Chapter 922: Borrowing a Thousand Mountains and Ten Thousand Rivers from All of You (Part 3)
(Apologies for uploading the chapter late.)
Just as Xiao Mo was about to draw his sword, a faint sound echoed through heaven and earth, like the rustling of falling leaves, carrying a heavy sense of desolation. “It really is you.”
Xiao Mo waited for the rest. After a moment, the voice spoke again. “All of you, turn back. Even if we meet, it won’t help matters.”
Xiao Mo gave a cold laugh, no longer wasting words with this fellow Daoist he had only met a few times. He walked forward slowly, lifting the long sword in his hand. “Young master, just follow me. At most half an incense stick of time, and we will see the other party’s true body.”
Xiao Mo first drove a long sword into the ground. The entire empty, desolate heaven and earth changed color, like a painting that had yellowed with age due to the passage of years.
Chen Ping’an understood the purpose of this sword. It was to serve as a temporary inn in the River of Time. No matter how great the fellow Daoist’s divine powers or how bizarre his techniques, Xiao Mo could always rely on his spiritual guidance to find this ferry port of time he had created. Then, by striking again, he only needed a single thread of connection between the two places to avoid missing entirely. After taking a dozen or so steps, Xiao Mo casually swung another sword. This was the first time Chen Ping’an had seen Xiao Mo draw his sword since the battle at the Bright Moon’s Radiance.
The sword light was not a straight line but like a drifting strand of gossamer, spreading out over a thousand miles.
Xiao Mo did not stop striking. His sword strokes were casual—slanting, horizontal, vertical—but the Sword Qi and Sword Intent contained within the sword light grew more majestic with each blow.
This was a “casual” sword strike from a peak Flying Ascension sword cultivator.
The rules of this minor world were indeed somewhat strange. Xiao Mo’s sword light condensed without dispersing, but in Chen Ping’an’s vision, traces of that light disappeared, as if folded or bent, following quiet branching paths into the distance.
Xiao Mo said via heart-message, “Young master, these branching paths are similar to the roots and veins of a parasol tree. But rest assured, the number of paths and the size of this world are ultimately limited. I have personally experienced minor worlds stranger than this.”
Chen Ping’an nodded, not in a hurry.
The voice sounded again in their ears. “Since we are old friends reunited, why must we meet with swords?”
Xiao Mo held his sword with one hand, sneering. “I’m curious to see how many hundreds or thousands of sword strikes this fellow Daoist’s minor world can withstand.”
As long as he kept striking, the Sword Qi and Intent would accumulate, and the sword light would eventually break through like an awl bursting from a sack. When that time came, gathering it all into one sword would be a true sword challenge.
It was well known that spirits and beings of objects cultivated with difficulty, opened their apertures with difficulty, and cultivated slowly. The only advantage of such mountain friends was that, without natural disasters or human calamities, they lived extremely long lives. Especially plants and trees—once they entered the Upper Five Realms, their Dao ages were especially ancient. But as for talent in Dao cultivation? It wasn’t that Xiao Mo was arrogant, but compared to sword cultivators like himself, it was a world of difference. Even if you slept for ten thousand years and gained an extra ten thousand years of age, so what?
If you are polite to me, I will be even more polite to you. If you are impolite to me, even better—I will repay you with a sword challenge.
The old carriage driver in the capital, the Ghost Immortal Yu Jin, were both polite people.
Ever since arriving in the Splendid World, he had followed local customs—when someone smiled at you, you didn’t hit them. This had left Xiao Mo feeling stifled for a long time.
After delivering over a hundred sword strikes, Xiao Mo was able to use his heart to guide one strand of sword light. Like a spiritual serpent, it writhed along one of the paths, violently shaking. The sword light splashed and exploded, like a slender river of stars shattering in an instant.
The voice was silent for a moment, then had to speak a reminder. “Chen Ping’an, you’d better advise this fellow Daoist not to act this way. If the sword light damages the primal qi of this place, it will only implicate the entire Tongye Continent’s landscape qi, making it even harder to restore to its original state.”
Chen Ping’an said calmly, “Choosing the lesser of two evils is better than being shut out and returning in defeat without even seeing the senior’s face. The crux of today’s problem is not how I or Xiao Mo act, but whether you are willing to open the door and receive guests. You and I both know that your so-called restoration to its original state is merely superficial. There are many hidden dangers. The descendants of Tongye Continent will have to pay back the debts of the present generation one by one. You follow the Heavenly Dao, so naturally you don’t mind. The many aftereffects of the collapse of rites and music from past ages don’t affect your personal cultivation. As long as the overall quantity of something remains unchanged, Senior still considers your merit complete, having contributed to the continent’s heaven and earth. Wait three to five hundred years—wait for the Academy and the cultivators, as well as the various mountain-kingdoms, and of course, myself, to replenish the landscapes everywhere—then you will have safely weathered this great heavenly calamity and can return to your perfect state. But I use the human way to mend the continent’s deficiencies. The more I delay, the more troublesome it becomes. Your covenant with the Academy has already ended. If you close the door today and refuse to see me, by the time your realm cultivation approaches Flying Ascension perfection, you will have invisibly taken the place left by that old master from the Eastern Sea, becoming a vague master of a continent. Then, not only would it be difficult for me to meet you, finding you would be an impossible task.”
The voice did not deny this. “Correct. I am about to go into seclusion to deduce the Great Path and seek a path to enter the Fourteen Realm.”
Clearly, Chen Ping’an had hit the mark.
Xiao Mo was hearing this for the first time, and his anger flared. He felt that the earlier address of “fellow Daoist” was a slap in his own face.
In an instant, he delivered dozens more sword strikes. The sword light was like rainbows, and the entire yellowed heaven and earth turned dazzling white.
Chen Ping’an walked slowly behind Xiao Mo, stopped, raised a foot, and stomped on the ground. He looked down and smiled. “Senior is virtuous and highly respected. In early years, you could become an ally with the Rites Sage and build a Demon Suppression Tower for the Academy. I have read the Academy’s secret archives and know that Senior has a gentle nature, aloof from worldly strife. That is why I am willing to speak with you properly. But now that you are about to completely regain your freedom, Senior cannot be certain that I must do as you wish. This is not just standing idly by, but pulling down the bridge after crossing the river. Making things so difficult for a junior with less than a sixty-year Dao age—even a mud Buddha has three parts fire! What about this junior?”
Chen Ping’an smiled. “If it comes to that, I’ll ask the Rites Sage to move half of the Sword Qi Wall here. Let’s see if Senior, when trying to enter the Fourteen Realm, can still see me, and whether you’ll have the chance to ask me face-to-face if I agree.”
“I think it’s difficult.”
The voice grew somewhat angry. It rushed to say, “The Academy promised me that once the great calamity had passed, that covenant would automatically dissolve. Even the accompanying sages stationed here cannot hinder my cultivation.”
If this young man actually did that, it would be one thing if he couldn’t find the path to the Fourteen Realm while in seclusion. But if he found it, only to be blocked by a wall, that would be truly upsetting.
