For a thousand years, the Immortal Cleaning Brigade had maintained the pristine halls of the Jade Palace using their mystical implements. Among them was Young Master Wei, who inherited what was rumored to be the most potent magical mop in all the celestial realms.
“This sacred mop has cleansed the steps of immortals since time immemorial,” his master had declared with utmost gravity before ascending to higher realms. “Guard it well.”
What his master failed to mention was the mop’s peculiar tendency to taste absolutely terrible.
“Why must you keep trying to eat it?” sighed Fairy Ming, watching Wei gnaw determinedly on the mop’s wooden handle for the eighth time that week. Butterflies made of starlight danced around her head as she spoke, a common occurrence when immortal maidens showed exasperation.
“I can’t help it,” Wei explained, wiping his tongue with his sleeve. “Every time I look at it, it appears as the most sumptuous delicacy. One moment it’s golden-roasted phoenix drumsticks, the next it’s nine-flavored immortal peaches.”
The mop, being an ancient magical artifact, took offense at these repeated attempts to consume it. It began manifesting as increasingly elaborate illusions of exotic dishes, each more tempting than the last, but always maintaining its fundamentally inedible nature.
In the mortal realm below, strange phenomena started occurring. Rain fell upward, chickens laid eggs that hatched full-grown trees, and street food vendors found their dumplings transforming into philosophical treatises on the nature of existence. All because a celestial janitor couldn’t stop trying to eat his cleaning implement.
“Perhaps,” suggested Elder Liu, whose beard had achieved sentience three centuries ago and now offered occasional wisdom of its own, “the mop is teaching you about the illusory nature of desire.”
Wei stared at what appeared to be a bowl of dragon pearl soup but was actually just his mop sitting in a bucket. “Or perhaps it’s just a very mean mop.”
As the centuries passed, Wei’s peculiar relationship with his cleaning tool became legendary in the celestial bureaucracy. Gods would visit from distant constellations just to witness his daily struggle with the deceptively delicious-looking implement.
Finally, after a millennium of torment, Wei achieved enlightenment. “I understand now,” he announced to the assembled immortals. “The mop was never meant to be eaten. It was meant to clean the dust of delusion from our minds.”
The gathered celestial beings applauded his wisdom. Fairy Ming wiped away tears of joy. Elder Liu’s beard nodded sagely.
Wei then proceeded to take one final, triumphant bite of the mop - which had transformed into what appeared to be the universe’s most perfect bowl of noodles - and promptly descended back to the mortal realm, his cultivation completely undone by his stubborn inability to resist temptation.
To this day, somewhere in the mortal world, a street sweeper continues to inexplicably taste his broom, while in the heavens, a magical mop waits patiently for its next victim, disguised as an ever-changing buffet of celestial delicacies.