Chapter 95

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In the following days, Qi Wuhuo found himself enjoying a rare moment of leisure.

Each day, he would recite Daoist scriptures to the peacock egg or practice swordplay, guiding his Qi in smooth circulation. He would also tend to Lian Shulan’s health within the village, then venture into the mountains to gather medicinal herbs, spending time playing with that little medicine spirit. Upon returning, he would take out the alchemy furnace left by Tantai Xuan and begin refining pills, accumulating the most fundamental Qi-Replenishing Pills and Qi-Recovery Pills.

It was an ideal image of a Daoist.

The young Daoist sometimes thought, aside from not yet being able to roam the clouds.

He did not fixate on cultivation. With the Three Talents already whole, circulating freely within him, all that remained was to wait for the residual dryness in the Three Talents to dissipate. This step was different for each person, often relying on external objects, such as rare natural treasures, to refine one’s innate essence and qi, ultimately condensing them into [Innate Qi] imbued with the properties of those spiritual materials.

Some, however, relied on special environments.

Just like the Tiger Mountain God, tempering the body with the energy of the earth’s veins, dispelling dryness, and condensing it into divine abilities exclusive to Earth Spirits.

Yet Qi Wuhuo was in no hurry. He simply followed the flow.

He lived each day with sincerity—eating with sincerity, walking with sincerity, living with sincerity—allowing his pure foundation to circulate naturally.

Though some traces of dryness remained, he paid them little mind.

Instead, he found delight in the way his Primordial Spirit, Primordial Qi, and Primordial Essence moved and transformed within his body, full of life and mystery.

However, while he lived so freely, at ease in this quiet life, others found it unsettling. When Zhou Lingyi’s second son passed by the courtyard, he caught sight of the young Daoist seated in meditation. The wind stirred his hair at the temples ever so slightly, and for a moment, he felt as though he were looking at something beyond human. Then, as if sensing the gaze, the young Daoist opened his eyes and met his.

His heart lurched.

Forcing a stiff smile, he quickly turned and left in haste.

“Strange, truly strange.”

“How did he know I was watching him?”

On the way home, he mentioned this matter to others.

His elder brother and even his own wife echoed his thoughts—ever since that young Daoist arrived, indeed, strange things had been happening. The trees all around remained withered, yet for some unknown reason, the courtyard where the Daoist resided had already begun sprouting green buds. Some even claimed to have seen birds land in his palm at a mere lift of his hand, unafraid in the slightest. In any case, he was no ordinary person. Moreover, there were even rumors that a wealthy elder had once come seeking an audience, yet was turned away without a meeting.

As the brothers conversed, they suddenly realized that today was the Laba Festival. Zhou Lingyi had originally intended for his sons to invite the young Daoist over for a bowl of Laba porridge, to warm himself by the fire and ward off the winter chill. But upon overhearing their idle chatter, he grew displeased and sternly rebuked them: “What do you mean by this?!”

“That Daoist traveled a thousand miles to come here, all to treat the ailments of the Lian family.”

“We merely let him stay in our courtyard, yet have not even paid for his medicines.”

“And here you are, gossiping about him behind his back? Is this how I raised you?!”

The old master was furious, and at once, everyone fell silent, too afraid to speak.

Only the second son, still unconvinced, muttered: “But, Father… he truly is somewhat strange.”

“Where there are omens, there must be demons.”

Zhou Lingyi, enraged, hurled his cane at him and bellowed: “Get out!”

“You wretched fool, slandering others behind their backs—how could I, Zhou Lingyi  have raised a son like you?”

The eldest son, appearing far steadier, cast a glance at his younger brother before stepping forward to support their furious father, soothing him with words of comfort. Yet, after a moment of hesitation, he still advised: “But Father, perhaps it would be best if we kept our distance from this Daoist.”

Zhou Lingyi, having just calmed slightly, flared up once more at these words.

“You too? Are you like your brother?!”

