Chapter Two: Master and Disciple

In the thirteenth year of the Yongle reign of the Ming Dynasty, at Xuangong Temple on Mount Qingcheng in Sichuan, the mountains were tranquil and secluded, the breeze was clear, and the air was refreshing. Within the temple, a master and his apprentice were playing chess. The master, with hair as white as snow but a face full of youthful vigor, wore a Daoist robe and, with a cheerful smile, leisurely placed his pieces while sipping a cup of tea—a true image of an immortal sage. The young apprentice, on the other hand, was plump and fair-skinned, dressed in a loose Daoist robe, making for quite an endearing sight. Yet at this moment, the little apprentice’s brows were tightly furrowed, wholly absorbed in the chessboard, where his movements revealed profound thought.

After a while, the little apprentice’s brows suddenly relaxed, and, grinning, he placed a white piece onto the board. The old Daoist scrutinized the position; his face changed dramatically. He stared for a long while, tugging at his beard until several strands broke, yet still unable to decide on his next move.

“Master, I’ve already taken a nap. You really should hurry up,” the child’s clear voice rang out, but to the old Daoist, it was like the tolling of a death knell. His expression shifted several times before he looked up at the sky and declared, “Ah, it’s getting late. Seems there’ll be no business today. Time to prepare for evening recitation.” With that, he got up and left, vanishing into the depths of the temple with an agility no elderly man should possess, giving the apprentice no chance to protest.

“Master, how could you do this again?” the little Daoist cried out in dismay, helplessly watching his teacher disappear. Left with no choice, he packed up the chessboard and followed in that direction.

Just then, a sudden knocking echoed at the temple’s main gate. The little apprentice quickly set down the chessboard and ran to answer it.

Standing at the door was a man dressed as a farmer, his feet still caked with mud, clearly having rushed straight from the fields, panting and drenched in sweat.

“Boundless longevity and blessings. What brings you here in such haste?” The little Daoist inwardly rejoiced at the prospect of business, but outwardly assumed a solemn demeanor and greeted the visitor with a proper bow.

“Greetings, young Daoist. I’m here to see Elder Mingwei. My employer has urgent business and requests an audience with the master. Would you kindly announce me?” Though he looked like a simple peasant, the visitor spoke with remarkable tact.

“Please, come in,” the little apprentice replied, opening the gate wide and inviting him in. Then, raising his voice, he called out toward the temple, “Master, someone’s here for you!” The volume betrayed more than a little pent-up frustration.

To speak of Xuangong Temple now was to speak of a place on the brink of ruin. Not an acre of land remained, incense offerings were scarce, and the once grand temple was home to just the master and his apprentice. Years of neglect had left it all the more dilapidated. Their daily needs were met only by occasionally performing rituals for the villagers nearby—a disgrace to the Daoist tradition.

The old Daoist’s formal name was Mingwei, the twenty-first abbot of Xuangong Temple. By the time he took charge, poor management had already brought the temple to decline, and after he assumed leadership, even the remaining disciples scattered. Fortune smiled on him one day, however, when he returned from a ritual and found an abandoned infant boy at the foot of the mountain. Overjoyed, he exclaimed, “The temple’s lineage will not end!” He brought the boy home, made him his successor and future abbot, and bestowed upon him the Daoist name Liaochan.

Liaochan grew quickly, displaying remarkable wisdom and insight. He could recite the Daoist scriptures after a single reading and mastered divination, medicine, geomancy, and ritual with ease. To Mingwei, he was a treasure beyond compare, kept close at all times and never allowed to reveal his talents to outsiders—for fear that someone would covet and steal away his precious apprentice. What Mingwei did not know was that his disciple’s soul was, in fact, from three hundred years in the future, and he himself had once been a disciple of this very temple, known by the Daoist name Xuanxu.

The little apprentice Liaochan’s voice echoed, but the old Daoist was slow to appear. He kept the guest company under a large tree for quite some time before the old master finally emerged, feigning an air of profound mystery.

Liaochan quietly scoffed at his master’s theatrics. Having handed the guest over to Mingwei, he excused himself to fetch water and make tea.

When Liaochan returned with the tea, the visitor was already gone. Mingwei sat alone under the tree, lost in thought.

“Master, has the guest left?” Liaochan inquired.

“Ah, we reap what we sow,” Mingwei sighed, not answering the question directly. “Tomorrow, pack your things. We’re going down to Zhu Family Village.”