It is a rare blessing to share happiness together; at the very least, having someone to endure hardships alongside is not so bad. This was precisely the mindset of Yan Yangguan, the abbot of a small Daoist temple, who traveled alongside the scholar Xu Fengnian, sharing meals under open skies and sleeping beneath the stars. Gaining a companion for conversation truly made this journey fortunate. Daoist master Luo Pingyang, known as Jiuyue the Hermit, prided himself on his skill in physiognomy. Though the young scholar Xu bore a countenance somewhat at odds with his aura—something subtly unfathomable and strange—Luo concluded he couldn’t possibly be a villain. After all, what trouble could a wandering master and apprentice possibly invite? Together, they barely weighed two hundred jin.
As time passed, small secrets no longer needed concealment. Xu Fengnian gradually learned that this obscure Daoist abbot was deeply devoted to spreading the Dao. Throughout their journey, he constantly taught his apprentice the art of cultivating inner energy. After several stays where Xu paid for accommodations from his own purse, the old Daoist no longer minded his presence and listening in. One day, following the master’s instructions, the young apprentice sat cross-legged in the shade behind a rock by the Weishui River, assuming the Vajra posture of the Buddhist tradition, known among Daoists as the As You Wish Seat (Ruyi Sitting Posture). The old Daoist carefully retrieved several yellowed books from his trunk and handed them to Xu Fengnian, stroking his beard with a smile.
“To be honest,” he said, “when I was young, my family was prosperous, and I studied many classical texts. An elder in my clan was devoted to the teachings of Laozi and Huangdi, and I practiced breath cultivation under him for several years. Later, when my family’s fortunes declined, unwilling to abandon my path, I entered a Daoist temple as a guest-receiving monk. Over the years, I have read extensively from the scriptures of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism. After much effort, I selected these three books, which I believe are the least misleading and contain not a single word that might confuse the young.”
Xu Fengnian took the books and saw they were *The Six Subtle Doors* of the Tiantai tradition of meditation, *The Correct Methods of Sitting Quietly* by Yuan Yuanfan, a hermit from the Spring and Autumn period, and finally, *The Stages of the Path to Enlightenment* from the Yellow Sect of Tibetan Buddhism. To ordinary people, these books might seem obscure, but for those within the three traditions, they were accessible. The vast ocean of Buddhist and Daoist scriptures made selecting just three a feat in itself, proving that the old Daoist was no mere fake in robes. These three books laid out the methods of sitting meditation in a clear and progressive manner, avoiding the pretentious phrases found in many other scriptures like “a white-haired man returning to the Buddha” or “I wish to leave the world behind”—mere wordplay with no real meaning.
Of course, hoping to cultivate immortality merely by following these three books—available to anyone willing to buy and copy them—was pure fantasy. But if practiced diligently and correctly, they could certainly help prolong life and ward off illness.
The old Daoist, rarely finding someone willing to listen to his musings on the Dao, spoke with great delight. He pointed to his apprentice’s spine and added, “Young Master Xu, look at my apprentice’s straight back—it resembles the stacked beads of an abacus. There’s a reason for that.”
He paused dramatically, then asked with a smile, “Have you ever seen ginseng, Master Xu?”
Xu smiled, “A few times, by chance.”
The old Daoist narrowed his eyes and clicked his tongue, “Ah, what a treasure! When I was young, I studied Daoist cultivation under an elder and saw some old ginseng roots—harvested from the Liaodong region of the Liyang Dynasty, as thick as an arm. Oh, I digress. Let’s not dwell on old glories. The point is, all living things possess spirit, especially ginseng. Its branches curl into knots to preserve its essence and prevent energy from escaping. Likewise, when Daoists sit in meditation and regulate their breath, the principle is the same. Also, when sitting still, the tongue should lightly touch the upper palate, just like the sleep of an infant without teeth. These are all foundational practices. But they are only the groundwork—before one even crosses the threshold. To truly enter the inner sanctum? Difficult, indeed. I have read many books, and whenever I had spare coin, I bought more from fallen aristocratic families. They say books contain beauty and wealth, but as a man of the Way, I seek only immortality among the pages. Yet after all these years, I dare not claim to have truly attained anything. In Daoist breath cultivation, there is said to be a ‘Twelve-story Tower.’ But I myself feel I have only reached the fifth or sixth. Ah, thus the saying: ‘Cultivating the Dao is like entering Shu—climbing the heavens is easier.’ When common folk call me an immortal or a true man, I can only feel ashamed. This time, with the news of the Qilin Immortal traveling the world and the Daoist Zong preparing to compile the Daozang, collecting all Daoist texts, I must confess—I do not go for the grand ceremonies. I only wish to help in any temple of the Daoist Zong, even as a servant. Just to glimpse rare and damaged scrolls would be enough. As for food and lodging, my apprentice and I can manage.”
The young apprentice swayed unsteadily, exhausted and on the verge of sleep, unable to maintain his meditative posture. The old Daoist grew anxious and whispered to Xu Fengnian, “My apprentice is quite gifted—far better than I was. What you see now is the sign of rising Qi from the lower abdomen. When he sees glowing lights or chain-like shapes whether his eyes are open or closed, that will mark a small success in cultivation. When I reached that stage, I suffered greatly. At first, I wrongly focused my mind on the upper cinnabar field, and my face flushed red—I thought I had attained the Dao. Only later did I realize I had strayed. Now, teaching my apprentice, I can avoid many of those detours.”
