Zhao Ningyun, a senior disciple of the Ning generation at Longhu Mountain, scowled and said grimly, “This bald whelp dares claim to be a monk from Liangchan Temple? He’s asking for a thrashing!”
Without waiting for any reply, Zhao lunged toward the young monk, Na-nan, with ruthless intent. His accusation was cleverly timed—casting a heavy accusation first, allowing no chance to explain before attacking. Yet his intent was not to seriously injure or cripple, just to teach a lesson and vent his anger. Should the young monk truly belong to Liangchan Temple, it could be dismissed as a mere misunderstanding. Zhao prided himself on such cunning, but had not considered how this young monk and his female companion had passed all obstacles unimpeded right to the gates of the Celestial Master’s Mansion.
Before the girl he adored, the little monk stood firm yet made no move to retaliate. His purpose was to speak of Chan with the Celestial Master on the mountain, not to brawl. Besides, fighting was not his forte. His talents were of humble nature—washing clothes, cooking meals, covering for Master, and fetching rouge for Madam Shi.
A gentle breeze brushed across the face, effortlessly dissipating the force in Zhao’s palm strike. Miss Li watched as a young Daoist emerged from the grand entrance of the Celestial Master’s Mansion. He carried a fly-whisk, his hair tied in a topknot with a sandalwood comb. His robe wasn’t the distinct yellow and purple reserved for the Mansion but resembled those of ordinary temple priests down the mountain. He wore straw sandals faded from repeated washing. Had he not stepped from such an auspicious place, with his solemn expression and drab attire, even devotees wouldn’t have approached him for fortune-telling.
This Daoist, no older than thirty, waved his fly-whisk lightly—the sixteenth motion from Longhu’s Whisk of Sixteen Forms, known as “Sparrow’s Tail.” With a mere flick, Zhao’s clever strike was deflected as if mere dust.
In battlefield combat, if facing a mighty warrior wielding a halberd, better to yield gracefully. Yet on the martial path, when meeting monks or Daoists, especially those wielding fly-whisks, whether aged or young, prudence is wise. Elders have long cautioned: those who hold a whisk are never ordinary. For instance, Wudang’s Abbot Wang Chonglou once severed a river with a single finger. Likewise, Longhu Mountain’s Celestial Master Zhao once broke through one hundred and sixty armored palace guards with a mere whisk flick in the capital.
Zhao Ningyun, meeting this elder uncle with a stern countenance, instantly replaced his martial ferocity with a grin, lowering his eyes respectfully as he said, “Uncle, I was only joking with the little monk.”
Ignoring his nephew, the Daoist merely bowed stiffly toward the young monk draped in green-trimmed maroon robes, and said brusquely, “Please follow me.”
Na-nan turned to look at Dongxi for silent approval before ascending the steps into the Celestial Master’s Mansion. The second gate revealed a vast octagonal Taiji diagram embedded in the white stone floor, radiating profound cosmic secrets that naturally evoked reverence. The couplet above the second gate rivaled the first in grandeur: “Lofty Dao bows Dragon and Tiger low, Virtue commands spirits to bow.”
Unfortunately, years ago Xu Xiao had remarked down the mountain that “the Dragon and Tiger heads must bow,” and many took this couplet as a veiled mockery of the Celestial Master’s Mansion.
Beyond the second gate stood a bell tower with a nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine jin bronze bell. Further inside stood the Jade Emperor’s Hall—a magnificent double-eaved pavilion, the largest in all Longhu Mountain temples. Flanked by twelve Heavenly Kings, the hall’s pillars bore eight golden dragons—only one less than the imperial dragon count of nine. These coiled figures looked so lifelike that one might believe they could soar skyward should someone daub them with life’s eyes. Miss Li glanced up nervously, following the young monk and his companion past rows of ancient steles.
At last, the third gate appeared. To step beyond meant entering the Celestial Master’s private residence—a privilege reserved only for emperors and ministers. Yet the whisk-clad Daoist still did not halt, leading the girl and monk inside. Above the courtyard gate blazed ten vermilion characters: “Peerless Land of the South, Foremost Family of the Jiang Region.” Dongxi spotted the horizontal inscription overhead: “Celestial Capital of Statecraft,” and playfully stuck out her tongue. It hadn’t impressed her from outside, but once inside, she couldn’t help but admit the Celestial Mansion far outshone her home. No red koi ponds for boating like in Northern Liang, but still—her family’s monks just loafed about, never repairing the temple. Though her temple claimed to be first among Buddhist sanctuaries, she now realized it couldn’t rival the Celestial Master’s prestige.
The third gate led to three halls. In the front hall sat a colossal jade disc so immense that not even two strong men could encircle it. Known as the Greeting Stone, even honored guests were not welcomed beyond this point.
The Daoist led the two guests into the middle hall and had them seated, where two fresh-faced young Daoist novices served tea. Ancestral portraits of the first three Celestial Masters adorned the hall’s walls. Centered was the founding Celestial Master Zhao Lingzun, hands clasped behind his back, radiating a transcendent Daoist aura. The couplet read: “With rites to emulate, demons and fiends flee; No place unentered, thus Dao pierces heaven.”
To each side were the second and third Celestial Masters, Zhao Chuyu and Zhao Jiqing—one seated with sword in hand, the other standing with whisk in arm, both exuding distinct charisma.
The whisk-bearing Daoist, whose face bore striking resemblance to the ancestral three, seated them calmly and said, “I shall now summon the Celestial Master.”
“Summon the Celestial Master?”
That meant the immortal had been in retreat.
Dongxi, though innocent, knew better than to request such an audience. She flailed her hands embarrassedly, cheeks flushed, and said, “Esteemed immortal, please don’t trouble the Celestial Master. We’re just here for some tea. After we finish, we’ll leave.”
