Chapter: Prologue: Descending the Mountain
The world is relative.
The Central Continent faces the Great Western Continent across the ocean, standing in distant opposition. The eastern lands are higher in elevation, and the sky there seems higher as well. Clouds rise from the sea and the land, drifting ceaselessly toward that place, eventually gathering together, never dispersing throughout the year.
This is the Cloud Grave—the burial ground of all clouds in the world.
Deep within the Cloud Grave, a solitary peak is faintly visible. Its summit pierces straight into the void, leading to an unknown destination.
Legend has it that the world is composed of five continents, each with its own unique scenery. Only those powerful beings who have entered the sacred domain can behold all the landscapes. For ordinary people, legends are merely legends. They do not know where the other continents are, nor how to reach them, nor that the solitary peak in the Cloud Grave is the passage to those other lands.
Naturally, no one has ever seen the scenery above the clouds. Here, the calm cloud layers spread in all directions like white silk floss, seemingly endless. Beyond the mirror-like surface of the void above lies an infinite black abyss, filled with countless stars.
Suddenly, two stars brighten, growing increasingly luminous as they rapidly approach the mirror-like surface. When the two stars reach the front of the mirror, they can be clearly seen—two clusters of sacred, pure white flames.
Cracks like a spiderweb appear on the mirror that separates the real world from the night sky, then instantly repair themselves.
The two clusters of sacred flames have already appeared in the real world on this side of the mirror, in some miraculous manner. The thin air warps and distorts from the burning heat—those are not divine flames, but merely its eyes.
The entire world grows uneasy due to the descent of this colossal presence. Light refracts endlessly, a mountain-like shadow appears on the cloud surface, and space begins to bulge and deform, as if it might be crushed.
A golden dragon appears between the void and the clouds.
The distant red sun is completely obscured by its enormous body. The world for tens of thousands of kilometers above the cloud layer darkens as a result. The surrounding temperature plummets sharply. Frost crystals begin to form in the clouds, reflecting countless rays of light, turning into a bizarre, shimmering crystalline mirror. Heaven and earth change color—such is the majesty of a supreme lifeform.
The golden dragon gazes down upon the world, its eyes indifferent.
It has seen the scenery above the clouds many times before.
The golden dragon flies toward the solitary peak at the edge of the sky. As it draws near, its terrifying, colossal dragon body sinks into the depths of the mist, vanishing from sight. Countless amounts of fog are parted by its fearsome, massive form. The cliffs of the solitary peak are rugged and jagged, extremely steep, devoid of plants—not even moss—utterly silent, like a tomb.
Thus it flies deeper into the mist, passing through long days and nights. It is impossible to know how far it has traveled, yet it remains always within the fog, encountering nothing else. Only faintly can moss be seen appearing on the cliffs. The clouds and mist are much thicker than at the top. Perhaps due to self-compression, many crystals begin to form within the mist—these are water droplets—and the air grows moist.
The golden dragon has no interest in these changes and continues flying downward.
The vegetation within the solitary peak grows more abundant. The clouds and mist become wetter. Water droplets fall upon the cliffs, gradually forming countless streams as thick as green leaves. Tens of thousands of fine streams gurgle and flow among the cliffs, falling into the mist.
The golden dragon gazes at the myriad trickling streams among the solitary peak, and the expression in its pupils grows more solemn. The two clusters of divine flames burn even more deeply—this is the grave of all clouds, and also the source of all waters.
Countless streams fall from the solitary peak, but it watches only one.
The golden dragon flies silently through the mist, following that stream. It passes through countless days and nights, as if this repetition will never end. Yet at a certain moment... the mist before it disperses.
Before the clouds and mist lies the ground.
The lower edge of the clouds and mist is very smooth, perfectly following the contours of the ground, flawlessly maintaining a distance of five feet between the clouds and the surface—exactly the height of a human, as if designed by the Creator. The five-foot space between the ground and the clouds leads to distant places. Faint light can be seen in the distance, but no sun is visible. Countless streams flow across the ground.
The mist dissipates before the massive dragon head, revealing the ground and that small stream.
The stream water comes from the dew within the solitary peak—clear, calm, and cold. Floating in the stream is a wooden basin. Inside the basin are several layers of linen cloth, and on the linen lies an infant—the infant's face is slightly blue, its eyes closed, clearly born not long ago.
The mist above the stream blooms like a flower, opening into countless thousands of petals—crowding, surging, breaking apart, with a hissing sound. A golden dragon head, larger than a palace, slowly emerges from the clouds and mist, coming to rest above the stream.
