Once upon a time, there was a mountain called Wudang.
On the mountain stood a peak known as Lianhua (Lotus Peak). Once, there lived a young Daoist on the peak who longed to descend the mountain but dared not leave. His name was Hong Xixiang. However, after the young patriarch descended and returned from a journey off the mountain, it was said that he departed from this world.
Then came the even younger new patriarch, Li Yufu, who brought back a young child with bright eyes and a lively spirit. The child was named Yu Fu, likely named by his parents in the hope that he would accumulate blessings year after year. In poor families, the desire for a peaceful and stable life often boiled down to the simple virtues of thrift and saving.
The Lantern Festival was a grand occasion. To welcome the Lantern Festival of the Xiangfu era, Daoists of all generations on Wudang Mountain were splitting bamboo and crafting lanterns, which they covered with Xuan paper. Even the most senior elders, like Chen Yao and Yu Xingrui, were no exceptions. Unfortunately, the eldest ancestor, Master Song Zhiming, had passed away last year—just died, without any rainbow transformation or ascension to immortality. The old master departed peacefully, muttering only that if his youngest junior brother were still alive, they could have refined some truly excellent elixirs. In the month before his death, elders often saw Master Song standing at the gate of the Great Lianhua Peak, gazing toward the foot of the mountain. Without asking, everyone knew he was waiting for his nephew, the patriarch. From the old master’s master, Huang Manshan, to the eldest disciple Wang Chonglou, then to the youngest disciple Hong Xixiang, and finally to the current patriarch Li Yufu, Song Zhiming had lived for 120 years, witnessing four generations of Wudang patriarchs. Apart from the ancestral portraits, he had seen it all, and thus departed in peace.
As the elder generation of masters gradually faded away, the venerable Chen Yao, who oversaw the sect’s discipline, could no longer hide his aging. Fortunately, Wudang Mountain had always taken life and death lightly. Moreover, the mountain’s incense offerings were now thriving. Ceremonies known as “Opening the Mountain” were held across several peaks—modest yet dignified.
Even as the Lantern Festival approached, before dawn, many devout men and women still began their ascent to burn incense. Unlike many Daoist temples in Liyang that reserved privileges for nobles and officials, where commoners could never burn the first incense of the day no matter how long they prayed, in Beiliang, anyone who arrived early could be the first to offer incense at Wudang. On the southern path of Wudang Mountain, pilgrims flowed continuously, many with accents from distant lands. At a time when the Northern Wei army was marching southward, the three states of Beiliang resembled a funnel, with a sharp drop in population. These pilgrims from outside were like carp swimming upstream, clearly illustrating Wudang’s current prosperity. Moreover, rumors spread that the imperial court was soon to bestow upon Wudang the title of “Ancestral Temple of Daoism,” previously held by Longhu Mountain, as a gesture to appease Beiliang.
Among the incense-burning crowd was a young couple who appeared modest and unpretentious. Without fine silks or furs, without imposing retinues, they carried no lanterns either. They joined another family they had met by chance at the foot of the mountain, following their light to navigate the mountain path. The young man introduced himself as Xu Qi, a native of Beiliang, while his wife surnamed Lu hailed from Qingzhou. As he put it, she had followed him like a hen follows a rooster or a dog follows its master, enduring hardships in Beiliang.
This family numbered sixteen across four generations. The elderly patriarch, Master Yan, was eighty years old and hailed from Guangling. He had once served as an imperial official and later as a local administrator, only recently retiring from office. The old man was witty and talkative, sharing stories and anecdotes from across the land during their climb, bringing much laughter and joy to the otherwise arduous journey. Though Xu Qi had little to say that was surprising, he always managed to keep up with the old man’s conversation.
Except for the old man, the other two generations of men in the Yan family initially held little regard for this so-called “barbarian” from Beiliang. This couldn’t entirely be blamed on their arrogance. In the regional rivalries of Liyang, Beiliang, governed by Xu Xiao, and the Southern Frontier under Prince Zhao Bing of Yanke, were both considered uncivilized frontiers—two peas in a pod. Even the Two Liao regions were considered more refined. Thus, when the first scholar from Beiliang passed the imperial examinations and became a Jinshi, it caused quite a stir in Taian City. Many were astonished that someone from Beiliang could be a scholar. They even went so far as to check his family records, and only when they confirmed his ancestral roots in Jianzhou of the Central Plains did they breathe a sigh of relief, ignoring the fact that several generations of his family had been born and raised in Lingzhou of Beiliang.