And once caught in such an awkward situation, the two of them would enter a genuine Great Path conflict. As long as one side still wanted to reach the Fourteen Realm, it would be a fight to the death.
Were you, Chen Ping’an, still the closed-door disciple of the Literary Sage’s lineage? Were you still a Confucian scholar?
Chen Ping’an shook his head. “Since I cannot replace the Academy, the Academy cannot replace me either.”
Whoever blocks me from mending the continent’s deficiencies will receive a sword challenge from me.
That is not a joke. Please take it seriously.
The voice became flustered. “The Supreme Sage visited here and personally wished me smooth cultivation.”
Chen Ping’an said expressionlessly, “Then on this matter, I’m afraid I will have to disappoint the Supreme Sage.”
Upon hearing this, the other party was clearly shocked beyond words and fell silent.
Even the Literary Sage wouldn’t dare say such a thing. A madman who dares to defy the Supreme Sage! Damn so-called scholar—utterly devoid of decorum. You sword cultivators, your foul temper never changes after ten thousand years…
Xiao Mo smiled knowingly.
After a long silence, presumably trying to calm his Dao heart, the voice spoke again, finally with some sign of concession. “I trust the Rites Sage, but I do not trust you.”
Xiao Mo narrowed his eyes and said coldly, “I checked the almanac. Today is not auspicious for digging, burying, building stoves, planting, or interment. It is favorable for travel, logging, raising beams, house construction, and making covenants.”
Chen Ping’an stepped forward, lightly patted Xiao Mo’s arm, signaling him not to strike in a hurry. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Xiao Mo, hands in sleeves, and smiled. “I also understand Senior’s situation. For all living beings born and thriving in this ruined landscape, to you, it is not simply a matter of ‘both sides of the hand are flesh.’ Heaven and earth are a temporary lodging; the Great Path is the ultimate. All things are straw dogs—there is no distinction between loyal subjects and traitors, filial sons and unfilial ones.”
The voice continued, “To be precise, I cannot trust a sword cultivator who acts only on whim and strikes his sword without any taboo.”
After a moment, it added, “I would even rather trust that foreign wandering swordsman who entered Flying Eagle Fort back then than trust the final Hidden Official from the Sword Qi Wall.”
Chen Ping’an laughed. “If Senior had been sincere earlier, you wouldn’t have fallen out with a ten-thousand-year-old friend.”
“Chen Ping’an! Your killing intent right now is even heavier than that ‘Xiao Mo’s.’”
“Then this junior will restrain it a bit.”
Before Chen Ping’an and Xiao Mo appeared a passage resembling a post road, with both sides pitch-black like night, similar to the two ends of the Sword Qi Wall from past years, linking with some kind of Grand Emptiness realm.
Chen Ping’an looked back. It was white fog, and the path they came from was already lost.
Xiao Mo frowned deeply. Chen Ping’an smiled. “Since we’re here, let’s take it as a short excursion.”
Chen Ping’an took out a White Colt Passing Crevice Talisman made of golden material from his sleeve. It came from the “True Trace of the Vermilion Book” given by Li Xisheng, also known as a “Moon Talisman.” This talisman was located further back in the book.
The talisman hovered beside his shoulder.
At the same time, in Chen Ping’an’s mind, a sundial appeared to precisely measure time. As expected, the flow of time in the two worlds—inner and outer—differed vastly.
Glancing at the burning speed of the White Colt Passing Crevice Talisman, Chen Ping’an roughly understood. In this world, perhaps a year would pass, while outside on Tongye Continent, only one day would pass.
Chen Ping’an reminded, “No matter how diligently Senior plays host, according to the time of the outside world, I must see Senior’s true form within ten hours at most and settle a deal.”
Two donkeys appeared by the roadside, presumably as mounts. Chen Ping’an let out a soft laugh, not worried about any trickery. He swung onto a donkey.
He wore a green robe, carried a sword on his back, and had a vermillion wine gourd at his waist. He gently squeezed the donkey’s belly, and with clatter of hooves, they began to sway forward.
Xiao Mo flicked his wrist, and a long sword dissolved into sword light, which he drew back into his sleeve. Still dressed in a yellow hat and green shoes, holding a green bamboo staff, Xiao Mo sat on his donkey.
The world was only black and white. Xiao Mo looked around—it was like a hastily brushed ink wash painting. He asked, “Young master, what about the other sword lights?”
Chen Ping’an complained, “Why would you take back a gift once given?”
Xiao Mo nodded lightly, somewhat regretful. He wished he had delivered two or three hundred more sword strikes.
Now it was twilight in the painting. The two rode their donkeys until they came to a small slope that suddenly appeared. At the top, they gazed into the distance. At a narrow point in the road, there was a crude building like a courier station. A huge procession stretched along the mountain path—no less than several thousand people, including an imperial carriage. From the panicked expressions of the civil and military officials, they were fleeing the capital? Chen Ping’an took off his sword-nurturing gourd, took a sip of wine. In his eyes, it was like a picture of the capital’s various departments fleeing to a traveling palace. In the painting, only one person was like a colored portrait: a middle-aged man with a long bamboo tube tucked at his waist, calluses on the index and middle fingers of his right hand. He had left the crowded road alone, chewing on a pancake, walking along a stream into the depths of the wilderness.
Chen Ping’an found something interesting. If the minor world had been an ink wash painting, then when he saw this man, centered on him, or rather what the man saw, it gradually turned into a gongbi painting—fine and detailed, every flower, tree, fish in the stream, all vivid, full of life, eventually becoming a lifelike green-and-blue mountain-and-water painting, indistinguishable from the “truth” of the human world.
Chen Ping’an laughed. “Let’s follow this little Heavenly Lord.”
In the twilight, the man found a rustic village house by the stream. The thatched eaves were low. Only an old woman and a young woman lived there, solitary and dependent on each other, sitting face-to-face weaving chicken coops.
The old woman offered the man some food. To avoid suspicion, the man slept under the eaves at night. Tossing and turning, unable to sleep, he decided to take advantage of the moonlight. He took out a chess manual from his bosom, sat up, leafed through it for a moment, then closed his eyes in concentration, his hands moving as if picking up and placing chess pieces, seemingly replaying a game.
Chen Ping’an, from a tree far from the cottage, had caught a glimpse of the manual’s cover. It was a famous, verifiable chess manual. In Splendid World history, it had a considerable reputation, but only among commoners. The two players had played five games, earning the praise “In sickness, do not look at the five-game manual.”
Sitting on his donkey, Chen Ping’an glanced at the White Colt Passing Crevice Talisman beside his shoulder. The flow of time hadn’t changed.
Actually, even if a cultivator took to the wind and looked down on the whole world, it seemed there was only this one scene. Perhaps the senior was reminding Chen Ping’an: pass one barrier, then see the scenery of the next. Only after all barriers were passed could they meet? For what? To buy time to seek help from the Academy? Or to invite someone here to reinforce against Chen Ping’an and Xiao Mo—that hardly seemed meaningful.
Xiao Mo asked, “Young master, should I make a probing sword strike?”