The five-foot distance between the stream surface and the mist is narrow for it—part of the golden dragon's body remains hidden in the mist, and part of its dragon head is also concealed, making it appear even more majestic, mysterious, and terrifying.
The golden dragon gazes silently at the stream surface.
The wooden basin continues to bob gently in the stream water.
Inside the tiny basin lies the abandoned, eyes-closed, blue-faced newborn infant.
...
...
The mist gradually flows away, and everything returns to stillness.
Yet stillness is only temporary... Deep within the mist, even as far as the vicinity of the solitary peak, at almost the same moment, countless piercing and mournful (qili), panicked shrieks and howls erupt!
In what was thought to be a silent, lifeless world, countless birds and beasts were hidden. Everywhere in the mist, there are sounds of wings flapping, the sound of a unicorn crashing into an ancient tree in panic, and even a very clear phoenix cry!
An invisible line of fire formed from divine thought spreads from the stream bank toward the horizon. The wet grass instantly becomes bone-dry, and even the edges of the water plants in the stream curl up!
There is still no emotion in the golden dragon's pupils—noble, indifferent, ruling over all.
The fleeing of ten thousand beasts in the world below the clouds does not concern it. Even that young phoenix does not concern it. It only stares at this stream before it, at the wooden basin on the stream. From the solitary peak, hundreds of thousands of streams fall, but it watches only this one. After thirty thousand years, it has come to this world again, all for the infant in this basin—how could it look away?
A very thin thread of light slowly descends. The surface of this thread of light is golden, while its interior is sacred and pure white, as if it can emit light on its own. The front end of the thread is extremely thin, gradually thickening toward the back until it is as thick as a child's arm. Its surface is extremely smooth and perfect, and the luster shining from deep within adds to its beauty.
The material of this thread of light is like gold and jade, giving the impression that it should be heavy, but in reality, it is very light. It sways constantly with the breeze above the stream, as if dancing, wanting to lightly touch the wooden basin, yet instantly withdrawing.
That is the golden dragon's whisker.
At this moment, the divine flames in the golden dragon's pupils are no longer so eternally stable. Indifference has been replaced by contemplation, as if it is hesitating about something. The tips of its two whiskers, like gentle fingers, lightly touch the edge of the wooden basin on the stream, as if caressing it, yet in reality, they do not make actual contact.
This golden dragon has lived through an extremely long span of time and possesses unimaginable wisdom. Yet at this moment, that wooden basin seems to be a puzzle it cannot solve—the emotions in its pupils grow increasingly complex, with longing, vigilance, hesitation, and finally, struggle. Perhaps unintentionally, perhaps intentionally, the wind above the stream shifts slightly. The whisker that should have brushed past the edge of the wooden basin trembles lightly, finally making true contact with the basin for the first time, even grazing beneath the infant's ear!
Such a slight contact produces extremely violent changes—the two divine flames deep in the golden dragon's pupils explode with a roar, scattering into countless stars. Within that ocean of stars, a naked, cold, and greedy desire is laid bare!
That desire is praise, is awe.
It is praise for life, awe because of life.
It is the most primitive longing of life.
The golden dragon looks at the wooden basin on the stream and opens its mouth. Dragon breath pours out like shattered jade.
The infant in the basin still has its eyes closed, completely unaware of what is about to happen.
The stream water is shrouded in shadow.
The dragon breath falls around the wooden basin.
In the next moment, the wooden basin and the infant within it will become the golden dragon's food.
Just then.
A hand lands on the edge of the wooden basin, pulling it toward the stream bank!
That hand is covered in scars, somewhat thin, very small.
With a splashing sound, the stream water breaks. That hand pulls the wooden basin, running desperately toward the stream bank.
The owner of that hand is a young Daoist boy, three or four years old.
The young Daoist boy pulls the wooden basin to the stream bank, hiding it between the rocks on the shore and his own body. Then he turns around, draws the sword from his waist, and looks up at the terrifying, enormous golden dragon head on the stream.
This is a very strange young Daoist boy.
He is blind in one eye, missing one ear. From the way he ran desperately in the stream earlier, it is clear that he is also slightly lame. Looking at his empty sleeve, he only has one hand.
No wonder he could only hide the wooden basin behind him before drawing his sword.
Looking at the massive dragon head on the stream, the young Daoist boy's face is pale, his teeth chattering—not from the icy stream water, but from the fear in his heart.
This is the first time he has seen a real dragon. He doesn't even know what a dragon is. He only knows fear. But he does not flee. Instead, he holds that thin wooden sword and firmly shields the basin behind him.
