In Daiwang Town, stone and spirit conspire. At its heart, a three-faced theater—1.3 meters high, crowned by a sweeping curved hip roof—stands sentinel. Built to address three temples, its stage becomes a compass needle each year, pivoting devotion toward the God of Wealth, Dragon King, and Kitchen God through smoke and song. Here, architecture bends to faith: a single platform, open on three sides, channels gratitude in precise celestial directions.

Facing east, the God of Wealth Temple (1912) anchors this sacred geometry. A brick-and-timber quadrangle, its axis runs true—gate to main hall—flanked by side rooms fraying at the edges. The south wall teeters, its cracked plaster whispering of decades gnawed by rain, now scaffolded in a race against collapse. Yet the main hall endures: three bays under a hard mountain double-slope roof, its beams a lattice of carved blooms and coiled dragons. Craftsmen in 1912 calibrated every joint, their saws and chisels leaving seams tighter than a merchant’s ledger.

Each Ninth lunar month, 17th, Dawn light gilds the east-facing stage. Actors’ trills spiral toward the God of Wealth, whose gilt statue presides over 250 square meters of courtyard. Merchants once piled silver ingots here, praying for fortune’s wink.

Today, the God of Wealth Temple gate’s vermilion pillars glow under repairs, their fresh lacquer a gloss over century-old timber. Restorers probe the south wing’s sagging bones, their drills humming alongside sparrows nesting in rafters. It’s a dance of salvage: how much to preserve, how much to reimagine.