Chen Ping’an shook his head with a smile. “Be patient. Let’s watch and see.”
Xiao Mo asked, “That man’s identity—a chess player awaiting summons?”
Chen Ping’an nodded. “He seems decent at chess.”
The man under the eaves no longer seemed to be replaying a game but playing against himself. His skill didn’t appear very high.
Regarding the openings and standard patterns in the world of Go, Chen Ping’an considered himself relatively familiar. He had memorized them by rote. Moreover, the four people from the scroll painting of the Lotus Flower Blessed Land—except for Wei Hailiang—the other three, Zhu Lian, Lu Baixiang, and Sui Youbian, were all experts even by Splendid World standards. At Fallen Mountain, there were also Zheng Dafeng and the mountain lord Wei Bo, both skilled in this. And in the old Summer Retreat Palace, there were many masters—Lin Junbi and Xuanshen Cao Gun were all top-tier national players.
With Chen Ping’an’s current Go skill, he could play the first thirty to fifty moves and pass as an expert, but beyond that, his inadequacy would show.
So back in the Summer Retreat Palace, when teaching Go, the Hidden Official liked to call himself half a rotten player.
Inside the house, there was no candle. The old woman and the young woman, each in their own room, began to play chess—no board or stones, just reciting move positions. They pondered long, so that by dawn, when the eastern sky was turning pale, they had barely played forty moves. The man had long since taken out stones and a paper board from his bamboo tube, spread them on the ground, and listened intently to the game inside. He placed stones on the paper board. When the old woman said she had won by nine stones and the young woman conceded, the man finally mustered courage to knock softly. After a moment, the old woman and young woman came out. The man humbly asked for instruction. The old woman went to light the fire for cooking, telling the young woman—her widowed daughter-in-law—to teach him chess. The woman, dressed in simple clothes of thorn hairpins and plain skirts, taught him for less than half an hour, then said that was enough to make him invincible in the human world.
Having said this, the woman looked up and glanced toward the tree outside the cottage. She deliberately, seemingly unintentionally, smoothed the hair at her temple.
Chen Ping’an pretended not to see. The woman got up to busy herself. The man took his leave and departed. Walking along the stream, he looked back, but the cottage had vanished. The man was lost in melancholy.
In an instant, Chen Ping’an and Xiao Mo seemed to flow backward along a River of Time. They were again on the hilltop on donkeys, seeing the man with the bamboo tube again, walking by the stream.
Xiao Mo asked with a smile, “Young master, do we need to beat them at chess to pass?”
Chen Ping’an nodded. “That should be it. Later, you keep following that chess player. I’ll go to the post road and see if I can find any loopholes. Meet up at dawn.”
After that, Xiao Mo followed the man on his donkey, while Chen Ping’an went to the foot of the mountain. He found an old official who looked like a painted figure, wearing purple robes and a golden fish pouch. Chen Ping’an struck up a casual conversation, eventually offering to buy books at a high price. The old man politely refused, saying those boxes of books were treasured and not for sale. Without a word, Chen Ping’an overturned the book boxes from the carriage. With a wave of his hand, a breeze scattered the pages. Every book—when its cover was opened—was blank.
The figures and carriages seemed to freeze in place. Chen Ping’an stood there, shaking his head with a smile. “The landscape is barren, and Senior’s collection is too sparse. You couldn’t even fake it properly.”
After that, Chen Ping’an lost all interest in investigating. This fake little world was too thin—nothing but bones and no flesh. Without flesh, how could there be spirit?
He remounted the roadside donkey and went to find Xiao Mo and that cottage.
But he didn’t forget to wave his hand again, sending the books back into their boxes, the scene rewinding, returning to the carriage.
Once again, they waited until “this day’s” dawn. Just as the young woman was about to look up at him, Chen Ping’an led Xiao Mo forward on their donkeys. When the old woman said that line about invincibility, Chen Ping’an spoke up. “Not necessarily.”
At the wooden porch under the eaves, he cupped his hands to the chess player. “May I borrow your stones and board?”
Then Chen Ping’an laid out a game from his senior brother Cui Chan against Zheng Juzhong—the Colorful Cloud Match. Today, of course, Chen Ping’an was taking a shortcut, pretending to be Zheng Juzhong and inviting the other to continue the game.
The young woman was speechless. The old woman muttered, “Has the Way of Go in later ages become so high?”
Chen Ping’an, hands in sleeves, looked at the board and said casually, “I imagine the Way of Go, like the way of the world, always moves upward.”
The old woman nodded and smiled. The young woman smoothed her temple and smiled at the green-robed visitor with a jade hairpin.
As soon as Chen Ping’an said this, the scenery of the world dissolved, leaving only the porch and the house, each containing an ancient chess manual. Chen Ping’an glanced at them, then swept both into his sleeve, accepting the gift.
Xiao Mo turned his head. “That fellow Daoist even took our donkeys away.”
Chen Ping’an patted Xiao Mo’s shoulder. “No wonder you can be our Fallen Mountain’s guest elder.”
After that, they continued on foot, because a wider official road had appeared beneath them. Rice paddies lined both sides, seeming like autumn harvest time.
Suddenly, a rider brushed past them and headed into the distance. Xiao Mo gazed after him, and soon a single inn appeared.
The rider was a young man in short hemp clothes on a green horse, looking poor and destitute like a student. But Chen Ping’an looked twice and found that this man had a destiny for high officialdom—a kind of “person in the emerald gauze” aura, according to feng shui texts. Simply put, he was destined to be a prime minister.
When Chen Ping’an and Xiao Mo leisurely entered the roadside inn, they found the young man sleeping with his head resting on a green porcelain pillow. Beside him sat an old Daoist with crane-white hair, smiling, leaning against a large bundle. If one were used to strange tales, encountering such a transcendent figure, one would ask for the art of longevity.
The innkeeper seemed to be steaming millet. When it was about to be done, a fragrant aroma drifted from the kitchen.
Chen Ping’an cupped his hands and asked with a smile, “May I ask, old immortal, where does this official road lead?”
The old Daoist smiled. “Handan.”
Chen Ping’an asked, “It’s not really to the Inverted Mountain, to a tavern that sells Yellow Millet wine?”
The old Daoist “eh’d” and began to seriously assess this young man of unusual insight. He shook his head and laughed. “Young master, that question kills the mood.”
Chen Ping’an glanced at the bundle. The old Daoist understood and patted his pack. “Nothing else—just a bag full of unfulfilled ambition and bellyful of complaints. I won’t open it for you, lest it cause trouble.”
The old Daoist looked at the young scholar still sleeping on the green porcelain, then at the road outside. He sighed. “I seek nothing but the meaning of the Tai Chi book. No others left—all are fellow travelers on the Handan road.”
Chen Ping’an immediately stood, backed up two steps, and bowed. “Junior Chen Ping’an pays respects to Patriarch Lu.”
The old Daoist, whom Chen Ping’an called “Patriarch Lu,” waved his hand, signaling him to sit. “Liang Shuang of the Central Earth Continent, Mr. Fire Dragon of Julu Continent, Senior Sun of the Xuan Du Guan in the Azure World—have they broken through their realms?”