As the Daoist spoke with enthusiasm, his apprentice nearly collapsed.
“Master,” the boy groaned weakly, “I’m hungry.”
The interruption embarrassed the old Daoist, who angrily rapped the boy’s head with his knuckles. “Eat, eat, eat! All you think about is food! You lazy, gluttonous fool!”
The boy bore no grudge when alone with his master, but in front of the young scholar, whom he disliked from the start, this loss of face stung. His eyes reddened as he glared fiercely at his teacher. The small temple abbot, lacking in grace or prestige, roared and struck the boy’s palms a dozen times. The child, unable to endure the pain, burst into tears. Glancing at the scholar’s faint smile only deepened his sorrow. He ran to the riverbank, picked up stones, and hurled them into the water.
The old Daoist, pretending not to see, turned to Xu Fengnian and said solemnly, “Even if one sees glowing lights or chains during meditation, without proper guidance, it is merely what Chan Buddhism calls ‘illusions at the gate of light.’ Partly because Buddhism focuses on the mind and not the body, and has no concept of internal alchemy like Daoism, thus viewing such phenomena as obstacles. Partly too, because there is indeed a risk of falling into delusion. If you, Master Xu, ever wish to study seated meditation, you must be cautious. As for me, I am but a blind man crossing a river, feeling my way. I call it ‘cultivating truth through falsehood.’ If the true immortals of great temples heard me, they would laugh me to death. My talent is limited—I have yet to smell the sandalwood within. As for attaining immortality or transcendence, even lesser longevity remains distant. My apprentice, too, is a child of misfortune. Though disobedient, his roots and nature are not bad. I only hope he may suffer less in the future. Master Xu, please do not take offense at his sullen face. He is still young, has walked a thousand li, and his soles have worn through many layers of callus. Having known only the Yan Yang Temple as home, he finds it hard to be happy.”
Xu Fengnian smiled and shook his head. “Master Luo, you flatter me. I simply have no affinity with children. Few children ever greet me with smiles.”
Luo Pingyang sighed softly. “We humans are like a cup of muddy water—only when still do the impurities settle at the bottom. Only when ill do we realize the body’s suffering; in health, we rush about in chaos.”
Xu Fengnian nodded thoughtfully. “An empty room seems clean, until sunlight reveals its dust. When Daoists enter the First Rank, they enter the Zhixuan Realm. Perhaps it is in the interplay of motion and stillness that such insight arises.”
Since entering the Jinguang Realm, whether watching waterfalls or rivers, he had faintly perceived fine, hair-like residual traces. If he reached the Zhixuan Realm, could he gain some foreknowledge? Xu Fengnian fell into thought, recalling how Luoyang had unraveled the secrets outside the bronze gate of the Qin Emperor’s tomb, leaving him deeply shaken.
Luo Pingyang pondered and then sighed with longing. “The First Rank? I dare not dream of it.”
The three continued northwest along the Weishui River, resting beneath starlit skies each night. On their final stop before parting ways, Xu Fengnian would soon leave the master and apprentice, who were bound for the Yellow River, then by boat upstream to attend the grand Daoist ceremony at the Daode Sect. Xu Fengnian had no need to detour—he had only half a month’s walk before reaching his final destination in the Northern Marches.
That night, the seasons of summer and autumn met. Stars hung low over the vast sky, and the Milky Way stretched above, close enough to touch. Xu Fengnian sat by the Weishui River, lost in thought, when he turned and saw the young apprentice standing not far away, hesitating. Catching Xu’s gaze, the boy turned to run but stopped after a few steps, then reluctantly approached the riverbank.
The boy made no effort to hide his dislike of Xu Fengnian, yet tonight, for some reason, he spoke.
“Hey, Xu,” he asked abruptly, “have you heard the saying ‘The Dao rises one foot, but the demon rises a Zhang’?”
Xu nodded.
The boy frowned. “A Zhang is always taller than a chi. I keep asking my master why the demon is nine chi higher than the Dao, but he never gives a real answer. He always changes the subject. Do you know?”
Xu Fengnian smiled. “I don’t really understand either.”
The boy scoffed. “You don’t know anything. You can’t even sit in meditation. My master has to teach you.”
Xu nodded. “Your master is wise. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be the abbot of Yan Yang Temple. I’m not ashamed to be less than him.”
The boy puffed up proudly. “Everyone says my master is good at fortune-telling!”
Xu Fengnian gazed at the shimmering stars on the river’s surface and said nothing.
The boy finally confessed, “My master told me to come thank you before bed. I didn’t want to, but he’s my master. I had to obey.”
Xu Fengnian chuckled. “You’re honest, at least.”
The boy no longer wished to speak to him. He rested his head on his bent knees, gazing blankly at the Weishui.
Then he turned slowly and said, “That day we crossed the river—I really saw a red-robed water ghost. Do you believe me?”
Xu Fengnian smiled. “I believe you.”
As he spoke, a streak of red vanished beneath the river’s surface.
Xu Fengnian thought for a moment, then took a bundle of straw shoes from his pack—three pairs in total—and handed two to the boy. “I made one pair at first, but when I met you two, I made two more. If you don’t mind, consider them a parting gift.”
The boy gasped in surprise. After a moment’s hesitation, he accepted the straw shoes. At that moment, he truly no longer disliked the traveling scholar.
Holding the shoes, he muttered, “Hey, you can weave straw shoes too? Then who did you make the other one for?”
Xu Fengnian gazed calmly at the water and replied softly, “You have a master. I have one too.”
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