His eldest son replied, “Not quite. But, Father, I have heard that [whenever a person acts, there is always a motive]. That Daoist moves with an air of effortless detachment, as though he belongs to a world beyond ours—yet why would such a person choose to come to this remote Shuiyun Village ?”

“A man who claims to seek nothing at all must surely seek something far greater.”

“Moreover, I heard that not long ago, an elder, clad in luxurious silks and accompanied by a grand procession, came to our village seeking him. Yet, he did not dare step into the village and instead waited outside, even sending a few playful children to relay his message. Such a person is no ordinary man!”

“I once took the liberty of inquiring around, but nowhere in the surrounding areas is there a wealthy landlord or influential figure by the name of [Lingmiao].”

“If his status is so lofty, he is either rich or noble.”

“Yet his purpose here remains unknown.”

“Is this not something we should be wary of?”

“Wealth and power are always accompanied by calamity. Whether for good or ill, such affairs are not ones that common folk like us should entangle ourselves with.”

“Inviting him for Laba porridge was originally nothing of concern. But now that you, Father, are aware that his identity is anything but ordinary, if we proceed as if nothing has changed, would that not make it seem as though we are currying favor?”

“Father, it is best to maintain our distance.”

His son spoke steadily, his reasoning meticulous. The old master’s anger gradually dissipated, leaving only a long sigh.

Qi Wuhuo pushed open the wooden door.

With a creaking sound, the sunlight spilled in, scattering dust motes in the air. These tiny specks of dust, though born of the earth, shimmered with a golden hue as they floated within the light. The young Daoist stood in the doorway, his features bathed in that same golden glow—his brows and eyes reflecting a warmth akin to gold, his gaze as clear as amber. With a gentle tone, he said: “Pardon my intrusion.”

Lian Shulan, whose complexion had improved greatly, heard the voice and called out: “Is that Daoist Qi?”

The sickly pallor on her face had mostly faded. She forced a smile and said: “You’ve truly gone through much trouble.”

The young Daoist inquired: “Well, how are you feeling?”

“Much better. I truly must thank you, Daoist. But my daughter, she…” Lian Shulan’s voice carried a faint plea—weak, hesitant.

It was as though she had already understood something yet still clung to the last sliver of hope.

A voice filled with complicated emotions.

The young Daoist closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, his tone warm yet firm. “First, let us heal your wounds. I will tell you everything after.”

He instructed Lian Shulan to wash her eyes with cold spring water before seating her upright in a chair. The young Daoist stood before her, his fingers gently pressing against her head. With a mind free of distractions, he observed the layer of white opacity clouding her eyes—an eerie sight. With a soft murmur of “Forgive me.” the young Daoist separated her eyelids with his left thumb and forefinger, pressing against the sclera with two fingers, while his right hand held the needle.

He applied the techniques of ‘Dotting the Eyes’, ‘Veiling the Truth’, and ‘Seeking the Hidden Dragon’ recorded in the [Record of Ascension to Immortality].

At the same time, he used his own Primordial Qi to maintain the flow of energy within her body. Even with Qi Wuhuo’s temperament, he had honed himself countless times in secret and expended great effort in preparing her constitution before daring to undertake this procedure. When the young Daoist finally withdrew the needle, Lian Shulan let out a faint cry, instinctively closing her eyes as tears streamed down her face. After a moment of adjustment, she opened them tentatively, only to be met with an overwhelming brightness. She quickly shut them again, tears spilling forth.

Through the hazy light, she could make out a single silhouette and heard a gentle voice:

“You have not seen the world for a long time. Keep your eyes closed and let them adjust slowly.”

Lian Shulan nodded at first, then, with hands weathered by years of hardship, she grasped Qi Wuhuo’s sleeve with surprising strength. “I will wait… I will wait… Daoist Qi, Daoist Qi, my daughter, she… she…”

Now, Qi Wuhuo stood at a crossroads:

To lie and offer comforting falsehoods.