Chen Ping’an shook his head. “None have broken through.”
The old Daoist sighed, looked up at the sky. “Spirit merges with Grand Emptiness, the Dao reaches beyond heaven and earth. Qi possesses the wonder of the Five Elements, sun and moon within a square inch.”
Chen Ping’an sat cross-legged and smiled. “Wine surges like a great river, man climbs the Yellow Crane Tower. The Dao’s formula glows with ten thousand light, past and present each have their own autumns.”
The old Daoist clicked his tongue in wonder, stroked his beard and laughed. “Dispelling lumps of grievance, dissolving a thousand sorrows.”
Chen Ping’an asked curiously, “Does Senior have a connection with the Yellow Millet Kingdom in Bottle Gourd Continent?”
The old Daoist nodded. “My native place is there, but I left early to wander. I’ve spent more years in the Azure World than in my homeland.”
Then the old Daoist said with a playful smile, “If I had meddled in the sword challenge of the Cicada Shell Cave Heaven back then, that fellow Chen might not have come out unscathed.”
Chen Ping’an made no comment. This was a situation where speaking would offend two parties.
Chen Ping’an asked again, “Has Senior ever encountered an old tree spirit?”
The old Daoist thought for a moment, nodded. “By chance, I gave it some guidance on cultivation.”
Earlier, during the Central Earth Academy meeting, Chen Ping’an had browsed over thirty rooms at the Mandarin Duck Islet’s Burden-Sack Shop. Li Huai, traveling with him, had picked out just one item: a miniature landscape—a fist-sized stone inscribed with the characters “Mountain Immortal” (or “Immortal Mountain”). At the base of the stone coiled a miniature old willow tree, under which stood an Observatory Realm old tree spirit, looking like an old man only three inches tall. He was old in age and even older in temper, calling himself the City Heavenly Lord from the southern part of town. There seemed to be some immortal restriction suppressing his realm. Whenever a customer showed interest, he would start cursing, arms akimbo, saliva flying, telling them to just ascend to heaven on the spot.
Later, Li Huai said this old tree spirit claimed to have met a sword immortal with the Daoist title “Pure Yang,” a master of the Daoist sword immortal lineage. He had humbly asked about swordsmanship, and with a few words, continuously broke through realms.
Such words should be taken with a grain of salt. Sure enough, the old tree spirit did have a bit of karmic connection with this Patriarch Lü of “Pure Yang.”
Chen Ping’an asked, “The senior and the Burden-Sack Shop?”
The old Daoist laughed heartily. “Good eye. I am an old friend of the Burden-Sack Shop’s founder.”
The scholar woke up groggily. He had just dreamed a beautiful dream of enjoying all the glory and wealth of the human world. Now he looked around in confusion. The old Daoist still sat beside him. The innkeeper’s millet was still not yet cooked. But compared to before, there was now a green-robed man and a follower.
The scholar was melancholy for a long time, then finally sighed. He bowed to the old Daoist, thanked him, and said he now understood the principles of life’s honor and disgrace, love between man and woman, and life and death.
Just as the scholar was about to leave, Chen Ping’an quietly waved his sleeve. Mist rose, and suddenly, in the open space before the inn, an ancient locust tree appeared, with dense branches and leaves, providing shade over several acres.
The scholar felt drowsy, as if still in a dream. When he looked elsewhere, the old Daoist and the green-robed man were gone. Instead, from a hole in the great locust tree, a small green oil-cloth carriage emerged, pulled by four fine horses. A messenger in purple, holding a jade tablet, knelt to the scholar, claiming to come from a neighboring kingdom. The emperor admired his talent… The scholar’s heart stirred, but he still hesitated. The carriage had bamboo curtains; behind them, a vague beautiful woman raised one corner of the curtain with a delicate hand. She was a stunning beauty. She cast tender glances at the scholar… The scholar’s mind wavered. As he hesitated, the beauty’s eyes were wistful, she bit her lip. The messenger in purple remained prostrate, his words earnest. Finally, the scholar stepped forward and boarded the carriage…
In an instant—the small green carriage, the purple messenger, the beauty holding his hand, the great locust tree—all vanished into mist.
The scholar fell to the ground, rubbing his sore back. Pain confirmed it was no dream.
The old Daoist clapped his hands and laughed. “Marvelous!”
At the same time, Chen Ping’an and Xiao Mo had changed into another landscape painting. But in Chen Ping’an’s heart, the old Daoist’s heart-message rippled: in a certain place in the Yellow Millet Kingdom, a sword manual remained.
Chen Ping’an and Xiao Mo arrived in a place of rising heat. A drought was raging—three months without rain. Rivers dried, lakes parched, no harvest. For a thousand miles, not a blade of grass remained.
Chen Ping’an performed a water technique to bring sweet rain. But after casting the spell, he returned to the original spot. Trying to ride the wind had the same time-reversal effect. So he had to travel on foot with Xiao Mo. In the great drought, no grain grew. People and goods drifted. Along the way, bones lay everywhere. The scenes were utterly pitiful. Once, they encountered a group of women, children, and the elderly about to collapse and die. Chen Ping’an crouched down and gave them wine and food, but it slipped straight through their mouths and down to the ground.
Chen Ping’an crouched there for a long time, unable to get up.
Xiao Mo comforted him. “Young master, it’s all false.”
Chen Ping’an nodded, then shook his head. “It was once all true.”
After they stood and resumed walking, Xiao Mo glanced at his young master’s face—no change.
Later, they came to a county town. Someone had opened granaries to relieve the famine, setting up porridge stalls for many days. But a gang of bandits, hearing the news, rushed through.
By the time Chen Ping’an entered the city, it was like a hell on earth.
Inside a family compound where everyone had been killed, a young man lay in a pool of blood, his face covered in tears. He turned his head with difficulty toward an old man who had been hacked to death.
The young man kept repeating to his father, “Since ancient times, famine relief always required military escort. Why didn’t you listen? Why?”
Chen Ping’an sat on the steps of the courtyard, covered in blood and corpses. He stood up, walked to the young scholar, and tried to gently take his hand—but it was only an afterimage. Still, Chen Ping’an’s hand remained suspended there. He said softly, “Don’t be afraid. For good people like you, walking this human road is like walking through hell.”
Leaving the county, he and Xiao Mo came to the outskirts of a prefectural city. Beside a dry riverbed, an official with cracked lips was praying for rain. Inside the city, there was a folk custom of the sun-dried dragon king.
Chen Ping’an crouched on the opposite bank, scooped up a handful of broken soil, listening to the official’s hoarse prayer. When he finished one recitation, he started again from the beginning. Chen Ping’an stood, took one step to cross the river, and came to the other side. He stood by the incense table, took out paper and brush, and rewrote a prayer for rain. He handed it to the gaunt official. The official, thinking there was no other hope, prepared to memorize this prayer, which violated ritual norms. But just at the first line, the official paled, turned to look at the green-robed man, as if asking with his eyes: “Really? Won’t this invite more disaster?”
