Chapter 977: The Arrival Bears No Good Intentions

At the secluded spot of the Great Lotus Peak, the newly built thatched cottage had never been so lively before.

The tall white-robed monk appeared exceptionally harmonious in demeanor, though the prayer beads hanging from his chest were dull in color—clearly a far cry from the rare and precious rosaries of the eminent monks from the great temples of the Central Plains.

Since his return from the westward journey spanning thousands of miles, he had never carried or worn any beads except for this single string made of peach wood. These beads were a token of love between him and his wife. After gifting them, she had indeed felt some regret, having later heard that peach wood was highly revered in Taoism for warding off evil, while in Buddhism, peach wood beads were considered insignificant. Yet the white-robed monk, Li Dangxin, never parted with them, except when hanging them on the wall before sleep.

In Buddhism, there was a saying: “Still the mind to banish delusions; hold the beads close to the heart.” His secular name happened to be Li Dangxin ( Li Dangxin, “Mindful Li”), which aligned perfectly with this teaching. Years ago, when he first entered the capital in white robes, the old emperor of Liyang bestowed upon him an invaluable string of Seven-Treasure beads, which he casually tossed into a chest. After his daughter, Li Dongxi, was born, his wife would occasionally pluck a dozen or so beads from the string to weave into a circlet for the little girl to wear. The child, who loved running wild across the mountains of Liangchan Temple, had no idea of the beads’ worth and would often lose them. Yet none of the three in the family ever minded.

Now, seated across from the white-robed monk were three Taoist priests from the two ancestral Taoist sects: Bai Yu, newly appointed as the Governor of Liangzhou; Qi Xianxia, one of the “Little Celestial Masters” of Longhu Mountain; and Han Gui, from the Qing Shan Temple of Wudang’s Little Pillar Peak.

Not far away, Li Dongxi, Wu Nanbei, Yu Fu (the sole disciple of Wudang’s current leader, Li Yufu), and Han Gui’s young disciple, Qingxin, crouched together, listening to Li Dongxi recount her thrilling tales of the martial world.

The white-robed monk’s wife had already taken her afternoon nap. Earlier, upon learning that three Taoists had arrived together, she leaned against the doorframe and remarked with a smirk, “Strength in numbers—they’re up to no good.”

The monk chuckled. “Just a debate. Nothing to fear.”

Still uneasy, she said, “Then I won’t prepare tea. Let their throats parch. But you can always find an excuse to come inside for a drink.”

“Alright.”

“Would that be impolite?”

“No.”

“Oh, and if you really can’t win the argument and it comes to blows, remember—don’t hit their faces. No need to give them ammunition, got it?”

“…”

“What, can’t win? Then forget it. Just chat amiably. Hah, harmony brings fortune when traveling.”

“I can win.”

“Oh. But don’t go overboard. Our daughter still wants to play on the mountain for a few more days.”

“Understood.”

Now, facing the three Taoists, the white-robed monk conversed pleasantly, as the discussion never touched upon the fundamental conflicts between Buddhism and Taoism.

He asked, “Is Leader Li in seclusion at the Little Lotus Peak, refining the Yellow Court?”

Han Gui, the only Taoist in Wudang to “open a peak” in the past two decades and a man of peace, did not conceal the truth. “Senior Brother had an epiphany beforehand.”

The monk smiled. “A good thing.”

Gently rubbing his peach wood beads, he said serenely, “The earth sinks in the southeast, and the four great rivers flow toward the Xun position. Perhaps this signifies a cycle with both beginning and end.”

Han Gui, clad in pristine Taoist robes and wearing a Dongxuan headpiece, seemed melancholic. Bai Yu, whose eyes had been strained from reading, squinted as if detached from the scene. Qi Xianxia gazed up at the rolling sea of clouds atop the Great Lotus Peak, lost in thought.

The monk asked with a smile, “‘A life unfulfilled, even a hundred years is but an early death.’ Did Cao Changqing say this after entering the Great Chu’s Chess Academy?”

Bai Yu shook his head. “It was actually spoken by Cao Changqing’s mentor, Li Mi. That phrase might have been the key that allowed Cao to transition from Confucian sage to the path of hegemony.”

The monk lightly twirled his beads. “If blooming flowers, a full moon, and longevity are the ultimate joys of ordinary folk, then the smooth flow of intent and unhindered thoughts must be the pursuit of Taoists, no?”

Bai Yu, looking weary, rubbed his eyes and grinned. “What, are we about to argue? But there’s not even a cup of tea here.”

The monk replied softly, “My wife forbade serving tea. I dare not defy her. As for arguing…”

His gaze drifted over their heads, and he called out loudly, “Disciple, come here! Let’s discuss Buddhist teachings with Scholar Bai Lian.”

To his surprise, the young monk lifted his shaven head reluctantly. “Master, if it weren’t for Li Dongxi stopping me, I’d be on my way to buy rouge for Shiniang at the Jade Purity Temple. She said there’s a stunningly beautiful woman selling Shu Sunflowerflower rouge there these days—cheap and good. Rumor has it there’s even specially made ‘Silk Swallow Red’ from the Wu-Yue brothels of Jiangnan. If I’m late, there might not be any left!”

