Chapter 56
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Qi Wuhuo spoke softly: “This is…”
The old man replied: “Your senior brother.”
As he stepped forward, Qi Wuhuo followed closely behind. Upon approaching, he could see that the grave was merely a cenotaph—a resting place without a body.
Desolate and forlorn, the splendor of past years had long been washed away by wind and rain.
A profound impact struck the young man’s heart, and his expression became solemn.
All the tangled thoughts from before had been severed by the contemplation of life and death, leaving behind one final question.
The purest Dao heart, devoted solely to seeking the Great Dao, falls halfway along the path. Yet those lost in their obsessions are able to live for a thousand years.
Why is this so?
The old man bent down, brushing away the green moss that had crept over the gravestone. He cleared the branches that obscured the inscription, revealing the words etched upon it.
Qi Wuhuo instinctively leaned closer.
The writing was gentle and composed, seemingly written with casual ease. It felt as if the one who had carved these words had faced their end with peace, free from attachments and turbulence.
Qi Wuhuo began to read aloud, almost unconsciously: “In this life of cultivation, I met a revered teacher, formed bonds with heroic friends, cherished family, and shared true love with a Dao companion. I roamed the heavens and the earth, fulfilling my heart’s desires. Yet thirteen regrets lingered, unresolved even in death, and are recorded here.”
“The first regret: books are too easily devoured by worms.”
He paused, his thoughts drifting to Senior Brother Yuyang. A scholar-turned-cultivator, he had been captivated by his academic pursuits. Later, he became consumed by his ambition to leave a legacy, ultimately unable to extricate himself.
“Too easily devoured…”
“The second regret: deep love met shallow fate; the beauty’s life was too short.”
Once again, Qi Wuhuo’s thoughts wandered—to Senior Sister True Person Yumiao. He recalled her unwavering vow of eternal love, her commitment to transcend lifetimes for the sake of a shared promise.
The lineage of Taishang was not devoid of emotion, yet it warned against indulgence that could lead to obsession.
Perhaps Xuanzhen had experienced such feelings, though he had not allowed himself to be consumed by them.
Qi Wuhuo steadied his thoughts and continued reading aloud: “The third regret: summer nights bring mosquitoes. The fourth regret: the moonlit terrace leaks too easily. The fifth regret: Chrysanthemum leaves often wither. The sixth regret: pine trees attract large ants. The seventh regret: bamboo sheds too many leaves. The eighth regret: Osmanthus and lotus fade too soon. The ninth regret: Climbing vines hide vipers. The tenth regret: trellises grow thorny flowers…”
The attachments of his senior brothers seemed mirrored here.
But Xuanzhen appeared to have even more.
It was as though he loved everything the world had to offer—the endless beauty and vitality of life—and thus harbored countless regrets. Regrets born not from disdain but from the intensity of his affection. The words etched into the stone were so vivid that Qi Wuhuo felt as if he could see this Senior Brother Xuanzhen.
He imagined a carefree figure, laughing and lamenting, passionately disliking the mosquitoes of summer, adoring bamboo but loathing the labor of sweeping its fallen leaves, loving the pine trees yet resenting the ants they attracted, ants that gnawed at his home and left him grinding his teeth in frustration.
Through these words, one could see the person.
It felt as though, before this gravestone, the overhanging branches were not just trees but the presence of the elegant and uninhibited Daoist Xuanzhen, smiling and calling him “Junior Brother.”
The old man stood in front of Qi Wuhuo and said: “This is your senior brother, Xuanzhen.”
Qi Wuhuo asked: “Senior Brother, he…”
The old man placed his hand gently on the gravestone and replied: “Fell on the path to the Dao.”
“Seeking the Dao is not a leisurely stroll, nor is it merely enjoying the moonlight or the blossoms. It is reclaiming one’s destiny from the heavens, step by step. The Great Dao is a difficult road.”
“These steps are all tests.”
“The righteous path of the Dao contains three calamities, seven tribulations, and eight hardships in the course of cultivation.”
“The three calamities are: blades of war, inner demons, and the heavens themselves.”
“On the path of seeking the Dao, if you harbor the intent to kill or compete for dominance.”
“Or perhaps, when witnessing injustice, with a Dao heart rounded and harmonious, you draw your sword to fight. In such confrontations, if your skills are insufficient or you fall victim to treachery, you may perish on the path of the Dao. Your spirit could even be scattered, never to return to what it once was. This is the calamity of blades of war.”