The content of the prayer on the paper was truly extremely irreverent.
Normally, such prayers had a format similar to official documents, with respectful phrases like “in trepidation,” opening with “I wish to write to the Rain Master,” and then writing things like “Spring rain is like an imperial decree, summer rain is like an amnesty.”
But the prayer in his hands began: “Rain Master and Wind Uncle, Thunder Lord and Lightning Mother, hear my command. Disobedient, beheaded.”
So the official’s voice trembled as he recited. It had been so long since he had drunk his fill that he might have sweated profusely otherwise. When he finished the rebellious prayer, he collapsed in relief.
After a moment, dark clouds gathered, thunder rolled, lightning flashed, and soon heavy rain poured. For a thousand miles, sweet dew fell.
Xiao Mo looked up and said softly, “Young master, back in the county, I almost couldn’t help but strike. Cutting it down would settle it. I can’t abide it deliberately making things disgusting for you.”
Chen Ping’an caught raindrops the size of soybeans. “It has nothing to do with your fellow Daoist.”
Xiao Mo smiled. “To be honest, if it were ten thousand years ago, seeing such scenes, my heart would be as still as water. Even if I stared for days, I’d remain unmoved. But now it’s different. Maybe because I’ve been with you for so long, I’ve become soft-hearted. Young master, is this the difference between a cultivator of truth and a cultivator of the Dao?”
Chen Ping’an laughed. “From ancient Daoist to today’s Dao practitioner—it’s not entirely good. In terms of cultivation speed alone, it’s definitely slower.”
After that, Chen Ping’an and Xiao Mo came to a new place: a commandery suffering a great flood, the land submerged.
It turned out there was a river in the commandery that had caused floods since ancient times. Chen Ping’an found that he had transformed into the commandery’s prefect—a young prodigy from a humble family, a child prodigy who had passed the imperial exams at a young age, not yet married.
Since he roughly understood the “Heavenly Lord’s” methods, Chen Ping’an gave up on using techniques. He began to beg for money from the local wealthy. As for how to manage the flood, Chen Ping’an had methods and principles. Besides Zhu Lian’s architectural manuals, he had also carefully read many books from the Ministry of Works of Nanyuan Kingdom. He was more than qualified to be a waterworks engineer for the court. Chen Ping’an, with Xiao Mo and a group of clerks, surveyed the riverbed outside the city. He found that constructing a fish-mouth diversion dike would suffice. They needed bamboo cages filled with stones to dam the water. Then they would dig a level water channel and spillway. The curvature of the riverbed also required some attention—all knowledge detailed in ancient texts. Chen Ping’an simply copied them.
After that came visiting doors and soliciting funds from local rich men. He saw high-class anecdotes and marketplace scenes. There was a rich man who had once slammed the table and said, “We who study the sage’s books do our work entirely on the principles of human relationships.” But in the end, he only offered fifty taels. At the beginning of the year, a piglet from his pigpen had run into a neighbor’s. Deeming it unlucky, he sold it to the neighbor at market price. By year’s end, the pig had grown to over a hundred catties and ran back home. The rich man still paid only the “market price” from the beginning of the year. So a lawsuit arose. The case went to the county court. Prefect Chen took this opportunity to make an example, exaggerating the matter, and forced the man steeped in human relationships to visit his home that night and donate an extra hundred taels.
The biggest household in the city belonged to a retired official from the Ministry of Rites in the capital. He had no sons, only a daughter. He claimed that she had memorized thousands of essays from various great authors, all the standard examination papers and provincial examiners’ tests. If she were a son, she would have long won dozens of top scholar and jinshi titles.
When Chen Ping’an visited to discuss Daoist studies, the old man, who had served as an examination grader, still spoke to the prefect as an elder in officialdom. He expounded dogmatically: “If you write good eight-legged essays for the imperial exams, then anything you do will leave a mark like a whip, a slap that draws blood. But if your essays are poor, lacking skill and attention, then no matter what you do, it will be wild fox Zen or demonic heresy…” Hearing this, the young prefect, a man of pure scholarly origin, had to nod vigorously and agree, or else he wouldn’t get the money. The old man then spoke of his sorrow: his son-in-law, who had married into the family, was from a matching family and had talent, but stubbornly refused to pursue the imperial exams. The young prefect comforted him: just have a son soon, teach him to study, and in the future continue the grandfather’s legacy of being a jinshi—how hard could that be? Finally, he concluded decisively, “That way, the lady’s title of honor is still very secure!” The old man was delighted and, in his joy, contributed three thousand taels.
Xiao Mo, acting as the prefect’s attendant, watched and listened, feeling he had learned much about worldly wisdom beyond books.
In this world painting, there were three colored characters. Besides the old man soon recalled to the capital by imperial order, there was a poor scholar who had repeatedly failed the examinations. His family was poor; his father-in-law ran a cooked meat stall in the county. The last was that rich man with ten thousand strings of cash, whose piglet ran off at the start of the year and came back as a big pig at year’s end.
When the old man moved his entire family back to the capital, he turned black-and-white. But after Chen Ping’an completed the water project, erasing the flood threat within his jurisdiction, and received court commendation, he found that the rich man and the poor scholar were still colored. Chen Ping’an pondered a while, then went undercover to the latter’s home. There he saw the poor scholar bidding farewell to his wife at the door, vowing to pass the provincial exam this time. “Be patient for a month or two; then you will be a provincial graduate’s wife.” The woman wiped her tears and smiled, “I hope both literary fortune and happiness come, to bring glory to our ancestors and rid us of poverty. Then I will thank heaven and earth.”
Coincidentally, Prefect Chen, having rendered meritorious service in flood control, was ordered by the court to take up the post of provincial education commissioner and serve as the chief examiner for the current metropolitan exam. From the pile of failing papers, he extracted the poor scholar’s exam composition and circled his name, promoting him to provincial graduate. From that moment, the new provincial graduate turned black-and-white. As for the rich man, he fell ill, nearing death, but remained colored. Chen Ping’an, puzzled, sneaked into his home. He saw the man’s hand extending from the blanket, two fingers raised, stubbornly refusing to breathe his last. Amused, Chen Ping’an pushed the door open and snuffed out one of the two wicks on the oil lamp on the table. The onlookers saw the man on the bed nod, lower his hand, and immediately die.
Xiao Mo leaned against the doorframe, shaking his head.
When Chen Ping’an left the house, the painting changed. He and Xiao Mo seemed to be on the edge of a battlefield. Two armies faced each other across a river. The chariots, cavalry, and figures all had an ancient appearance. One side flew a large banner inscribed with “Benevolence and Righteousness.” The other side had stronger troops. That sovereign was laughing with his advisor: “The enemy has enough armor, but not enough benevolence. I lack armor, but have an excess of benevolence and righteousness. We will surely win greatly.”
Later, the advisor saw the enemy crossing the river and suggested attacking them halfway across. The sovereign refused. The two armies clashed, and the sovereign was utterly defeated.
Chen Ping’an watched with hands in sleeves. After the painting returned to its original state twice, he went into the army and approached the only colored figure’s chariot. The latter asked, “Was I wrong?”