The golden dragon looks at the young Daoist boy with an indifferent expression. Only a super-strong being who has also entered the sacred domain could see the deepest anger and coldness in its pupils.
The young Daoist boy shouts something, his face pale, extremely terrified, but he does not let go of the basin in his hand.
The golden dragon grows angry. Dragon breath envelops both banks of the stream. Death is about to arrive.
The wooden sword in the young Daoist boy's hand falls into the water. He turns around and hugs the wooden basin to his chest.
The scales on the golden dragon's body rub against the mist, splashing countless heavenly fires. The stream water begins to burn.
Just then, a middle-aged Daoist appears on the stream bank.
The middle-aged Daoist looks at the golden dragon on the stream, his expression calm.
The heavenly fire on the stream suddenly extinguishes.
The golden dragon looks at the middle-aged Daoist and lets out a dragon roar!
The dragon roar is extremely long, as if it will never stop. It is a very complex sound, like the most intricate music, or like the sound of the most terrifying hurricane in nature, carrying unimaginable power!
The middle-aged Daoist looks at the golden dragon and speaks a single word.
That is a monosyllabic word, with an extremely strange and difficult pronunciation, as if it is not a human language at all. Within that fragment, it seems to contain infinite information, full of ancient meaning!
The golden dragon understands, but it does not agree.
So the mist above the stream surges violently.
Dragon breath spews everywhere. The wet grass and forest on the stream bank instantly turn into a terrifying fire scene.
That young Daoist boy has his back to the stream, completely unaware of what is happening. He lowers his head in fear, closes his eyes, and only holds the wooden basin tightly in his arms.
...
...
No one knows how much time passes before the stream bank finally falls silent.
The young Daoist boy gathers his courage and looks back. He sees that the stream water is clear, and the fires on both banks have also gone out. Only the scorched trees and cracked stones tell of the terror of the previous battle.
A dragon roar comes from deep within the clouds and mist. The roar is filled with pain, unwillingness, and regret. It tells the entire world of five continents what a profound regret its earlier hesitation has brought.
The young Daoist boy is startled. Holding the wooden basin with one hand, he limps out of the stream, crawls onto the bank, walks to the side of the middle-aged Daoist, and timidly looks into the depths of the clouds and mist.
The middle-aged Daoist reaches out and brushes away the flames on his shoulder.
The young Daoist boy remembers something and, with some difficulty, lifts the wooden basin.
The middle-aged Daoist takes the wooden basin and gently picks up the infant inside. The fingertip of his right hand, through the linen cloth, touches the infant's body. The next moment, his brow furrows.
"Your fate... is truly very bad." He looks at the infant wrapped in linen cloth and says with pity.
...
...
In the east of the Eastern Continent, there is a small town called Xining. Outside the town, there is a small stream. By the stream, there is a mountain. On the mountain, there is a temple. But there are no monks in the temple—only a middle-aged Daoist with two disciples, cultivating and seeking the Dao here.
The mountain is a nameless green mountain. The temple is an abandoned Buddhist temple. The older disciple is called Yu Ren, and the younger is called Chen Changsheng.
Xining Town is within the territory of the Zhou Kingdom. The Great Zhou Dynasty established Daoism as the state religion eight hundred years ago. Up to the present Zhenguan era, the state religion has unified the world and is held in even greater reverence. In principle, the master and his two disciples should be living a life of luxury. Unfortunately, Xining Town is too remote, and that dilapidated temple is even more remote, rarely visited by people, so they can only live a simple life of coarse tea and plain rice.
A Daoist, naturally, must cultivate the Dao. There are countless methods of cultivation in the world today. The Daoist teachings imparted by that middle-aged Daoist are completely different from those of other sects. They do not emphasize cultivation and enlightenment, do not concern themselves with observing one's fate star, do not care about refining the soul. It is all summed up in one word: memorize.
Yu Ren began reciting Daoist scriptures from a young age. Chen Changsheng, as soon as he opened his eyes, was forced to stare blankly at those yellowed old books. The first things he recognized were the Daoist scriptures and classics that filled the room. After learning to speak, he began to learn to recognize characters, and then he began to recite the words on those Daoist scriptures and classics.
Recite and practice them regularly, until they can be recited fluently from memory—this is the life of the two young Daoist boys in the dilapidated temple.
Waking at dawn, they recite. Under the scorching sun, they recite. In the twilight with the broken bell, they recite. In the warmth of spring with blooming flowers, amidst the thunder of summer, in the bleak autumn wind, in the bitter winter snow, they are on the ridges, by the stream, under the trees, beside the plum blossoms, holding Daoist scriptures, constantly reading and reciting, unaware of the passage of time.