“If, instead, when facing injustice, you retreat and avoid it, or you act in ways that go against your innermost heart, this may lead to the rise of chaotic thoughts.”
“If you aim to illuminate the vast world with a single spark of clarity but cannot purify and clear your own self, how could you hope to enlighten the world at large?”
“Like snow melting in winter—not noticeable in a single day but accumulating incrementally—such confusion will eventually affect your spiritual mind. Your Primordial Spirit becomes impure, your cultivation stagnates, and finally, you fall.”
“This is the calamity of inner demons.”
“The calamity of heaven and earth consists of thunder, wind, and fire. These arise as you reclaim your life’s treasure, step out of the Innate Qi, and gather the three flowers atop your crown. Such actions naturally invite these challenges.”
“All living things in the world are like drops of water in a flowing river, harmoniously existing as part of the Great Dao of ‘one giving rise to two, two to three, and three to the myriad things’. Cultivators, however, go against this current. By transforming the two into one—melding primordial essence and spirit—and gathering the three flowers atop their heads, they go against the natural flow of existence, drawing the river’s current against them.”
“Thus, cultivators must [illuminate their hearts and perceive their true nature]. Only by remaining undisturbed by external influences can one sense these calamities and act preemptively to avoid them.”
“Thunder strikes the Primordial Spirit; fire burns the physical body. As for the calamity of wind, it infiltrates through the apertures of your body, damaging your Dao and reducing you to ashes. Of course, this carries no malice—it is simply the natural order of heaven and earth at work. Its purpose is merely to guide you back onto the path of the myriad things and restore you to harmony with the Dao.”
“To avoid these calamities ensures long life, but if avoidance fails and escape is impossible, one meets their end.”
“When that happens, the soul scatters and dissolves back into the vast cosmos.”
“In Buddhism, one struggles to overcome fire calamities, becoming sacred relics after burning, a state known as Nirvana. In Daoism, one is afflicted by wind calamities, turning to dust and leaving the mortal world, a process called sitting transformation.”
“As for those who do not walk the righteous path—whose Primordial Spirits are muddied and whose thoughts are in chaos—they cannot even withstand the lightning calamity.”
“However, within both Buddhist and Daoist traditions, many practitioners are upright and pure. And, naturally, there are those of great wickedness and unparalleled egotism, whose single-mindedness renders even the lightning calamity unable to disrupt their path.”
Qi Wuhuo murmured to himself: “The soul scatters…”
The elder nodded gently. “As for the most common eight difficulties, they require no elaboration.”
“After all, you have already encountered them.”
Qi Wuhuo said: “I have already seen them?”
His voice wavered slightly, as if some realization had already dawned upon him. He said: “You mean, my senior brothers…”
The elder’s response was calm and warm, yet it carried a trace of regret, perhaps colored by all the sights and reflections Qi Wuhuo had recently experienced. “Indeed, the eight difficulties often become increasingly hard to sever as a cultivator’s strength grows.”
“Something exists, born before heaven and earth. I know not what to call it, so I name it Dao.”
“The Dao gives birth to one. One gives birth to two. Two gives birth to three. Three gives birth to all things, unfolding into the myriad phenomena and principles of existence—this is the mother of all under heaven.”
“Yet, cultivation is about clarifying one’s true nature, returning to the source, and retracing the steps to the singular [One]. Finally, one seeks to embrace the Dao that encompasses all.”
“All that you now witness—the heavens, the earth, and all living beings—are part of the myriad forms born from the Three Producing the Ten Thousand Things. They are correct in their existence, yet they are not what we seek. Some cultivators, however, sink deeply into a single fragment of this myriad, or even into a mere derivative of that fragment.”
“Like entering a narrow path and refusing to turn back.”
“This is what is meant by grasping a single method within the Dao, finding a solitary technique within the method, and relying on meditation and qi refinement to advance steadily, claiming they have achieved the Dao.”
“To fall into such a state is not inherently wrong, for in the realm of human pursuits, each follows their own path. Yet from the perspective of seeking the ultimate, supreme Dao, such a fixation becomes a great [difficulty].”
“It clouds their Dao Heart, leaving them mired in the Eight Difficulties.”
“And what of the Three Calamities and Seven Tribulations?”
“They… cannot even reach the threshold for encountering them.”
The elder sighed deeply, casting his gaze back toward Xuanzhen’s jade slip. “Xuanzhen, much like you at this moment, Wuhuo, possessed a Dao heart untainted by impurities.”