The monk glared. “You dare mention that ‘Silk Swallow Red’?! A tiny box the size of a fingernail, and they dare charge five taels?! If not for you mentioning it, would she have obsessed over it all night, even murmuring about it in her dreams?!”

The young monk retorted righteously, “But it really is good rouge! The cheap ones at the foot of the mountain may be affordable, but their scent is overpowering. Sure, the boxes are bigger, but didn’t you see yesterday? Because it was cheap, Shiniang piled so much on her face that it flaked off into her rice bowl at dinner—horrifying! And you, Master, clearly terrified, still had the nerve to say, ‘Such a sight is like heavenly maidens scattering blossoms, rare in this world.’ Then Shiniang grinned, and even more rouge fell…”

The monk coughed awkwardly.

Bai Yu mused that if this middle-aged monk from Liangchan Temple had been present at the great Buddhist-Taoist debate on Longhu Mountain over a decade ago, there would have been no need for him to step in and turn the tide.

Han Gui, the abbot of Qing Shan Temple, maintained a meditative posture, as serene as an old monk in deep contemplation.

Qi Xianxia seemed to subtly massage his temples.

Suddenly, two voices—one from inside the house, the other outside—shouted in unison, brimming with excitement:

“Silk Swallow Red from the brothels?!”

Inside was the monk’s wife; outside, Li Dongxi. The latter sprang up and dashed toward the house, yelling, “Mother! Father hid four or five taels of silver under his scripture chest recently! I saw him stash it! He told me to keep it secret, but who am I? Your own flesh and blood!”

A frantic commotion erupted inside the cottage—clattering, drawers flung open, chests overturned.

The monk looked up at the sky, his face etched with suffering.

To an outsider, his expression might have seemed as solemn and compassionate as the Buddha himself, pitying the suffering of the world.

When the two women—one tall, one small—emerged from the cottage, the monk stood, rubbing his bald head, and asked solicitously, “The sun’s scorching. Shouldn’t you take an umbrella?”

His wife pondered, then waved grandly. “Silk Swallow Red is rare. Stock must be limited—what if we miss out?”

Li Dongxi had already begun issuing orders. “Stupid Nanbei, fetch the umbrella from inside and catch up! Qingxin, Yu Fu—this is your turf. Any shortcuts to the Jade Purity Temple? Lead the way!”

Qingxin, now utterly devoted to the heroic Li Dongxi, puffed out his chest proudly. “Yes!”

And so the group marched off in high spirits toward the temple. The monk still called after them, “The path is rough—go slowly!”

Feeling the awkward silence, the monk sat back down and turned to Bai Yu, grasping for a topic. “I hear Scholar Bai Lian has ‘three fears and two joys’?”

Bai Yu nodded. “Three fears: thunder, walking, and Zhao Ningshen’s questions. Two joys: reading to the point of epiphany, and speaking to the point of mutual understanding.”

The monk frowned. “Zhao Ningshen?”

Bai Yu sighed. “Originally named Zhao Jingsi, he was the old leader’s only son—unusually earnest and composed. After descending the mountain, he endured many trials, emerging stronger. Now, his heart is nearly aligned with the Great Dao.”

The monk made a sound of realization. “Ah, the young Taoist who summoned the Celestial Masters’ ancestors at Spring God Lake, only to have his conjuring shattered by Xu Fengnian’s apparition of the True Martial Emperor?”

Bai Yu smiled wryly, silent.

The monk, harboring clear disdain for the young prince, huffed, “Fighting is fighting—why resort to theatrics? Like a child running home crying for adults to settle things! Especially that Xu Fengnian—utterly shameless, bullying others with his status. Disgraceful!”

Bai Yu, now effectively a retainer of the Xu household in Beiliang, wisely held his tongue.

The monk grumbled, “My daughter never comes whining to me. Every time she strikes, those little bald heads go crying to their masters!”

Han Gui smiled knowingly, perhaps thinking of his own disciple, Qingxin, or the young boy Yu Fu, whom Leader Li Yufu had brought to the mountain.

Those beyond the worldly realm were not necessarily without sentiment.

Just then, Qi Xianxia—the only one of the three Taoists who cultivated martial prowess—suddenly stood and turned, his posture tense as if facing a formidable enemy.

The monk remained seated, calmly turning his beads.

A man with temples lightly frosted appeared in their sight, empty-handed.

He smiled faintly. “Since the ‘Inch Thunder,’ I’ve comprehended two more blades over the past twenty years. I wished to test them against two men. Now that Wang Xianzhi is dead, I’ve come here to trouble you.”

Li Dangxin rose slowly, his voice tranquil. “Strike while my wife is away. But remember—whether sparring or fighting to the death, don’t wreck the cottage. Otherwise, I’ll truly be angry.”