Chapter 103
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The young Daoist performed the one and only divine ability personally imparted to him by his teacher.
His voice was clear and bright, subtly resonating with the world around him. Meanwhile, the Medicine Master Glazed Light Tathāgata relinquished all resistance, suppressing his own Buddha nature, allowing this incantation to fall upon him. He merely lowered his gaze.
The path had already gone astray. The farther one walked, the deeper the mistake became.
Would it not be better to turn back?
It’s better to turn back.
In the end, the old monk’s spiritual radiance dispersed, leaving only his boundless and pure Buddha light to maintain the form of his body. Gazing at the young Daoist before him, he reached out his hand. That limpid, glass-like Buddha light shed all traces of individuality, leaving behind only pure cultivation and vital energy, which coalesced into a lotus flower in his palm.
The old monk extended it toward the young Daoist with a smile and said: “I must be on my way.”
“This lotus is for you. I do not know when we shall meet again.”
“Nor do I know whether, when that time comes, we will still recognize each other.”
“All I know is that with the arising and ceasing of karmic ties, the one who meets you in the future, will likely no longer be ‘me’.”
Qi Wuhuo shook his head. “I cannot accept this.”
“What one cultivates is oneself, not external power. Medicine Master, your Buddha’s light is vast, its realm far beyond mine, but it holds no value to me. It cannot bring completion to my spirit, nor can it reveal the Dao to me. To me, it is nothing more than drifting clouds.”
The old monk nodded gently. “That is indeed something you would say, Wuhuo.”
The young Daoist pondered for a moment before asking: “Then, may I pass it on to another?”
The old monk chuckled. “Since I am giving it to you, how you use it is naturally your own affair.”
Thus, the young Daoist extended his hand and took the lotus. “Then, Medicine Master, I have accepted your gratitude. There is still a little time left—shall we enjoy one last moment together?” Before the old monk could understand his meaning, the young Daoist lightly moved his fingers. At that moment, the pure, glimmering Buddha light fell into the prepared yet untouched water.
Ripples gently spread across the surface of the teacup.
The young Daoist swept his sleeve.
The water within the teacup rose like mist, intertwining in an instant. Before Qi Wuhuo and the Medicine Master Glazed Light Tathagata, it transformed into a chessboard of nineteen intersecting lines. This was none other than the [Cloud and Rain Chess Game] bestowed by Ao Liu. Qi Wuhuo had already comprehended its essence, yet his cultivation was insufficient. Without even a trace of Innate Qi, he understood the technique but was unable to manifest it.
At this moment, under the power of the Medicine Master Glazed Light Tathagata, the technique created by Ao Liu had reached an unprecedented realm.
The young Daoist retrieved from his robe a register of Zhongzhou’s myriad Earth Deities, a gift from Tao Taigong.
He cast it into the misty rain.
The chessboard of nineteen intersecting lines suddenly shifted as the clouds and mist transformed, rising into the forms of mountains and rivers. The vast land of Zhongzhou stretched endlessly, with rolling peaks and sprawling cities. People came and went, merchants traveled far and wide. Misty fell upon narrow alleyways, pavilions, and painted boats. The populace residing there numbered in the millions, a land of great prosperity.
Now, it lay fully revealed before them.
The Medicine Master Glazed Light Tathagata was momentarily stunned. The young Daoist pointed outside and explained: “Right now, because of someone’s negligence, the evil aura has not been suppressed, and the miasma of plague is rising. Many people have fallen ill, so I wish to borrow your power.”
“To grant these people the rain they are owed.”
The chessboard remained as it was, the game still in play.
The young Daoist raised a finger, and a luminous golden character formed from pure Buddha light, descending to break the stalemate. As the piece landed, the mist surged violently. A faint, distant cry seemed to echo within, and the mist abruptly scattered before spiraling upward. Something within it condensed into form. Lowering his gaze, the young Daoist’s Primordial Spirit had already left his body, riding the clouds and mist, soaring into the heavens in an instant.
The old monk looked at the young Daoist who sat motionless with his eyes closed. He understood—his Primordial Spirit had ascended.
Qi Wuhuo sat before the chessboard, yet it felt as if he stood above the boundless clouds. The nineteen intersecting lines stretched across the entirety of Zhongzhou. Lowering his gaze, he saw the regions where the plague’s miasma had risen. Once, in a teahouse, he had discussed this very understanding with Elder Ao Liu.
Rain falls from the clouds, gathering into rivers, lakes, and seas. Then, as the sun and moon rise, it ascends once more as mist, returning to the firmament.
A ceaseless cycle—was it not akin to a cultivator’s breathing technique, the circulation of Qi through a hundred meridians?
The sun is like one’s nature, the moon like one’s life. The clouds and waters flow like the meridians of Qi, endlessly circulating.
Thus, no technique was needed.