It was only after Yan Jiexi became a royal relative and later a Grand Secretary, Jin Lanting rose steadily through the ranks, and the Confucian scholar Yao Baifeng took charge of the Imperial Academy in the capital that the perception of Beiliang as a land of ignorance began to shift slightly, albeit grudgingly, acknowledging that Beiliang too had families who valued both farming and learning.
The southern path leading to the summit of Wudang, known as the Golden Peak, stretched twelve miles long, and with the mountainous terrain, the Yan family, with their elders and children, moved slowly. By the time the first morning bell rang from the mountain top, they had only reached halfway and stopped to rest at a pavilion built specifically for travelers and pilgrims.
Taking in the morning light, the old man gazed into the distance. Xu Qi and his wife stood side by side, admiring the view below. After sitting down, the old man was immediately approached by his young great-grandson, who ran over to massage his legs. Laughing heartily, the old man lifted the child onto his lap, pointing eastward and saying, “This scene is called ‘The Sky Opens in Blue and White.’”
The child, clearly uninterested in such poetic expressions, looked up with innocent curiosity and asked, “Great-grandpa, are there really immortals on the mountain like Mama says? Can they ride clouds and mist?”
Master Yan chuckled, patting the child’s head without answering. Instead, he turned his gaze toward the mist-veiled summit and softly murmured, “I dare not speak loudly, lest I startle the celestial beings above.”
Unsatisfied with the lack of an answer, the child clung to the old man, demanding more. Finally, the old man relented, “We scholars must adhere to the teachings of the sages, who spoke not of ghosts and spirits. But between us, little one, I too, in my youth, once disguised my travels as scholarly pursuits, secretly hoping to meet immortals atop mountains, sword in hand and dressed in green robes. Perhaps I lacked the fortune, for I never encountered those white-haired, rosy-cheeked sages others spoke of. Once, in middle age, I visited the Celestial Master’s Mansion on Longhu Mountain and had a brief audience with the old Celestial Master of that generation. I never had the chance for deeper conversation, as my official rank was too low then—I was seated at the very end. At the time, I thought being an official paled in comparison to cultivating Dao. There are so many scholars in the world, and how rare it is to earn the posthumous title of Grand Tutor or Wen Zheng. Yet cultivators are few, and reaching the rank of a Daoist noble in purple robes is comparatively easier.”
The child looked deeply disappointed. “Great-grandpa, then why did we come all the way to Wudang Mountain? Papa said the carriage ride nearly shook his bones apart.”
A nearby young scholar turned red with embarrassment.
The old man smiled, stroking his snow-white beard. “Though I’ve never seen immortals, I once met a Daoist of my own age who passed through my jurisdiction. We had a most pleasant conversation. He taught me a method of health cultivation, and it is thanks to his teachings that I have lived this long. Even after all these years, I still remember him clearly—tall in stature, kind-hearted and bold, with the bearing of an ancient wandering scholar. Compared to the noble Daoists of the Celestial Master’s Mansion, he was utterly devoid of pretense.”
With a sigh, the old man continued, “That Daoist was the previous patriarch of Wudang Mountain, Wang Chonglou. It was only much later that I learned he was the patriarch of Wudang in Beiliang. Thus, while my body has not yet fully returned to the earth, I hastened here to see it with my own eyes. Also, I wished to see for myself just how high the northern skies of Beiliang truly are. For in my days as an official in Taian City, there was a censor who once accused a certain man, saying that upon arriving in Beiliang, this man had once pointed at his chair during a grand banquet and declared, ‘This is not the Dragon Throne, yet it is higher than the one in the capital.’”
The old man’s son, already nearing sixty, laughed and said, “That must be nonsense.”
The old man nodded in agreement.
Xu Qi, the man from Beiliang who had been watching the old man cradling his great-grandson, said nothing but turned silently to gaze into the distance.
His wife took his hand and whispered beside him, “Was it true or not?”
Xu Qi, who was none other than Xu Fengnian, softly replied, “It was true. I was still a child then, sitting on my father’s lap. Those words were actually spoken to me, probably to tell me that being an emperor isn’t all that meaningful.”