Chen Ping’an, hands in sleeves, said nothing.
“What did later history books say about me?”
Chen Ping’an remained silent.
“Never mind the history books—what about the streets and alleys, the unofficial histories?”
The sovereign was desolate, tears in his eyes. He slapped the chariot rail heavily. “There must be at least one good word!”
Chen Ping’an still did not give a direct answer. “Right things, good things, immediate things, matters after death, matters of a moment, matters that last a thousand years—all mixed together, how can they be distinguished? Besides, you were not a cultivator of the Dao. When in office, you must take care of the safety of a nation’s people. As a commander on the battlefield, you must win the battle at hand.”
The sovereign of the fallen state cried out “Benevolence and righteousness!” several times, then his form dissipated.
After that, Chen Ping’an and Xiao Mo saw many other bizarre people and events.
They drifted in a small boat under the moonlight, mooring at an ancient bridge. They saw a small building as beautiful as a painting, standing alone by the water. Whenever there was a clear breeze and bright moon, a woman’s blurred form could be seen in the winding corridors, pacing back and forth, lingering tenderly, throwing coins into the water.
Further on, across a thousand miles, Chen Ping’an finally saw another colored figure—a romantic young master. In a bustling market, he made his servant kneel and sit on his back, had his page play a flute, and made the servant under him mimic a phoenix and crane in flight. When the servant rose too slowly, the young master sighed, wept uncontrollably, and said, “I cannot attain an immortal; I shall become a water immortal to see my beloved.” He then ran and jumped into a nearby pond—apparently trying to drown himself—but was quickly pulled out by servants, a soaking mess.
Chen Ping’an asked Xiao Mo to deliver a letter on his behalf. Though the scholar-and-beauty romance might be sincere, Chen Ping’an had no interest in playing matchmaker.
Then they came to a mountainside. An old monk led a young novice down the mountain. They met a woman. The old monk only said that the tigers at the foot of the mountain could eat people, so she must not be approached—she must be avoided.
On returning to the mountain, the young novice blushed and touched his bald head. He said to his master, “I don’t want anything else. I only think of that man-eating tiger at the foot of the mountain. My heart can’t let her go.”
Chen Ping’an suppressed a smile.
Back at the dilapidated mountain temple, in the freezing cold, the old monk actually chopped up a wooden Buddha statue for firewood and lit it to keep warm. He turned to look at the green-robed scholar lodging in the temple, who was on his way to the capital for exams.
Chen Ping’an shook his head. “What you, monk, can do, I cannot.”
The old monk asked, “Why not? Hasn’t it always been that praying to Buddha is praying to oneself?”
Chen Ping’an did not move at all.
And so this painting—the master and novice going down and up the mountain, the old monk returning to the temple to chop the Buddha statue for fire—repeated over and over.
Finally, Xiao Mo couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t help but say something to the old monk.
The old monk then stood up with a smile, bowed his head to Xiao Mo, palms together.
After the rain, they met an old woman on the road, tattered clothes yet riding a fine horse with ornate saddle and bridle—a mismatched sight.
The old woman, kindly, reined in and asked warmly, “Where are you going, young master?”
Chen Ping’an said he was visiting relatives in the outskirts. The old woman said, “The road is muddy and full of tiger danger. Better to come to my humble home for a brief rest and travel on at dawn, at leisure.”
Chen Ping’an then bowed in thanks.
The old woman rode slowly, leading them along a secluded path. After three or four li, they faintly saw lamplight among the trees. The old woman pointed with her whip. “We’re here.”
The house was practically bare: a wooden bed, a table, only a lantern hanging on the wall. A woman slowly looked up, smoothing her hair—her face haggard. The old woman’s hospitality, however, was generous: fish and meat, but a basin instead of a pot. Chen Ping’an and Xiao Mo had to break branches as chopsticks. But the fish and rice were cold—hard for ordinary people to swallow. Not for Chen Ping’an. After the meal, Chen Ping’an sat at the table. The earthen floor was uneven, so the table tilted. Chen Ping’an went outside, found wood in the forest, and cut blocks to prop up the table legs. The old woman thanked him. The woman caught lice by the lamp. Chen Ping’an didn’t ask why a poor household served such lavish dishes. He just took out his tobacco pipe and began to smoke. The woman looked at him several times, as if wanting to speak but holding back.
Chen Ping’an asked, “May I ask, old mother, what time of year is it now?”
The old woman answered with a smile. “Just past the Ghost Festival. The food we served was given by the hosts.”
Chen Ping’an nodded in understanding. He stood to take his leave—since there was only one room, it was inconvenient to stay. He just said he was in a hurry to travel. The old woman couldn’t persuade him to stay. She said, “Young master, follow the earlier path for over fifty li. There is a courier station. My husband works there. He is hunchbacked and lame—easy to recognize. Please urge him to send some copper cash home, as we have run out of food and clothing.”
Chen Ping’an led Xiao Mo out of the forest house. If nothing unexpected happened, come dawn, this place would likely be just an ancient, crumbling tomb half-hidden in weeds and thorns.
They walked leisurely to that courier station. Halfway, they passed a large grave mound, surrounded by dense pines and cypresses. At dawn, they indeed saw a hunchbacked, lame old man who claimed to be the tomb guardian for some official, working odd jobs at the station. His wife had been a maidservant in that official’s house. The old man said he would borrow money to buy paper money from the incense-candle shop that handled funeral goods. Chen Ping’an gave him some broken silver and reminded him, “Besides paper money, paper houses, carriages, clothing, etc., it’s best to also order a paper tobacco pipe with tobacco to burn.”
Xiao Mo watched the old man hobble away. He asked via heart-message, “Young master, could this well-informed parasol tree fellow Daoist already know my current pseudonym and Daoist name?”
Pseudonym: Mo Sheng. Daoist name: Xi Zhu.
“Xi Zhu” meaning “joyful candle.” Since “sheng” in “life” can also mean “living beings.”
Chen Ping’an shook his head. “That fellow Daoist’s intentions may require further thought.”
They waited a while. The old man burned the paper goods before the grave as promised. Then Chen Ping’an and Xiao Mo moved to another painting.
It was a shrine. On the incense table lay a covenant oath. Two kinds of writing: one firm as stone, the other wavering. The content: the first was a woman’s oath, colored; the man’s oath was like flowing water, rising and falling, pale white as ash.
Apparently, local lovesick men and women often came to this shrine to swear oaths. If any party broke the covenant, the spirit would pursue and punish.
Xiao Mo looked up at the two statues in the shrine: one tall, one short. The tall, painted statue had the young master’s face; the lower assistant official had Xiao Mo’s face.
Xiao Mo smiled. Ten thousand years not seen, and this fellow Daoist had only learned such flashy techniques?