The young Daoist simply lowered his eyes and softly uttered: “Let it rain.”
And so, raindrops descended from the heavens. This rain had been delayed for nearly half a month. Already, evil miasma and plague had begun to spread. Yet this was no ordinary rainfall—it carried within it the Buddha-light of the Medicine Master Glazed Light Tathagata. The old monk watched as everything unfolded, and for some reason, he suddenly recalled the twelve great vows he had once made.
It was not the Medicine Master Glazed Light Tathagata, but the very first wish of that Medicine Master who had once, through karmic fate, walked beneath the Bodhi tree.
The old monk struggled to sit upright in meditation, lowering his gaze as he softly recited: “In a future life, when I attain Bodhi, if there are sentient beings who are weak and inferior, whose faculties are incomplete, who are ugly, foolish, blind, deaf, mute, crippled, hunchbacked, afflicted with leprosy or madness—”
“Upon hearing my name, may they all become upright and wise, with all faculties whole, and be [free from all suffering and illness].”
“In a future life, when I attain Bodhi, if there are sentient beings plagued by countless illnesses, with no cure, no refuge, no physician, no medicine, no kin, no home, poor and suffering—”
“May my name, once it reaches their ears, dispel all ailments, bringing peace and joy to their body and mind.”
This was the original heart of the Buddha.
The old monk lowered his eyes. The rain continued to fall, pattering softly against the earth.
“Ah, don’t run around! The rain is so heavy—what if you slip and fall?”
The Old Pine Tree bellowed. But on Juyun Peak, the spirits paid no heed. They flitted joyously through the downpour, calling out excitedly:
“It’s raining!”
“It’s raining!”
“There hasn’t been rain these past days—it was so uncomfortable!”
“It’s really raining!”
In Shuiyun Township, Lian Shulan pushed open her window. Watching the rain fall, the sorrow in her heart seemed to ease ever so slightly. She no longer dwelt on the past, no longer felt lost in suffering. For this moment, at least, she simply sat in quiet contemplation, watching the moonlit rain descend. Zhou Lingyi, however, was perplexed—his old cold leg ailment, which always flared up when it rained, had not troubled him today.
He stretched out a hand, knocked against his knee, yet felt no pain.
Gazing outside at the falling rain, he suddenly thought of the young Daoist.
Ah, where would he be in such a downpour? But surely, he wouldn’t be without a place to shelter from the wind and rain, would he?
Above the capital of Zhongzhou, Chaofeng and Jiaotu watched the distant horizon.
On the pavilion rooftop, the fortune-teller lazily cradled a cup of wine. He lifted his hand as if to divine something, then, feeling too indolent to bother, simply watched the rain threading down from the heavens and murmured: “A fine rain!”
Borrowing the old monk’s strength, Qi Wuhuo’s Primordial Spirit roamed the vast expanse of Zhongzhou in a single breath, until at last, the trace of Buddha’s power was fully spent.
Then he suddenly saw a place in front of him. A subtle ripple stirred within his heart. With a thought, his Primordial Spirit moved and in an instant, he was already there.
It was a Buddhist temple.
In the Zhongzhou Prefecture City, there was a temple. Within its halls, the great monks would offer shelter to those who could not afford an inn. There was also a medicine hut, whether for the sake of virtue or for the people, it mattered little—for there had been a great monk who perished while treating the plague. The monk in gray robes did not go after the detested fortune-teller today.
Instead, he had chased after the white radiance of a Buddha’s relic when the sacred light dissipated upon nirvana. Yet how swift was that radiance? He could not catch up to it.
Now, within the temple, before the Buddha Hall of the Medicine Master Glazed Light Tathāgata, he silently prayed for those afflicted with the plague.
He wished for them to survive this calamity.
He had just finished lighting oil lamps in various places, yet he did not offer incense—choosing instead to save it and trade it for rice porridge to nourish the sick.
But ultimately, the great hall still required three sticks of incense. When he returned, he suddenly sensed the presence of another within the hall. His brows furrowed slightly as he pushed open the door, calling out, “Who’s there?!” Yet when he lifted his gaze, he saw that the Buddhist statues on either side had not been moved. Only before the statue of the Medicine Master Glazed Light Tathāgata, stood a young Daoist holding three sticks of incense.
He had not yet bowed—only offered the incense. And then—
“And so.”
“Medicine Master.”
The monk heard the young Daoist say: “Farewell.”
The monk’s heart trembled.
The wooden ladle in his hand, used just moments ago to distribute porridge, slipped from his grasp and struck the ground.
His body moved instinctively, stepping forward as he bellowed: “Who are you?!”