Xu Fengnian tightened his grip on Lu Chengyan’s cool hand and whispered a secret to her, “In Liyang, it’s customary for officials to retire at seventy. To retire at seventy-nine is no small feat. The old man is Yan Song, who once served as Deputy Minister of Rites in the capital, but clashed with Chancellor Zhang Julu and was later pushed aside to Luzhou in the Jiangnan region, where he quietly pursued scholarship. Now that Chancellor Zhang has fallen from grace, the court is gripped by fear and silence. Yan Song was among the few who dared to speak out in Zhang’s defense, showing that their past disputes were noble and principled. I traveled with him because my father, Xu Xiao, held him in high regard. Among all those who cursed my father, Yan Song cursed him the loudest, but at least his words were fair.”
Suddenly, the old man smiled at Xu Fengnian and said, “Xu Qi, before I entered Beiliang and came to Wudang, I visited several academies, and what I saw surprised me greatly. It seems your new Prince of Liang is more scholarly than the old one. That’s truly rare.”
Lu Chengyan glanced at Xu Fengnian, who for once looked slightly embarrassed, and she smiled knowingly.
Xu Fengnian turned and replied, “It must be because he knows he can’t match Xu Xiao in martial prowess, so he focuses instead on governance.”
The child, puzzled, tugged at the old man’s sleeve and asked, “Great-grandpa, didn’t my uncle say that the Prince of Beiliang is a mighty warrior?”
An older man chuckled, “The ‘martial’ in ‘governance and martial arts’ doesn’t refer to fighting skills.”
After their chat, the group resumed their climb. One of the must-do activities for visitors to Wudang Mountain was to witness the daily martial practice sessions—morning and evening—where Daoists of all generations gathered to perform their exercises. This was the main reason the Yan family had risen so early—to see with their own eyes the spectacle of hundreds or even thousands of Daoists practicing together in unison. It was said that this martial form was first created by the previous patriarch, Hong Xixiang, and could be practiced by anyone, bringing benefits to all.
When the group finally reached the plaza outside the main hall atop Wudang’s summit, they arrived just in time—missing it would have meant waiting until dusk.
Indeed, as the rumors claimed, countless Daoists stood in perfect formation, practicing their forms together. Even the most untrained eyes could see that the movements were graceful—just right. There were no overly complex techniques, no loud grunts often heard in martial arts training. It was quiet, peaceful, and flowing.
Master Yan Song sighed in admiration, “What a display of flowing clouds and running water.”
The child, perched on his father’s shoulders, pointed excitedly into the distance, “Look! There’s a kid about my age practicing too! There, there—he’s right at the front!”
Though the old man couldn’t see clearly, he was still surprised, “Isn’t the leading practitioner supposed to be the current patriarch, Li Yufu?”
Xu Fengnian explained, “Li Yufu has taken a disciple.”
Behind the Daoists, many pilgrims also followed along, clumsily mimicking the forms. Though they lacked understanding of the deeper meaning, and their movements were far from accurate, they practiced with great enthusiasm. Unable to see the lead Daoist clearly, they followed the movements of those nearby, resulting in a somewhat comical display. Then the Yan family saw a young Daoist of lower rank slowly walking from the front to the back, offering patient guidance to the pilgrims—correcting overly forceful movements, pointing out improper hand techniques, reminding them to relax their wrists or adjust their posture, always with a gentle smile.
Xu Fengnian gazed at the young Daoist at the front, who performed each movement with utmost precision, and his expression turned unusual.
The young Daoist saw Xu Fengnian and smiled, then hurried toward him.
Lu Chengyan softly asked, “Are you going to practice too?”
Xu Fengnian asked, “Would you like to watch?”
Lu Chengyan nodded with a smile.
Xu Fengnian slowly stepped forward, took his place at the very back of the line, and began to practice.
The young Daoist hesitated for a moment, then joined him.
Their movements were perfectly synchronized—smooth and graceful.
Xu Fengnian closed his eyes.
Back then, there was an unfortunate soul who, whenever he saw Xu Fengnian, would force a bitter smile and say, “You’re here again.”
Xu Fengnian whispered softly, “Riding Ox, I’m here.”
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