Chen Ping’an picked up the oath that testified against “himself.” He sighed, looked into the distance. Using his innate divine ability as “a local spirit,” he saw a lovesick woman and a heartless man. The former had coughed blood and died, becoming a lonely ghost. Her corpse lay in a Daoist temple. The man, rather clever, had moved to the capital area, started a family, married well. His official career went smoothly. His new wife was the daughter of a grand secretary of the current dynasty. As the local spirit, Chen Ping’an moved his heart, shrinking distances, and in one step arrived at the border of his domain, but going further was difficult.
Xiao Mo suddenly said, “The shrine’s golden body is starting to crack.”
Chen Ping’an nodded. He looked around within his domain, found a local hero known for bold chivalry, and sent a dream to this man, explaining the whole story. He bestowed a thousand gold coins as travel funds for the capital.
After waking, the hero said not a word. He mounted a fine horse and galloped day and night toward the capital.
Within half a month, outside the Daoist temple where the corpse lay, a burly warrior with a bearded face, a sword at his waist, rode up at full gallop. Passing through several gates, he carried a bloody bundle on his back. He reined in before the coffin, lifted his beard, and shouted, “The heartless man has been killed!”
Then the hero untied the bundle. A blood-covered head rolled onto the ground—it was the head of the faithless man.
The female ghost wandering outside the temple, eyes blurry with tears, curtsied deeply to the departing hero. She wept in gratitude. Then she turned and knelt inside the temple, thanking the two local spirits.
After that, their identities changed. They became two refined scholars traveling to visit friends.
Near the friend’s house, there was a haunted, abandoned mansion. Every night, the white walls showed countless bones, ferocious faces.
A merchant, colluding with local officials, altered the deed and took the mansion as private property—only to get a hot potato.
Daoist altars and Buddhist sermons availed nothing. Instead, the ghosts mocked, “Is that all you skilled ones can do?”
Later, Chen Ping’an’s “friend,” refusing to believe, considered himself a righteous man steeped in sage books and an official besides—what had he to fear from ghosts? He brought some sage books and an official seal to spend the night—only to nearly have his soul scared out of him. He fled in less than an incense stick’s time, fell ill, and spent over ten days recovering. When he saw his two close friends, he only said the vengeful ghosts were so fierce that he wondered who in the world could subdue them.
Chen Ping’an then brought Xiao Mo to the haunted house at night, strolling leisurely. The terrifying sights and eerie sounds on the walls—they turned a blind eye and a deaf ear.
Xiao Mo held a mountain-walking staff, one hand behind his back. Suddenly he widened his eyes and stared back at a bloody face on the wall. The latter seemed startled instead. Xiao Mo turned his head and smiled. “Young master, what now? Our sword techniques and divine powers obviously don’t work here. How do we exorcise demons? Persuade them with reason? Or buy the deed from the merchant and put a seal on the door?”
Chen Ping’an leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, looking at the wall and smiling. “The way of the world: yin and yang are distinct, the hidden and the manifest are different paths. Only the vulgar disturb themselves. As long as you respect ghosts and spirits while keeping them at a distance, nothing happens.”
From the wall came a faint sigh. A woman in colorful clothes, with cloud-like hair and exquisite makeup, stepped out of the wall gracefully and drifted to the ground. “Your words, sir, are comforting to the heart.”
The female ghost suddenly smiled like a flower. “Then allow me to take you gentlemen to a garden of all flowers.”
A door opened on the wall. The woman stepped inside first, turning to beckon.
Xiao Mo couldn’t help asking, “With all these detours, what does he want?”
This fellow Daoist kept playing these petty tricks—what for?
Chen Ping’an smiled. “The boat will straighten itself at the bridge. Treat it as a sightseeing trip.”
Chen Ping’an almost thought he had arrived at the Hundred Flowers Blessed Land.
Along the path, rare flowers and exotic plants accompanied the women, each with a different charm.
Finally, they reached a grand hall. Outside, a young girl seemed to call out their names as “two scholars from the human world.”
The girl was only fourteen or fifteen, slender and delicate. She walked slowly, as if her bones were chattering.
Chen Ping’an led Xiao Mo across the threshold. Inside, they saw a lady seated high on a throne, with phoenix-like grace, wearing a kingfisher-feather crown like an empress.
About a dozen maidens in the hall, all national beauties.
The lady in the presiding seat said that since both were learned, she requested poetry in matching rhyme.
Chen Ping’an just drank wine—a kind of “hundred flower paste.” When asked for poetry, he let Xiao Mo take over.
Well, Xiao Mo showed no stage fright. He raised his cup, stood up, and immediately delivered dozens of poems on flowers and plants, all of which were centos cobbled together from various sources.
Chen Ping’an lowered his head and held his forehead, unable to face anyone.
The women, however, were very appreciative, gasping and crying out, seemingly convinced of Xiao Mo’s learning.
In the end, Xiao Mo managed to get them through.
Both still held wine cups. Xiao Mo said, “I feel it’s not over.”
Chen Ping’an tossed his overly feminine wine cup to Xiao Mo, patted his shoulder. “In the future, challenge more people to sword fights and fewer to poetry contests.”
They now found themselves in a busy market. An old man carried a shoulder pole sellling flowers—white and red, lovely. In the warm daylight, he set down his burden, took out a fan, and fanned himself. Even if the old man weren’t a colored character, that fan in his hand certainly wasn’t something a villager would own. On the fan’s surface was a poem. The characters were delicate—each one seemed like a beautiful woman’s secret longing. At the end, there was a signature.
Chen Ping’an patted Xiao Mo’s shoulder again, heavily.
Xiao Mo looked puzzled.
Chen Ping’an said with a sly smile, “Didn’t you say it’s not over? Well, here’s a coincidence. With all that memorized content, that warehouse of learning—now’s the time to use it.”
Xiao Mo was utterly confused, though Chen Ping’an thought he was playing dumb. “Don’t just stand there. Go ask the old man about the fan’s origin. I’ll pretend to be your attendant. You’re a scholar heading to the capital for exams. You might just find yourself spending a wedding night in the bridal chamber.”
Xiao Mo glanced at the fan’s surface, frowned, then shook his head. “This lady’s poetry is… really on par with Xiao Mo’s.”
Chen Ping’an said seriously, “Xiao Mo, what’s wrong? Didn’t you see all those scholar-beauty stories? In such poetic exchanges, praise for each other’s poems must be excessive. Portrayals of scholars and beauties must say how wonderful their poetry is, and authors must write many good poems for them.”
Xiao Mo felt his head swell to the size of a winnowing basket.
Sure enough, as the young master said, he almost ended up having a wedding night with a young beauty. Eventually, they exchanged tokens of love and barely passed this hurdle.
Seeing the young master’s grave expression, Xiao Mo immediately asked via heart-message, “Young master, a string of schemes?”
Chen Ping’an shook his head. “Not schemes—open moves.”
After that, Chen Ping’an became a sovereign in a time of peace. He acted absurdly, even conferring the title of female number one scholar on a quick-witted girl. Carriages and horses crowded the streets as people sought her calligraphy and poetry. Among them, the girl saw a young scholar waiting bitterly downstairs. Because he was lame, she mocked him subtly. The scholar came from a powerful family but was only half-educated, not understanding her sarcasm. Amid a crowd of guests, he preened, only to have someone expose the truth, causing a huge scandal. He held a grudge from then on, smashed his cup, and roared, “The daughter of a living prime minister bullies me, the son of a dead prime minister?”