In the dilapidated temple, there is an entire room filled with Daoist scripture scrolls. When Yu Ren was seven, he was bored and counted them—there were fully three thousand scrolls. Three thousand scrolls of the Great Dao. Each scroll has either a few hundred or over a thousand characters. The shortest, the Scripture of the Divine, has only three hundred and fourteen characters. The longest, the Scripture of Longevity, has over twenty thousand characters. These are all they must memorize.
The two brothers recite ceaselessly, only seeking to remember, not seeking to understand. They have long known that their master will never answer any of their questions about the Daoist canon. He will only say, "Remember, and you will naturally understand."
For the playful and enlightened (qimeng) children of the world, such a life is unimaginable. Fortunately, the green mountain is desolate and remote, rarely seeing human presence, with no external distractions to occupy their minds. The two young Daoist boys have peculiar temperaments and do not find it boring or tedious. Thus, day after day, they recite, and before they know it, several years have passed.
One day, the sound of reading that had not stopped for several years ceases. The two children sit on a rock, shoulder to shoulder, a book resting on both their knees. They glance at the book, then look at each other, both looking somewhat bewildered.
By now, they have reached the last scroll, but they cannot continue. They cannot understand it. The characters on this Daoist scripture are unfamiliar—more precisely, they are very strange. They recognize all the radicals and strokes, but when combined, they form completely bizarre things. How do you read them? What do they mean?
The two return to the temple and find the middle-aged Daoist.
The middle-aged Daoist says, "The Great Dao has three thousand scrolls. What you are looking at is the last scroll. This scroll has one thousand six hundred and one characters. Legend has it that it conceals the ultimate meaning of the Heavenly Dao. No one has ever been able to fully comprehend its meaning, let alone you two."
Chen Changsheng asks, "Master, don't you understand either?"
The middle-aged Daoist shakes his head and says, "No one dares to claim they truly understand. I cannot either."
The two brothers look at each other, feeling a bit regretful. Although they are still children, having recited the three thousand Daoist scriptures until today, only to fall short on the last scroll, they naturally cannot be happy. But they are not ordinary children after all. Having been accompanied by Daoist scriptures since their ignorant and innocent (mengdong) years, their temperaments are somewhat indifferent. They prepare to turn and leave.
Just then, the middle-aged Daoist continues, "...But I can read it."
From that day on, the middle-aged Daoist begins to teach the pronunciation of the last scroll of the Daoist canon, teaching the reading of each character one by one. Those pronunciations are particularly strange. Very simple monosyllables require the use of a certain muscle in the throat and have special requirements for the vocal cords. In short, they do not sound like sounds a normal human could produce.
Chen Changsheng does not understand at all. He simply imitates the pronunciations taught by his master obediently, like a little duck. Yu Ren, however, occasionally recalls the word his master spoke to that terrifying creature by the stream many years ago.
Yu Ren and Chen Changsheng spend a long time finally mastering the pronunciation of those one thousand six hundred and one characters, yet they still do not understand their meaning. Asking the middle-aged Daoist yields no answer. By this time, they have already spent an entire year on this last scroll. Then they begin, as before, to hold the last scroll and continue reciting it until they can memorize it.
When they think they have finally escaped the life of reciting Daoist scriptures, the middle-aged Daoist asks them to read it a second time. The helpless children are forced to repeat the process again. Perhaps it is because of the repetition, but this time, reciting the Daoist canon feels much more arduous to them, even somewhat unbearable.
It is also at this time that they begin to feel puzzled. Why does their master want them to read these Daoist scriptures? Why doesn't he teach them cultivation? Clearly, the Daoist scriptures say that a Daoist should cultivate the Dao and pursue longevity.
At this time, Yu Ren is ten years old, and Chen Changsheng is six and a half. It is also in the autumn of this year that a white crane breaks through the clouds, bringing greetings from an old friend far away, along with a silk letter. On the silk letter are written the eight characters of birth, a marriage contract, and a token of faith—a high-ranking official once saved by the middle-aged Daoist wishes to fulfill a promise made years ago.
The middle-aged Daoist looks at the marriage contract and smiles without speaking. Then he looks at his two disciples. Yu Ren waves his hand, points to his blind eye, and smiles in refusal. Chen Changsheng looks bewildered, not understanding what this means. He takes the marriage contract in a daze, and from then on, he has a fiancée.
In the years that follow, whenever the New Year or a festival arrives, that white crane breaks through the clouds on schedule, bringing greetings from that noble in the capital, along with some interesting little gifts for Chen Changsheng.
