Chapter 45: The Hawthorn Mountain, The Lotus Lake (Part 1)

Taoism speaks of the Thirty-Six Grotto Heavens and Seventy-Two Blessed Lands. In the past, the most revered was the *Cloud-Gathering Palace Diagram* by the old immortal Ma Chengzhen of the Nine-Peck Rice Sect. At that time, Mount Longhu was merely ranked as the 26th Blessed Land, without a single Grotto Heaven to its name, seemingly far inferior to Mount Wudang. However, after ascending to become the ancestral seat of Taoism, the Zhao lineage of Celestial Masters at Mount Longhu presided over the Celestial Master’s Mansion, preaching and transforming the faith. To this day, the hereditary succession has reached forty generations, with each Celestial Master receiving imperial edicts of enfeoffment. Beyond the title of Celestial Master, they were also granted first or second-rank official positions, summoned to court to impart health-preserving and illness-dispelling arts to the emperor.

The current Great Celestial Master, Zhao Danxia, along with the Grand Sacrificer of the Shangyin Academy, became National Preceptors. While the previous Celestial Master only oversaw Taoist affairs in the Jiangnan region, this generation now governs all Taoist matters under heaven, holding a rank equivalent to first-grade nobility, wielding power akin to princes and marquises, earning the reputation of “Feathered Robe Ministers.”

Xiaoyao Temple is a small, sparsely populated shrine on Mount Longhu, lacking even incense offerings. Likely out of pity, the Celestial Master’s Mansion provides monthly alms to prevent this ancient temple from starving. Originally not part of Mount Longhu’s Taoist lineage, it was only transferred under the Celestial Master’s jurisdiction two generations prior. Since then, Mount Longhu has expelled all Buddhist temples, and even small, aged shrines like Xiaoyao Temple struggle to survive. Taoists not aligned with the Orthodox Unity Sect gradually left the mountain, a stark contrast to the all-embracing Mount Wudang.

Currently residing in Xiaoyao Temple is an old Taoist named Zhao Xituan. Outsiders might dismiss him as a failed recluse who sought refuge on Mount Longhu. Though three Zhao-named Celestial Masters reside in the mansion, not every Zhao on the mountain is illustrious—only those within the mansion lead this “Taoist Capital.” The current generation’s lineage follows the order of *Dan, Jing, Ning, Ling, Jing*, and *Guan*.

In the courtyard, the old Taoist Zhao Xituan gazed at the withered hawthorns, dried by wind, sun, snow, and rain—now inedible.

A sallow-skinned youth squatted in the yard, looking troubled.

The old Taoist stood beside him, relishing the clear, warm day—perfect for reminiscing. He mused, “Longxiang, in my youth, I roamed mountains and rivers, mastering the Eight Trigrams early and reading every book. I wandered freely, and the mountain’s ancestors adored me. But I cared little for the empty titles of ‘Feathered Robe Ministers.’ After thirty years of wandering, I returned. Heh, I did some work—spreading scriptures, healing, warding disasters—almost invited by the old emperor to lecture on Huang-Lao arts. Unlike those in the mansion who flaunt their Zhao name, my reputation reached the heavens on its own.”

“Longxiang, stop staring at the hawthorns. Talk to me. Master and disciple barely speak—what would outsiders think? That I don’t care for you?”

“Disciple, how about I teach you the ‘Great Dream of Spring and Autumn,’ a secret art the ancestors passed only to me? Even my arrogant nephew never grasped it. This temple survives because of it. Compared to Wudang’s *Great Yellow Court*, it’s no lesser. Now I can sleep for three years straight! The ancestors were even greater—they could slumber for sixty years. Sometimes I wonder if our ancestor’s ascension was just…”

Seeing the youth’s blank expression, the old Taoist yawned, bored by his own rambling. He drifted into sleep, balancing precariously on one bent leg, the other crossed over, one hand propping his cheek. Though seated on nothing, he swayed without falling.

As he dozed, his right hand formed a sword seal, while his left hooked into the Chongyang Noon-Midnight Seal. Mumbling, he chanted:

*”Sleep through spring and autumn, sleep through spring and autumn,*

*High on stone roots, forgetting the years.*

*No blankets, no quilts,*

*Heaven and earth my bed, cloaked in moonlight.*

*Thunder splits the skies, Mount Tai crumbles,*

*Ten thousand fathoms of sea plunge from the void.*

*The black dragon roars, ghosts and gods tremble,*

*Yet here I lie, sound asleep…”*

Outside the courtyard stood a young Taoist in majestic yellow robes, eyes closed, silently reciting:

*”Eyes align with nose, nose with the Gate of Life,*

*Mind turns inward in contemplation.*

*Gentle breaths, silent practice,*

*Emptiness reaches stillness.*

*True Qi floats in the Cinnabar Pool,*

*Divine Water circles the Five Organs.*

*Summon Jia-Ding, beckon a hundred spirits,*

*My soul soars beyond the Nine Palaces,*

*Roaming freely through azure skies.*

*In dreams, I gaze upon the sea,*

*Amidst mist, I grasp yin and yang,*

*Unaware that five hundred years have passed…”*

Xu Longxiang, seeing the old Taoist half-dead in his nap, rose and left the yard. Xiaoyao Temple stood at the mountain’s base, a world apart from the lofty Celestial Master’s Mansion. Yet its doorstep overlooked the verdant Qinglong Stream, winding like a jade belt around the peaks. Xu Longxiang walked to the bank, staring blankly at two bamboo rafts tied ashore. Afraid of water, he dared not board them.

The yellow-robed youth sneered from the bank, “Xu the fool, how fortunate that Elder Xi teaches you the ‘Great Dream of Spring and Autumn.’ Do you even understand? If not, scurry back to Beiliang. Mount Longhu is no place for idiots like you.”

Xu Longxiang ignored him, still fixated on the stream.

Though mocking, the young Taoist kept his distance. Last time he visited, stepping on a hawthorn had sent the fool chasing him from base to peak—a humiliation that left him the laughingstock of the mountain’s nuns.

But he noticed one thing: the fool feared water.

As Xu Longxiang finally turned, the young Taoist leaped onto a raft, tapping it lightly with his toe. The raft glided smoothly to the opposite bank, halting mysteriously midstream—a trick that drew gasps from scholars seeking enlightenment on the mountain.

The Taoist laughed, “Huangman’er, come at me! I hear you have two sisters—one a wanton, the other a fraud.”

Xu Longxiang remained unmoved.

The Taoist pressed, “And a brother? Rumor says your mother died because of that worthless heir?”

Xu Longxiang’s head snapped up.

The Taoist grinned, “Come on, I’m waiting.”

Still crouching, Xu Longxiang lunged forward like a leopard, reaching the bank in an instant. Instead of leaping into the water, he stomped on the raft’s edge, flipping it upright with terrifying force.

With a single chop, he severed the thick ropes binding the raft, then tore it apart with his bare hands.

Snatching broken bamboo fragments, he hurled them like arrows.

The sound alone was deafening—a tiger’s roar.

The sheer force was staggering.

A rain of bamboo spikes shot forth.

The yellow-robed Taoist panicked, dodging like a frantic monkey. Though he deflected some, the rest exploded upon hitting the water, sending geysers skyward around him.

As the last bamboo spear shot toward his face, the young Taoist braced for death.

Then—a middle-aged Taoist in yellow robes appeared midair, landing gracefully on the raft. His left hand rested behind his back, while his right caught the bamboo. Outwardly calm, the raft shot backward from the impact. Once still, the Taoist flicked the bamboo back at Xu Longxiang—whose strength was unmatched under heaven.