Ever since the late Supreme Patriarch Wang Chonglou passed away, the already limited offerings at Wudang have dwindled further. Fortunately, the Nearly a thousand Taoist priests, middle-aged Jijiu priests, and Daoist apprentices living behind the arch had long grown accustomed to a humble life—roof leaks were mended, old robes were patched up, vegetable plots were planted, and chickens and ducks raised. None harbored complaints. Yet, at this moment, a young Daoist priest squatted behind the Xuanwu Dangxing arch, sighing bitterly. Nearby squatted several mischievous young sweepers from neighboring temples, all begging this priest to recount stories of romance from ancient books. These tales were far more entertaining than Daoist scriptures, albeit excessively tragic. Why did none of the lovers ever end up with a good fate? As the narrator approached the ending, the listeners felt their hearts tighten. They had endured caning from their masters just to sneak away from lessons—just for this?
“Taishang Shishuzhu,” a young apprentice who had come to Wudang only two years ago timidly asked. “Why are there so many lantern riddles, drinking games, and poems in this book? Could one single person truly have thought them all up? If so, how incredibly learned must its author be? Probably as accomplished as you, Taishang Shishuzhu?”
This little apprentice, with rosy lips and clear eyes, was exceptionally bright. He propped his cheeks on his hands, gazing earnestly at the uncle of his master’s master, who by right should have been addressed as the Supreme Patriarch. However, since the temple whispered that His Reverence disliked formality, people continued addressing him by his generational title.
“Nonsense! How could the author of this book possibly rival Taishang Shishuzhu’s wisdom?” A slightly older apprentice struck the younger one lightly on the head, wearing an expression of stern certainty. The smaller apprentice cradled his head, too intimidated to argue.
“It’s not nonsense,” the young master countered gently. “I may best the author in Daoist philosophy and doctrine, but when it comes to matters of love and affection, I am miles behind—ten thousand li behind. This is the principle of specializing in one’s field. When you study scriptures with your masters, don’t believe everything they say is right. If you ever endure punishment you don’t think you deserve, you may come see me at Lotus Peak. And if after hearing me explain, you still doubt, you may even leave the mountain and seek the truth for yourselves. Should you one day find that my masters and I were wrong, return and tell me. But if you discover your own fault, don’t feel ashamed. Remember, the gates of Wudang will never close to you.”
He smiled gently, patting the youngest apprentice’s head. His smile was warm.
“Taishang Shishuzhu,” the child asked innocently, “I think it’s wrong when my master punishes us whenever he gets upset. What do you think?”
The young master chuckled softly. “When I was small, I too was punished. But looking back, I realize I was often in the wrong. The few times I wasn’t, eventually I just let it go. Our masters and senior brothers are not saints without emotions—mistakes are inevitable. Across a thousand years, Wudang has housed over a hundred thousand priests, but there is only one statue of Xuanwu. We—all of us, myself included—are just ordinary mortals who make errors. We must allow others to err, and ourselves as well. Don’t get stuck in a loop. If you dwell on bitterness, you’ll lose the joy of life. We come into this world only once. Even if you were to become a noble or king, life would still be dull if you carry resentment. Besides, we are those who renounce the world. Wealth and honor are but fleeting illusions. When the Dao is achieved, even broken tiles become gold. In the elixir furnace, spring blooms eternal. Wudang is my pillow. So long as I rest upon Wudang, it is enough.”
A slightly older apprentice whispered hesitantly, “Shishuzhu, I heard noble families eat meat every day. My mouth waters when I think of it, especially when fasting.”
The most refined and revered young master smiled. “What’s the difference between eating meat daily and dining on coarse tea and plain rice? Qingfeng, if I gave you ten steamed buns, the first tastes delicious. How about the tenth?”
The apprentice called Qingfeng frowned. “Ten steamed buns? I’d be full to burst!”
The young master laughed. “Exactly! Mountain or below, the principle holds the same. Master once said: ‘No Dao surpasses the height of the human heart.’ Once greed takes root, there’s no end. Before Lvzu ascended to immortality, he hung his sword at the eaves of the Nan Palace. Do you know the greatest power of that sword?”
“To fly a blade a thousand li!”
“To vanquish demons and monsters!”
…
They shouted guesses, all wildly different. The young master smiled silently, listening. When all quieted, he spoke gently, “Though Lvzu left behind a three-foot blade, in truth he planted the root of Dao into Wudang. He taught us to wield the blade of jade to sever afflictions, greed, and lust.”
“Lust?” The smallest apprentice looked puzzled, while the slightly older ones exchanged knowing grins.
“In the book I read, The First Snowfall at Dongxiang, there are scenes of men and women brushed over lightly,” the master replied, eyes twinkling kindly.
“Taishang Shishuzhu,” the child pressed, “have you ever felt lust?”
Before the master could reply, the child was quickly swatted by his elder apprentices.
He gently patted the boy’s head again. “Yes.”
A soft chorus of surprise rippled through the group. Yet none felt their beloved young ancestor atop Wudang had lost any grandeur, wisdom, or warmth because of this admission.
He chuckled. “Knowing the fault is not a bad thing. It’s the same as seeking the Dao. When one knows that the Dao is not in one’s grasp, one seeks it.”
“Shishuzhu,” a young apprentice hesitated, “have you not attained Dao yet?”
“It’s hard to say,” the young master honestly replied.
Meanwhile, a group of elderly pilgrims from Yongzhou finally finished their dozen-mile trek up the Sacred Path, reaching the foot of the arch. Gasping for breath, the young master immediately stood, calling his juniors to help carry their belongings. Climbing, the junior apprentices fluently recommended scenic spots and temples. The old pilgrims, sensing the boys’ charm, smiled with weathered faces. Stopping and starting, they gradually recovered their spirits. Knowing the juniors could not accompany them all the way, the young master sent them off early, shouldering all the loads himself. The elders felt uneasy, but the young man smiled and insisted, “It’s nothing, nothing at all.” Seeing him move like a drifting cloud and flowing water, exuding a mysterious grace, the elders felt reassured—this was clearly no act.
Left alone, the elders finally broached a delicate topic: the old and new patriarchs of Wudang. They had last visited over a decade ago, and this pilgrimage might be their last. Though their bodies could no longer endure travel, they confessed that their descendants preferred the distant Longhushan. They hinted that had they been younger, they might’ve made the trip to visit Longhushan, famed for producing three national masters.
The young man listened in silence, smiling with simple kindness. Though he spoke little, the elders found his presence more comforting than any eloquent praise of Wudang.
As they neared the summit, they encountered an old Daoist priest seated, gazing into the sea of clouds in quiet meditation.
The old priest struggled to recognize the young man’s features through his heavy load. Upon identification, he quickly stood and bowed deeply, “Greetings, Patriarch.”
The young man smiled and nodded in return.
The pilgrims, stunned by his title, turned disbelieving eyes toward this young man they had spent the entire journey listening to tales about Wudang’s decline and Longhu’s rise.
They had heard whispers—Wudang’s new Patriarch was rumored to be extraordinarily young. A significant motive for their pilgrimage was the hope to glimpse him, even from afar, to catch a whiff of spiritual presence.
Though Wudang’s influence had waned over the past century, it remained the ancestral hall of Daoism, once surpassing Longhu. With Wang Chonglou as a peerless spiritual predecessor, the pilgrims naturally viewed this new Patriarch as a transcendent being.
But how could a young immortal be carrying the luggage of a group of weary old men?!
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