“But it was precisely because of this purity that he left himself no retreat, no room for fear or doubt. His sole pursuit was the Dao.”
“In the end, seeking the highest path, he faced calamities head-on without hesitation or retreat: the Blade Calamity, the Lightning and Fire Calamities, the Inner Demon Calamity.”
“Breaking through forty-nine tribulations one by one, he finally reached his limit. Yet he chose not to preserve his soul or follow the path of the Yin God.”
“With no stray thoughts, neither for himself nor for others, he left no leeway, staking everything in a single endeavor.”
“Unaccomplished yet fell.”
“Before the dissolution of the body, he called out thrice, for the Dao, cultivated the Dao, and attained the Dao. Then, laughing loudly, he died, vanishing like smoke and clouds.”
With a sweep of his sleeve, the elder removed the last remnants of ivy from the stone tablet, revealing the final characters inscribed on it. The tone of the words shifted—no longer warm and gentle, but sharp and piercing.
As Qi Wuhuo read these last three sentences, he fell into a deep silence——
“Eleventh regret—To attain the Great Dao, yet my heart was not resolute.”
“Twelveth regret—Only to attain the Great Dao, yet my spirit was not pure.”
“Thirteenth regret—Not having attained the Great Dao, yet my body had already fallen.”
The Thirteen Regrets of the Dao.
The words, though filled with the repetition of “regret”, held no malice. Instead, they carried a profound and unyielding sense of loss, an emotion frozen within the Dao heart, surging upward with immense force, startling the old tree’s crows into flight.
The elder spoke in a neutral tone, but to Qi Wuhuo, it felt as if he could see the scene, the grandeur, the resolve of that moment.
The disciples of the Taishang’s lineage were known for their strong hearts and pure minds. The regrets, the sorrows, they were simply signs of not having reached perfection.
It seemed the wind had started to rise, and the clouds in the sky gathered and scattered. The wind pressed low, and before long, it unexpectedly started to rain. The rain pattered softly, and soon the scene transformed into one of smoke enveloping the cold mountains, like a splashed ink painting. The temperature here was a bit warmer than where Qi Wuhuo had originally lived, but since it was winter, it was naturally cold rain.
The elder unfurled a bamboo umbrella, shielding the young man from the rain, and from his sleeve, he produced a jug of wine, placing it before the desolate grave.
The branches of the tree before the grave swayed slightly, and the jade tablet remained unchanged, just as it had been in the past.
This was the only disciple whose Dao title had not been revoked.
Qi Wuhuo could feel the elder’s sorrow.
Still, Qi Wuhuo asked: “With your abilities, Master, can you not bring Senior Brother back?”
The elder smiled gently. “Bring him back?”
He held the umbrella and motioned for Qi Wuhuo to walk alongside him. After a moment of thought, he asked: “Wuhuo, once had a dream of golden millet. Let me ask you this—if you were an official, and someone was committing corruption, what would you do?”
Qi Wuhuo replied: “I would deal with it according to the law.”
The elder continued: “Then, what if you saw someone taking bribes and bending the law for personal gain?”
Qi Wuhuo responded: “I would imprison them.”
The elder asked again: “And what if you saw someone abandon the Great Dao and kill for personal reasons?”
Qi Wuhuo answered: “I would execute them.”
The elder smiled gently. “So you understand now.”
“Life and death are the fairest things in the world. I will not break such fairness for anyone.”
“Your master is merely the one who brought you into the door, showing you the way ahead, and placing his hopes in you.”
“I gave you new clothes, gave you a name, and entrusted you with expectations, passing down the Dao teachings to you. This is just the connection between you and me—this is the role of a [Small Teacher].”
“And not to protect those who dominate and impose their will.”
The old man said:
“Any disciple of mine who falls into the mortal world, emotional entanglements, reincarnation, or life and death, I will not save. I can only wait for you to awaken yourself.”
“In this regard, you are no different from anyone else.”
The old man walked up the mountain and stopped. He stood in the pouring rain, the world dim and gloomy. His robes hung down as he held the umbrella for the young man, speaking gently:
“After all, you are my disciples.”
“But all cultivators in the world are my disciples.”
PS: The Thirteen Grievances of the Dao come from the essay-style aphoristic collection Yumeng Ying (Dreams of the Ghosts) by the Qing Dynasty writer Zhang Chao.
