Chapter 318: An Immortal Gently Pats My Crown

There were two legendary swordsmen before him—Old Huang and the old man with the sheepskin cloak—so visiting the ruins of the Wu family estate hardly seemed necessary.

Xu Fengnian passed by the Wu estate without entering and climbed up the northern hill. Halfway up the shady slope, he noticed a peculiar architectural complex—neither fully Buddhist temple nor Taoist monastery. Clad in pale and white robes, Taoist priests and red-robed lamas mingled together, each trying to attract worshippers. Xu Fengnian, chewing on dried green fruit and dates, walked past the peeling vermilion walls and paused at the back courtyard. A Taoist peach talisman hung at the entrance, and the couplet, written in Central Plains script, was masterfully inscribed with iron strokes and silver curves. Yet its tone was Buddhist:

No matter how lawless and defiant you are,

Before this high-hanging mirror of justice, dare you still hold your head high?

Remember that I can forgive and spare,

Put down your butcher’s knife, and turn back swiftly!

Crossing the threshold, Xu entered just as dusk fell. A group of red-robed lamas, having completed their evening prayers, sat along the corridor outside the hall, discussing Buddhist doctrine. The eldest were already in their seventies, the youngest no more than seven or eight. All wore thick red robes, and some mischievous young lamas perched on the railings, which creaked under their weight from years of disrepair. Elder lamas held prayer beads around their necks, their expressions varied—some spoke with passion, others with furrowed brows, while listeners either pondered deeply or smiled in appreciation. Xu Fengnian did not approach, standing quietly at a distance, straining to understand their Northern Meng debates in verse. As the evening glow bathed the scene, a few young lamas who had lost interest in the debate noticed him and grinned. They turned to whisper among themselves—perhaps discussing new sutras they had learned, or perhaps gossiping about a pretty lady who had come to pray yesterday or today.

The threshold between the courtyard and the outside world was but a small step, yet symbolically, it marked the boundary between renouncing the world and entering it.

Xu Fengnian circled the walls, and along the way met a middle-aged monk carrying a wooden basin. The monk simply nodded with a serene expression, raising one hand in greeting. Xu returned the gesture and, outside the main hall, lit three sticks of incense in reverence to the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. Unexpectedly, he recalled the coming catastrophe of the two dynasties suppressing Buddhism, and the words of the venerable monk Longshu: “Even if there are no statues or scriptures, there must still be the Buddha’s heart.” He felt a pang of emotion. Storm clouds gather, and a whirlwind rises on land—could an old monk from Liangchan Temple really hold back the tide?

Shaking his shoulders, Xu Fengnian tightened his sash and adjusted the strap of his book case, preparing to find the main exit. Ahead, he spotted a familiar couple rounding the hall—those very same companions from the wine stall. The man wore a silk robe, his face as refined as jade, his demeanor elegant. A golden amulet, popular among Southern Dynasty scholars, hung at his waist. The woman was graceful and gentle, adorned with a golden hairpin and a swaying ornament. Though her beauty was modest, her bearing exuded the grace of a noble lady.

The young man was explaining the thirty-two marks of a Buddha to her, contrasting the golden body of the Buddha with the Realm of the Indestructible of martial artists. His words were eloquent, revealing his deep familiarity with Buddhist lore. The woman nodded with quiet warmth.

Xu Fengnian had no intention of interrupting this couple, whose chemistry was just short of being lovers. But after a while, the man turned and glared at him, apparently suspecting that Xu had been eyeing the woman with ill intent. Yet, out of good breeding, he refrained from harsh words. Xu stopped and waited until they had passed before continuing. He overheard the man muttering angrily, “Our dynasty’s Buddhism is in decline, and it deserves to be cleansed. Take these temples, for example—if someone hinders another’s path to monastic life, even the abbot will be cursed to be born blind in countless lifetimes. Thus, most monks are frauds clinging to the Buddhist order—either swindling money and seducing women, or utterly ignorant of true Buddhist teachings. These so-called holy places are anything but pure!”

The woman, gentle and balanced in nature, replied softly, “But those debating lamas seem kind enough. When you deliberately offered them money, they refused to touch it and instead gave you a sutra.”

The man flicked his jade amulet, letting it chime, and scoffed, “That’s just the trend. One or two good monks don’t change the whole picture.”

She smiled faintly, not arguing further.

Xu watched as they approached a censer to burn incense and pray to heaven. To avoid being a nuisance, he simply sat on the stone steps, taking off his book case as if to rest. The toothless, shabby old man selling secret martial arts manuals had reminded him of Old Huang from Xishu. Ironically, it was this very man—least likely to speak wisdom—who had taught Xu Fengnian the most profound truths, perhaps because true wisdom often lies in the mundane and unspoken.

He remembered the journey back to Beiliang after parting ways with Wen Hua and before meeting the fox-faced girl. Back then, they were no longer as wretched as in their early travels, though still struggling. Once they had learned the ropes, it became easier. Even without Old Huang’s help, Xu could now steal chickens, roast sweet potatoes, and weave grass shoes—enough to survive without starving or freezing.

At one point, he had witnessed a murder sparked by a struggle over a martial arts manual. It was an ordinary manual, not even worthy of being called third-rate, yet it had cost five or six lives.

“Old Huang, I guess these manuals are really valuable in the martial world, huh? My family’s Tingchao Pavilion has tens of thousands of them. Should I just give them all away? Do a good deed, right? The entire martial world would be grateful, and how many beautiful female martial artists would send me secret glances? Just thinking about it makes me happy.”