The Daoist, ever rigid in principle, replied flatly, “It is no trouble.”
Unlike Dongxi, the little monk was clueless in small matters—often scolded by her parents for being a clumsy monk—but whenever critical moments arose, he displayed remarkable clarity. Bowing gently, he said, “Venerable, it is sufficient for me to speak of Chan. There is no need to summon the Celestial Master.”
The solemn, expressionless Daoist actually cracked a rare smile. Slowly, he replied, “Indeed. While you may speak of Chan, I have not the words to preach Dao. If you do not mind, I can summon Master Bailian to discourse with the monk.”
The monk bowed with reverence, “That would be most welcomed.”
Dongxi stifled laughter but inside, she was delighted. See? Stupid Nanbei might be slow, but when it matters, he holds his own! She recognized Bailian’s name—Monk Baiyu, granted honor purple robes by the emperor. It was this very Daoist who, long ago, had won an argument on top of Lotus Peak against her temple’s senior monks, leaving them furious for days. Of course, back then, her father was too drunk to come, punished by mother with a yearlong ban from descending the mountain. Who knows how it might have ended otherwise? Stupid Nanbei wasn’t even eloquent enough to beat him in debate, but no matter. If he lost, she’d just get Xu Fengnian to come next time—he was always great at arguing with fiery village girls.
The unidentified immortal, far more courteous than the yellow-and-purple-robed Zhao Ningyun, actually went to retrieve the famous Bailian, said to be so arrogant he dwarfed even Longhu Mountain itself. Before Dongxi finished her cup, the immortal returned with a man in white robes. His eyes seemed weakened from excessive reading. He walked carefully, naturally squinting as his eyes were small to begin, narrowing further to mere slits. Yet his smile was warm, reminding her oddly of Xu Fengnian. Feeling at ease, she decided this Bailian must be a kind man. Father always said: among mortals, there are better people and worse people. Treat good people kindly and flee from evil ones. Hence, Zhao Ningyun outside was certainly a rogue, while these two Daoists were decent men. So, Dongxi stood respectfully, bowed, and addressed him formally as Master Bailian.
The robe-less Bailian first saluted the monk from afar, then approached closer, finally getting a good look at Dongxi’s face. Smiling, he said, “Young lady, you bear a fortunate face for a husband. Great fortune awaits whosoever marries you.”
Dongxi gasped, cheeks blushing bright red.
How could he say such a thing so directly! One cannot strike a smiling face, and Master Bailian was far too forward for her liking.
The whisk-bearing Daoist, eyes filled with amusement, sighed, “Master Bailian, please don’t startle the girl.”
Adjusting the hem of his headscarf, the Xiao Yao Jin-wearing Bailian, now slightly embarrassed, slowly sat on a purple bamboo chair. Gazing slightly blurred at the monk who had come seeking a “Chan” discussion:
Na-nan, seemingly in no mood for debate, merely asked curiously, “This hall is called Fox Immortal Hall. Are there truly Fox Immortals here?”
Bailian shook his head, “None.”
“I see,” the monk mused, “Then, are there immortals at Longhu Mountain?”
Bailian chuckled, “I think not.”
Na-nan simply nodded, “Then I have no more questions.”
Bailian showed no disappointment or anger—truly an affable fellow. Dongxi thought people often exaggerated. Where was the arrogance others claimed? He seemed an amiable older man.
The young Daoist immortal, regarded as kind by Dongxi, smiled, “Let’s continue with our tea.”
Dongxi whispered softly, “Once we finish tea, we’ll descend.”
The man who once discussed Dao with the Emperor nodded agreeably, “I’m quite the wanderer with bad sense of direction and poor vision. I won’t accompany you out. I must rely on this ill-tempered junior disciple here to guide me back.”
Teacup emptied, Dongxi and the monk left the hall and walked briskly to the main gate, exhaling deeply on the stone steps.
Na-nan scratched his glistening bald head.
Dongxi teased, “Even you were afraid?”
The monk blushed, “I fear no debate. Just the door shutting behind me.”
Back within the hall, the younger disciple asked, “So… did you discuss Dao and Chan?”
Bailian sipped tea, amused, “Not exactly.”
The rigid Daoist merely murmured, “Oh,” and offered no further word.
Bailian chuckled, “What is there to bicker about? Look, I’ve kept a peaceful heart and enjoyed a fine tea—what more could one desire? A not-very-bright girl, a not-quite-foolish monk—could that not itself be great Chan?”
The whisk-wielding young Master mused with a frown, “You know I don’t understand these things.”
Bailian replied, “Vaguely sensing Dao is Dao itself; blurrily grasping Chan is Chan. Not understanding—perhaps that is understanding. Often, those who claim understanding, understand but a fart. Understand or not? Well, not understanding is better.”
The Daoist with the unchanging face asked, “Master Xitian said we must fund the repairs at Xiaoyao Pavilion, and we must host the Northern Liang envoys when they come. But the Grand Master is secluded, and the one in the capital said to ignore it. What then?”
Bailian laughed, “Let it be, then. At most, we face another ‘horse-treads-dragon-and-tiger’ farce. I enjoy the commotion. Besides, you’ll be the one leading the fight. In a few years, you’ll surpass even our Grand Master by a level. Who could you not match then?”
The stern Daoist offered silent contemplation.
Gazing at the three ancestral portraits, Bailian heaved a sigh, “Still, jokes aside, if my black-mouthed prediction comes true, it’ll be a difficult situation. ‘Xu’s Phoenix Tramples Dragon and Tiger’—this prophecy from the sacred text remains ominous indeed.”
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