Or to speak the truth.

The young Daoist remained silent for a while before speaking in a gentle tone: “I am here to deliver your daughter’s dying wish.”

Lian Shulan’s lips parted.

Yet she did not break down in hysteria. The firm grip that had held onto the young Daoist loosened, her strength dissipating entirely as if it had never existed. Like a wooden figure, she sat there, her eyes closing as her frail body curled inward. Covering her mouth with trembling hands, she let out a long, sharp wail—like the wind howling through a broken windowpane in the dead of winter.

Then, a low, suppressed keening followed, an anguished cry too raw to be called mere weeping.

The young Daoist stood in silence, waiting.

It was a long time before Lian Shulan’s grief settled. When she finally lifted her head, her newly healed eyes seemed once again clouded with sorrow. The scent of food filled the air. She looked up to see the young Daoist had prepared a meal and placed it before her. Her expression held a trace of bitterness as she gazed at the food. With a sorrowful smile, she murmured: “…Daoist, you are still so young, you must have never lost someone dear to you, have you?”

“Why did you save me?”

“Wouldn’t it be better if I just died here?”

The young Daoist replied: “I have lost someone too.”

Lian Shulan froze.

The young Daoist, who seemed to have lived a fortunate life, simply handed her the bowl of food and said: “My father, my mother, many people.”

“And my teacher.”

“They are all gone.”

“I am from Jinzhou.”

“Jinzhou…”

Lian Shulan’s hands trembled slightly. She recalled the catastrophe that had struck years ago. People had called it a divine calamity—flames sweeping across the land, countless lives perishing in the inferno. The young Daoist before her had lived through that horror. A wave of helplessness overtook her as she imagined his past. Qi Wuhuo placed the bowl in front of her and said softly:

“In just a single moment, I lost everything.”

“First my parents, then my friends. Even my teacher, who had taken me with him to escape, passed away.”

“I had ten thousand reasons to die. In fact, I considered it.”

“The past clung to me like an unshakable shadow, a noose tightening around my throat, making it impossible to breathe. Night after night, I would wake from nightmares, instinctively calling out for my parents—only to remember they were gone. So I would sit alone in the darkness, crying quietly.”

“I even sharpened my knife.”

The young Daoist met the woman’s gaze, his voice steady yet gentle: “But just as I was about to do it, a thought came to me.”

“Jinzhou no longer exists.”

“If I died too, who would remember them? My mother, so kind and gentle. My father, so strong and good.”

“Jinzhou was called Jinzhou because, in the spring, the wind would sweep through, and the entire city would bloom into a sea of flowers—like the finest brocade, bright and beautiful.”

“My teacher, so stern yet so kind.”

“Only I remember these things now.”

“If I die, then every trace of them in this world will vanish completely.”

“If I die, who will be left to remember? To remember my parents, my teacher, and the beauty of Jinzhou?”

“And so, suddenly, I didn’t want to die anymore.”

Qi Wuhuo rose to his feet. The young Daoist gave a slight smile and handed the portrait of the young girl—one he had drawn earlier—to Lian Shulan. He did not try to persuade her, only saying: “The years spent with your daughter, the things she wished to do—these memories, these traces of her life. If you were to die, would there be anyone left to remember them?”

“Life and death are of great consequence, and the choice should be one’s own.”

“It’s just a pity.”

“After all, only you remember her now…”

His words were gentle, yet they seemed to pierce straight into Lian Shulan’s heart. At last, she broke down in loud sobs, clutching the portrait of her daughter and weeping bitterly. The young Daoist pressed his lips together before turning away. As he pushed open the door, moonlight spilled across the courtyard. Gazing at the scene before him, he thought—if one continued to live, at the very least, one could still see the flowers bloom in spring. Just like himself.

He returned to his own quarters and packed his belongings.