“Master, you can’t do that. Others may not know, but if I had heard of free manuals when I was young, I’d have abandoned my own cultivation. In the end, no one in the martial world would bother practicing seriously anymore.”

“Other than horse grooming, you’ve got no real skills. And you can barely read. Giving you manuals would be a waste—you can’t read the words, and the words can’t recognize you.”

“Hey, don’t say that, Master. When I was in my twenties and still had my front teeth, I was the most handsome guy around for miles. At least among blacksmiths. A girl even secretly gave me a jar of yellow wine. She wasn’t that pretty, but her hips were really nice. I didn’t drink it—I buried it in the backyard before leaving home, thinking I’d dig it up when I returned. It must be fragrant by now!”

“Only one jar?”

“She was just a girl from an ordinary family. Even if she really missed my handsome face, she couldn’t give me much.”

“So you were actually handsome when you were young? Then I must be the most handsome man in heaven!”

“Of course, I can’t compare to you, Master. If you were there, that jar wouldn’t be mine.”

“Okay, enough about wine. Let’s walk—we’re both so thirsty our throats are on fire.”

“I know.”

“By the way, Old Huang, how many years has it been since you left home? Do you think that jar is still there?”

“I’ve lost count of the years, but I think it is. Yellow wine ages well. It’s different from the wine you used to drink from crystal cups. If you ever visit my home, I’ll make sure you have a feast of good drinks.”

“Sigh, here we go again with the wine. It’s making me sad. There’s smoke ahead—let’s go ask for some water. Same rules: if it’s a man who opens the door, you ask. If it’s a woman, I’ll do it.”

“Deal!”

“Hey, Old Huang, you’ve got nothing left but that jar of wine. Would you really share half with me?”

“Why wouldn’t I? If you like it, it’s all yours.”

“If it were me, I wouldn’t share. At most, I’d give you half.”

“You’re a genuine person, Master. I like that.”

“Go on, if you were a pretty girl, I’d like you too.”

“Sigh, too bad I never married. If I had a daughter…”

“Forget it. Even if you did, I wouldn’t be interested. Don’t give me that look.”

That time, they met a woman who had come out to work in the fields. Xu Fengnian was the one who asked for two bowls of cold water. Even now, he still remembered glancing back and seeing Old Huang crouched nearby, grinning with his missing front teeth, looking ridiculous. While drinking, Old Huang mumbled happily about how nice it would be to have a daughter.

“If you had a daughter, I’d marry her.”

But words like that, like the unopened jar of yellow wine from that old mansion, never made it out of his mouth.

Now sitting on the stone steps, Xu Fengnian was lost in thought when the woman noticed him. Taking advantage of the dashing young man’s conversation with an old Taoist priest about immortality, she hesitated, then approached alone, standing at the foot of the steps with a gentle smile.

Xu Fengnian had nearly perfected the art of sensing the flow of energy in the world, akin to the Realm of the Indestructible of martial cultivation, yet he pretended not to notice her. She did not speak immediately, as if choosing her words carefully. For a woman to approach a man was somewhat improper, especially among the Southern Dynasty exiles who still followed most Central Plains customs. She stood beneath a rare dragon-claw locust tree in Northern Meng, its old branches still lush with leaves, framing her graceful figure. Unfortunately, Xu Fengnian was no longer the young prince who chased after every flower. He merely felt pity that such a fine blossom should fall into the hands of a pig. He held no affection for that boastful young man, but that didn’t mean he had to intervene and “rescue” her from his “clutches.” Many women willingly gave their youth to men with handsome faces or poetic tongues, deceived by sweet words.

Seeing that she remained silent, Xu Fengnian took the initiative to spare her embarrassment and smiled, “May I ask the young lady’s name?”

He had learned this from Wen Hua, who carried a wooden sword and had little literary knowledge. Somehow, he had picked up this line from somewhere. Every time he met a girl he liked, he would boldly ask, “May I know your name and where you dwell?” During their travels, Wen Hua had repeated this line dozens of times. The last time they met, he claimed to have truly fallen in love, though Xu Fengnian wasn’t sure if it was real.

The woman blushed slightly but still answered softly, “Lu Chen.”

Xu Fengnian understood immediately—she was a descendant of the old scholars from the Spring and Autumn Period. After the Liangyang Dynasty unified the realm, many Central Plainsscholars mourned the fall of their world as the “ Sunken Land” (Lu Chen). Among those who fled north to Northern Meng, one might find two or three people named Lu Chen among ten. But for a woman to bear that name was quite rare.

He saw the man she was with stepping out of the hall with an elderly Taoist priest of refined aura, so Xu stood up, slung his book case over his shoulder, and walked toward the main gate. This place where Buddhism and Taoism shared a courtyard and worshippers would surely be seen as heretical in the Liangyang Dynasty. One could judge Northern Meng’s customs by this single example.

As Xu Fengnian left the temple, he recalled a tale from the martial world: the mad monk Yang Taishi once went to Longhu Mountain to debate with Qi Xuanzhen, the greatest Taoist master in a hundred years. On the lotus peak, Qi Xuanzhen touched Yang’s head and shattered half of the Demon-Slaying Platform. It is said that when an immortal touches your head, you gain eternal life. Clearly, Yang Taishi had a terrible temper even in his youth—yet he still became Xu Xiao’s lifelong friend.

As for the brilliant Qi Xuanzhen, he was but the past life of the cowherd.

Instinctively, Xu Fengnian raised his hand and traced a circle in the air.

He kept drawing circles.

Just like when Hong Xixiang on Wudang Mountain had once taught him the way.

The immortal’s touch upon the head.