As Chen Changsheng gradually comes to understand things, he realizes what the marriage contract means. Often at night, by starlight, looking at that marriage contract lying quietly in the drawer, he feels an indescribable sensation. Thinking of that fiancée who is said to be about his age, he feels a quiet joy, some shyness, and even more bewilderment.
The peaceful life of studying meets with an accident when Chen Changsheng is ten years old. One night, after he finishes reciting the one thousand six hundred and one characters of the last scroll of the Daoist canon for the seventy-second time, he suddenly feels his consciousness drift away from his body and begin to float through the forests of the green mountain. He falls into a deep sleep and cannot wake up. His body begins to emit a strange fragrance.
It is not the fragrance of flowers, nor of leaves, nor of powder and rouge. It is faint, yet it lingers for a long time in the night breeze. It is strong, yet when it drifts into the nostrils, it is so ethereal, not like a fragrance that could appear in the human world—elusive, extremely enticing.
The first to discover Chen Changsheng's condition is Yu Ren. Smelling that strange fragrance, his expression becomes extremely grave.
In the slightly dark green mountain, shaded by leaves, there are lion roars and tiger howls, crane dances and flood dragon surges. There is even the thunderous croaking of frogs that should only appear on summer nights. Deep within the mist to the east of the green mountain, where no one dares to enter, a massive shadow faintly appears. It is unknown what creature it is. Under the gaze of countless greedy and reverent lives, Chen Changsheng emits a strange fragrance, sleeping with his eyes closed, unknown when he will wake.
Yu Ren frantically fans by the bedside, trying to fan away the fragrance from Chen Changsheng's body, because that fragrance makes his mouth water and gives birth to a very strange, very terrifying thought. He must fan it away, fan away that thought as well.
The middle-aged Daoist appears in the side room at some point. He stands by the bedside, looking at Chen Changsheng with closed eyes, and says a sentence that only he himself understands: "Where, then, is the cause?"
A night passes.
At the moment when the morning light falls upon the green mountain, the strange fragrance on Chen Changsheng's body suddenly vanishes, not a trace remaining. He returns to his former appearance. The countless strange beasts in the green mountain and that terrifying figure behind the clouds have also departed at some unknown time.
Yu Ren looks at his sleeping junior brother and finally stops panicking. He breathes a sigh of relief and tries to wipe the cold sweat from his forehead, only to find that his shoulder is too painful to move from fanning desperately all night.
Chen Changsheng opens his eyes and wakes up. Although he slept through the night, he knows what happened. Looking at his brother's pained expression, his face turns somewhat pale. He asks, "Master, what is wrong with me?"
The middle-aged Daoist looks at him and, after a long silence, says, "You are sick."
According to the middle-aged Daoist, Chen Changsheng's illness is due to a congenital weakness of the body. The nine segments of meridians in his body cannot connect. The strange fragrance last night was because his soul could not circulate and was forced to be expelled with his sweat. That sweat contains the essential essence of the human soul, naturally carrying a strange fragrance. This is a strange disease.
"Then... can you cure it?"
"No. No one can."
"A disease that cannot be cured... is that fate?"
"Yes. That is your fate."
...
...
After his tenth birthday, that white crane never comes to the green mountain again. News from the capital is cut off. The other side of the marriage contract seems never to have existed. Occasionally, Chen Changsheng stands by the stream, looking west, and thinks of this matter.
Of course, he thinks more about his illness, or rather, his fate... He does not become weak. Aside from being somewhat prone to drowsiness, he looks very healthy, not at all like someone destined to die young. He even begins to doubt his master's judgment. But if his master's judgment is correct, what then? Chen Changsheng decides to leave the dilapidated temple and go see the bustling human world. While he can still see, he wants to see the legendary Tian Shu Ling, and he also wants to cancel that marriage.
"Teacher, I am leaving."
"Where are you going?"
"To the capital."
"Why?"
"Because I want to live."
"I told you, it is not a disease. It is fate."
"I want to change my fate."
"In eight hundred years, only three people have succeeded in changing their fate."
"Those were all very remarkable people, weren't they?"
"Yes."
"I am not. But I also want to try."
The capital—Chen Changsheng was always going to go. Whether or not his illness can be cured, he was always going to go. Not only because he wants to change his fate, but also because the other side of the marriage contract is in the capital.
He packs his luggage, takes the small sword handed to him by Senior Brother Yu Ren, turns around, and leaves.
A fourteen-year-old young Daoist boy descends the mountain.