He plotted repeatedly, causing a string of troubles for the girl’s family. Fortunately, her father, the Minister of Personnel, was powerful and a leader of the purist faction. They barely weathered the storms. One day, discussing the matter with his daughter, the minister learned the full story. Then he caught a son-in-law from the list of successful candidates, gaining a fine husband. The father-in-law and son-in-law joined forces to resist the schemes of the “son of a dead prime minister.” Logically, the outcome should be good prevailing over evil, a happy reunion.
But Chen Ping’an, as the supreme sovereign, simply watched the farce coldly. At the crucial moment, he did not speak a single word of justice for the Minister of Personnel who was imprisoned, nor did he issue a life-saving decree for the number one scholar sentenced to exile a thousand miles. Only just before the former young girl—now a married woman—was about to be sent to the imperial music bureau as a courtesan, did he issue a secret decree. Then he left the palace. The emperor summoned the now middle-aged lame man and watched the distant embroidery pavilion with him. The emperor asked, “Think back. When you were here that year, what were you thinking? After all these years, do you still remember?”
The lame man nodded. “I remember it clearly.”
After receiving the true answer, the emperor went to the so-called imperial prison. Through the iron bars, he looked at the old minister kowtowing repeatedly. The “emperor” crouched down and asked this grand minister, “Do you still remember a certain sentence from that year?”
The disheveled old minister looked completely blank. The emperor prompted, “When you first learned that the lame young man had been teased by your daughter, what was your first sentence?”
The old minister could not recall such old matters. He only continued kowtowing, begging the emperor for leniency.
The emperor slowly said, “You said, ‘That’s all right.’ Then you began discussing with your daughter how to clean up the mess.”
The old minister looked up, even more bewildered. Where had he gone wrong?
Chen Ping’an stood up, looking at this minister who likely existed in history. “That’s all right? How could it be ‘that’s all right’?!”
Finally, Chen Ping’an said via heart-message, “Open the door.”
Xiao Mo sighed. That parasol tree fellow Daoist had indeed opened the door.
They then came to a cliffside cave dwelling. Inside, a man who had attained the Dao sat as if deceased, two nasal mucus strands hanging a foot long, a gleaming golden scroll in his sleeve, and an ancient pine staff at his feet.
When Chen Ping’an and Xiao Mo appeared, the River of Time began to flow slowly backward. The lame man came to life, “stood up,” “picked up” the staff, and walked “backward.”
The Dao-attained man in the countryside learned the language of a hundred birds. In the market, he wandered in tattered clothes, barefoot, singing loudly, a gourd at his waist. He scooped water and turned it into wine, often drunk and sleeping on the road in wind and rain. He was skilled at painting dragons, spitting wine onto torn paper—clouds and mist billowed, scales vivid.
The flow of time went back a “hundred years” until the lame Daoist regained his youthful appearance, traveling to a remote island. The island had primitive people, simple folk who loved words but had no teachers, no schools. He wrote a character on his palm and taught it to curious children, charging one coin per character. Over “several years,” copper coins piled up like a mountain. Chen Ping’an also visited, once a month, seeking just one character from this man who had no title of teacher but truly was one. His only request: that it be written on paper, not a palm. The man required Chen Ping’an to bring wine each time.
Finally, Chen Ping’an exchanged seven jugs of wine and seven copper coins for seven sheets of paper, seven characters: Spring, Book, Chan, Mountain, Sword, Water, Slip.
This landscape painting took the most time. Judging by the burning of the White Colt Passing Crevice Talisman, about three months had passed.
After that, Chen Ping’an and Xiao Mo came to the last painting of another person’s life.
After a great battle, a shop at a countryside market sold pancakes. Every dusk, a woman came with a copper coin to buy one pancake. The shopkeeper asked why. She said her husband had traveled far and hadn’t returned; she didn’t know if he was alive or dead. Her child was hungry, so she bought a pancake. At first the shopkeeper suspected nothing, but after a time, he found that every day, a paper money coin appeared in his money jar. A neighbor said it was undoubtedly a ghost buying pancakes. The next day, the shopkeeper secretly dropped all the day’s coins into a bowl of water. The woman’s coin floated on the surface, not sinking. Terrified, on the third day, the woman came again. The shopkeeper pretended not to know the truth. After she left, he immediately called neighbors, lit torches, and chased after her. The woman looked back, her expression complicated. She moved like a bird, flickering in and out of sight. Finally, they found a dilapidated coffin. Inside, the woman was a skeleton, but the infant in the coffin was like a living child, holding a pancake. Not afraid of people. The onlookers took pity and brought it back. In the distance, the ghost woman stood far off, covering her face with her sleeve, sobbing. After that, every night, if the child had nightmares and couldn’t sleep, there would be soft cooing sounds and a patting of the blanket. Then the child would sleep deeply. Eventually, on some day, the woman was seen no more. The child grew up, talking and acting like a normal person, but often silently wept, because he couldn’t remember his parents’ faces.
Chen Ping’an remained in this painting, doing nothing, saying nothing.
Xiao Mo did not urge him. He just quietly accompanied his young master—walking in the twilight, standing by the shop, following the torch-wielding crowd on the night road, sitting on the steps outside the door, listening to the child’s awakening and falling back asleep.
When the ten hours had been used up, Xiao Mo again accompanied the young master to the pancake shop. They stood by the bowl of water. Chen Ping’an watched the coin that floated without sinking, again and again. Xiao Mo sighed, and said softly via heart-message, “Young master, just speak the truth, and this illusion will break. We need to go.”
Chen Ping’an’s lips moved, but he remained silent.
Xiao Mo wanted to speak several times but finally held back.
The truth was too cruel. Perhaps the woman had not died, but the infant had died young. Or perhaps both mother and child died in childbirth.
Like the man who never returned—maybe he died in a foreign land, maybe not. Who knew?
Xiao Mo suddenly looked up. The surrounding scenes dissolved. Before them appeared a parasol tree that reached the sky, as if growing in water.
But Chen Ping’an was looking down, as if overlooking this immense tree growing upside down.
A parasol tree, yellow leaves covering the ground.
Xiao Mo glanced. It was a sight of one leaf, one world—a flowing panorama of various lives.
In an instant, the once bright and glorious world became dim. A single lamp floated on the water’s surface. Then, like stars scattered across the mountains and the human world, they grew dense, glowing brightly—hundreds of billions, beyond counting.
Xiao Mo suddenly took a subconscious step sideways.
It was because Chen Ping’an beside him had, without notice, transformed into a figure wearing a blood-red robe. His face was indistinct. His entire body, both flesh and soul, seemed woven from crisscrossing lines.
Approximately pressed down by the Great Dao of a Demon Suppression Tower, his body flickered in and out of blurry afterimages. The sound of soul crossing was loud, far surpassing the metallic ring of the world. It was as if several final Hidden Officials of the Sword Qi Wall had appeared simultaneously.