Yet when he lifted his eyes once more, the figure was already gone. Doubt crept into his mind—had it merely been an illusion? Driven by instinct, he turned sharply and rushed outside, only to find the great hall’s entrance empty. Only the patter of rain filled the silence. The monk possessed spiritual sight and beheld the heavens and earth. The plague miasma, which once rose like malevolent specters, had begun to dissipate with the falling rain.
Coming back to his senses, he saw that the three sticks of incense still remained.
It was not an illusion.
The monk stood in a daze, lost in thought. He listened as the rain struck the stone slabs, and the sound of traveling monks, draped in straw raincoats, echoed through the streets. Some carried iron plaques, others wooden fish clappers, their steps accompanied by the pure and clear tones of chanting, mingled with rustic intonations—
“All conditioned phenomena are like dreams, illusions, bubbles, and shadows. Like dew and lightning, they should be perceived as such.”
The gray-robed monk lowered his head. He watched as raindrops fell and bloomed like lotus flowers, only to shatter like fleeting illusions.
For reasons unknown, he simply pressed his palms together and murmured a Buddhist invocation.
The Buddha’s power had already dispersed. Qi Wuhuo’s Primordial Spirit merely drifted through the rainfall. The time for the opening of the markets had yet to arrive, but within every market district, the people were already awake, washing their faces and preparing to set out once the gates opened. The young Daoist brushed past them all.
In his Primordial Spirit’s grasp, was a sword. It was the very blade he had just used to cleave apart the clouds. The sword followed the motion of his hand, its blade passing through the falling rain, before being carried upon his back.
People came and went, merely sighing at the fine rainfall, remarking on how it had finally washed away the restless air of recent days.
Yet, none noticed the young Daoist beside them.
Qi Wuhuo said: “A fine rain indeed.”
At this moment, he was still linked to the old monk through mind communication, sensing the dispersal of the plague and evil miasma. His steps became lighter as he inquired in his heart:
“So, this can be considered to [ferry] others across. Medicine Master, what do you think?”
The old monk chuckled in response.
For a long while, neither spoke again.
At this time, in the very heart of Zhongzhou Prefecture City, atop the Drum Tower, a burly man in a straw raincoat ascended in quick strides. He shook off the fine rain, removed his coat, and straightened his posture with renewed vigor. Then, he retrieved an enormous drum mallet, its handle as thick as a large bowl, and with all his strength, he struck the great drum atop the tower. The deep, resounding boom spread from the city’s center, rolling outward along the four main avenues—east, south, west, and north.
The other drum towers in each ward soon followed in succession. As the drumbeats resounded, every government office, every tavern in the city flung open its doors. Across the city’s more than two hundred wards, market gates were thrown wide, while within the city’s Daoist temples, bells were rung to announce the hour. The Buddhist monasteries followed, striking their sacred bells in response. The low, reverberating tolls intertwined with the grand, sonorous drumbeats.
Dawn had risen.
The mortal world had awakened.
The aged monk opened his eyes. From within Lianyang Temple, he beheld the ascent of the great sun.
With the passing of the fifth watch, monks and ascetics traversed the streets, knocking iron plaques or wooden fish clappers to announce the hour. As bridges, streets, and market alleys stirred to life, their gates opened in unison.
The young Daoist held his sword in his right hand and stepped forward, walking the path of the mortal world.
With a sweep of his left sleeve, he formed a mudra.
Closing his eyes, he shed the last traces of youthful immaturity, leaving only a composure that befit the Taishang Dao. With warmth in his voice, he said:
“Medicine Master.”
“I have beheld your Dao.”
“I have affirmed your heart.”
“I have walked the path of your vow.”
“And so, it is time to bid farewell.”
The monk lowered his gaze with a gentle smile.
“Yes.”
“I hope that one day, Wuhuo, we shall meet again.”
The old man suddenly lowered his head and saw a bird egg. As if by coincidence, the egg trembled slightly, and then a crack appeared. The old man waited, watching as a peacock chick emerged. His eyes carried a smile as he gazed upon this frail, rootless creature, yet in that moment, he also felt the boundless magnificence of life itself. And suddenly, as if realizing something profound, he laughed and said:
“Ah… so this is how it is? My Buddha, is this what you see?”
“Creation, existence, destruction, and emptiness—such is the cycle.”
“A monk dies, yet a living being is born.”
“Life and death, just so.”
“Life and death, just so.”
The old monk extended a hand, gently touching the newborn peacock, and the peacock, in turn, reached out to him.
A fragile creature—yet within it lay endless splendor.
The old man sighed with a smile, and beneath the great sun, his form dissolved into the void.
“Creation, existence, destruction, emptiness, all the living beings of this world…”
“How wondrous they are.”
PS:
“Daoist Scripture of Invoking Spirits” “Morning bells and evening drums summon the hundred spirits, signifying the solemn majesty of Daoist temples and the grandeur of mountains and rivers. This ritual must be observed daily, at dawn and dusk, without fail.”