When he stepped outside, the moon shone brightly. Suddenly, he sensed something and swept his sleeve. The characters once imbued with the word ‘Decree’ flowed forth in unison. Among them, one line glowed with a pure golden radiance, shedding its lingering attachments and worldly dust—It was because a final wish had been fulfilled, thus, a part of it was to be used to refine the Lingbao.

[TL_Note: Lingbao in this case is a spiritual treasure]

The young Daoist seemed to catch sight of the young girl’s figure.

Attachments, worldly dust—both could be wielded.

So this… was a Lingbao?

He let his fingers lightly brush over the characters, sensing the possibilities contained within. He could still hear the sorrowful cries carried by the wind, yet he merely let out a soft chuckle. Rather than reclaiming the treasure, he clasped his right hand behind his back. With a clear voice, he uttered a decree, then pressed two fingers downward, erasing his own breath.

He separated the obsession and traces represented by this line of words from his own scroll of worldly wishes and blank paper.

Thus, the line of text dispersed, shattering and reforming into the image of that young girl. She seemed bewildered. The young Daoist withdrew his hand and smiled warmly. “Though you are but a single strand of lingering will, though you are not truly that girl, you still wish to stay by ‘your’ mother’s side, don’t you?”

“Go on.”

To refine the mortal world into a Lingbao—such is the path of a Lingbao.

But it is not my path.

To observe without seizing, to uphold one’s heart.

To be free from attachment.

That is the Way of the Supreme(Taishang).

The remnants of the girl’s obsession wavered, as if in disbelief. She opened her mouth but found no words. Instead, she lowered herself into a deep bow, her tear-filled eyes now red. The young Daoist spoke: “Be careful. In the end, you can only remain as a memory that accompanies her. But, having someone there—surely that is still different, isn’t it?”

Throughout the mortal world, regrets abound. A Daoist may walk from the world, but in the end, they will still walk away from it.

And so, it is enough.

That strand of lingering will bowed deeply, choked with emotion. “Many thanks, True Person.”

The young man accepted her bow but only replied: “I cannot be considered a True Person.”

“Go on.”

Inside the house, Lian Shulan clutched the portrait and wept, as if pouring out all the sorrow of the past. Outside the window, the young girl silently watched her, eyes red. Unseen, unheard—yet at least, she could accompany her. The wind blew past. Zhou Lingyi struck his son lightly with his cane, then finally decided to invite that young Daoist over for a bowl of Laba porridge.

Leaning on his cane, he made his way to the secluded courtyard and knocked on the door, but no one answered.

He pushed it open. The chain lock fell to the ground—it had never been fastened. The old man froze for a moment, then hurried inside. He opened the door to find the room empty, tidied with great care. On the desk lay a letter—nothing more than a note of thanks for the old man’s hospitality, a wish for a smooth and peaceful year ahead. Nothing else was different.

He had left just as he had come.

Zhou Lingyi read the letter and stood in a daze for a long time. He did not know why, but a sense of emptiness settled in his heart.

A northern wind swept through the night.

Perhaps it was mere coincidence.

Perhaps it was the workings of the Earth Deities.

Perhaps it was simply the way of a Daoist.

Yet in the courtyard, the trees had begun to sprout new buds. As the old man stepped outside, he saw the entire garden bathed in the colors of spring beneath the moonlight.

And there, beneath that moon, the young Daoist walked away, a sword case strapped to his back.

Coming after a promise, leaving when karma has run its course.

With night dew on his shoulders, he walked along the mountain path.

And he thought to himself:

So this is what it means to be a Daoist.

A quiet smile curved his lips as he murmured,

“I think I understand a little now, Teacher.”

“This is what it means to be a Daoist.”

PS:

Case source:

[The Complete Compilation of Ophthalmology] · Huang Tingjing—

A woman, beautiful and virtuous, had but one son, who passed away young. Her husband, overcome by grief, fell ill and soon after passed as well. The woman wept day and night until she developed cataracts. She sought divine acupuncture, and her sight was restored as if reborn.