in.
Fizz.
And down it went.
The Birth of Fat House Happy Water
The villagers stared at the bubbling brown pool, chilled by a man-sized block of ice in the center.
"…What is this?"
"It smells sweet."
"Sugar!"
"But why is it bubbling?"
"…Is it poison?"
"How dare you!" someone shouted. "Has Tianzun ever poisoned us?!"
"Beat him!"
"I TAKE IT BACK—"
Chaos erupted.
Gao Yiye stepped forward, voice firm:
"Enough. Tianzun says this is called Fat House Happy Water. Drinking it cools the body."
Cheers exploded.
Villagers rushed forward, scooping Coke with cupped hands.
"Ah—!"
"Cough—cough—!"
"It's spicy!"
"But… refreshing!"
"I feel… happy!"
"So this is Happy Water…"
"…But what does Fat House mean?"
All eyes turned to San Shier.
San Shier cleared his throat gravely.
"'Fat' means big. 'House' means home. Together, Fat House means a large household. Thus, Fat House Happy Water is divine water that brings happiness to the entire household. This is wisdom from the Immortal Realm."
The villagers nodded in awe.
"As expected of Third Master!"
San Shier laughed proudly and filled a teacup with Coke.
He gulped.
Coughed.
Gagged.
Then grinned.
"Strong taste! But… happy!"
A weak voice drifted up from the ground:
"Has… everyone… abandoned me…?"
"Oh right!"
"No—" Gao Yiye snapped. "Tianzun says heatstroke patients drink plain water first."
The man whimpered.
"So… I'm not worthy… of Happy Water…?"
His head flopped dramatically.
"BROTHER—DON'T DIE!"
They rushed over.
He opened one eye.
Everyone burst out laughing.
"He's lively enough to fake death—he's fine!"
"Give him one sip!"
"HAHA—hic—so… happy…"
And thus, on a scorching summer day, Fat House Happy Water became the most sacred—and beloved—beverage in all of Gaojia Village.