Chapter Eight: Returning to the Sun

Not long after Liaochen and Zhong Kui departed, the judgment from the Celestial Court arrived. A messenger clothed in yellow handed the decree to Lord Bao and promptly returned to Heaven. As the Fifth Lord of the Dead, King Yama, Lord Bao held the document, his expression shifting through a myriad of emotions. Though he could not fathom why the punishment was so light, he knew this outcome was certainly not the Jade Emperor’s will. After a long, heavy silence, he sighed, “When sovereign and ministers are at odds, order is lost; when discipline is lax, evil rises. A storm is brewing, and the signs are everywhere.” Turning, he called an underworld emissary, “Take this decree to Master Zhong Kui’s manor and deliver it to Daoist Liaochen. Tell him there is no need to come bid farewell. I hope that henceforth he will do many good deeds, care for the common folk, uphold righteousness, and subdue demons without reckless abandon. Otherwise, I shall uphold the law without mercy.” With that, he handed the document to the emissary and withdrew from the hall.

The emissary hurried to Zhong Kui’s residence in the underworld, where Liaochen was drinking with Zhong Kui. Zhong Kui glanced at the decree, and the emissary relayed Lord Bao’s message to Liaochen. Liaochen was silent, while Zhong Kui let out a heavy sigh, “Our lord is usually strictest with the law and order. He must be deeply troubled by this.” The emissary nodded. Zhong Kui turned to Liaochen, “Let me first congratulate you, brother. You have escaped disaster; the rest should be smooth sailing. The fact that Lord Bao did not return the decree means he has shown you leniency.” Liaochen nodded; the lightness of the punishment exceeded even his own expectations. Lord Bao had always upheld the law in both life and death, yet now found himself helpless before his superiors—how could he not feel aggrieved?

Bidding farewell to Zhong Kui, Liaochen quickly left the underworld. With the seventh day approaching, he had to return to the mortal world as soon as possible. Having concluded his affairs below, Liaochen opened his eyes to daylight once more, uncertain whether to feel joy or worry. Not only Lord Bao and Zhong Kui, but even he could sense something amiss behind this decree. He only hoped not to become anyone’s pawn. The high game played in the Celestial Court was not one for someone of his meager cultivation to meddle in.

Concealing his form, Liaochen stood atop the clouds. With a sweep of his sleeve, the scattered star-lamps instantly returned to his wide sleeves. Then, riding his cloud, he headed straight for Anlu.

Recently, the Anlu Prefecture in Hubei had seen a string of joyous events: not only had the prince received imperial rewards, but the princess was also expecting again. The good moods of the prince and princess meant the servants’ lives had grown much easier.

Liaochen, unhurried, made his way to the gates of the Prince of Xing’s mansion, surveying the residence. Five years had passed since his last visit, and the mansion was even more resplendent. Its aura surged, and a faint glow shimmered above—clearly, Emperor Jiajing was still fated to descend here as expected.

“Divine Celestial Sovereign, this humble Daoist Liaochen comes to reclaim the five-year pact.” Clad in the same Daoist robes as five years ago, he approached the gates and bowed to the guard.

The guard sized him up—an ordinary Daoist—but knowing the prince revered Daoism, dared not offend him. He returned the salute, “Master Daoist, please wait here while I send word inside.” After knocking a few times on the main gate, a young eunuch popped out from the side door, glanced at Liaochen, then slipped back inside.

“Please wait, Master Daoist,” the guard said upon returning. Liaochen nodded, untroubled, and swept his spiritual sense through the mansion, instantly perceiving all within. Soon, his senses locked onto the young eunuch, who, instead of reporting to the prince or princess, went straight to a resident Daoist’s quarters to converse with a Daoist inside who was refining elixirs.

Liaochen chuckled to himself. By altering fate and extending Emperor Hongzhi’s life by three years, he had inadvertently impeded the rise of the mansion’s dragon energy. He had come to resolve past karma, only to find someone had beaten him to it. So be it—karma sown, karma reaped, and he had nothing more to say. He smiled at the guard, “If anyone asks, tell them this Daoist says: the past bond has ended; all is fate; merits fulfilled—no need to force what cannot be. Perhaps this may one day save you.” As he finished, the guard’s face flickered with uncertainty, but Liaochen had already drifted away. Outside the city, he found a secluded spot, mounted his cloud, and called out, “Return!” Instantly, the copper coin that had hung over the princess’s gate turned to golden light, shot skyward, and flew into his sleeve. The treasure, on loan to the Prince of Xing’s household for five years, had finally returned to the founder of the Xuangguang Temple. Having retrieved it, Liaochen departed Anlu.

He had not flown far when, in a mountain village, he detected a sinister aura. Alarmed, he thought, “Demonic arts at work?” Immediately, he flew over and, lowering his cloud, approached the small village in the guise of a wandering Daoist. The village was small—about a hundred people and a few dozen homes. Its people worked the fields, chickens and dogs could be heard, and everything seemed perfectly ordinary. Liaochen hesitated—had he made a mistake?

“Blessings of the Celestial Sovereign upon you,” he greeted an old woman weaving mats at her door. “This humble Daoist, weary from travel, begs a cup of water.”

“Oh, Master Daoist, please sit a moment. I’ll fetch you some tea,” the old woman replied, ushering him inside and fetching a stool for him. As she brought tea from the inner room, Liaochen swept his spiritual sense through the house and soon found the oddity: a solemn, kindly deity statue with white hair, a radiant shawl, both hands holding a Bagua, and a gentle smile. On either side were inscriptions: “Mother of Non-Birth, True Home of Emptiness.” Liaochen’s heart skipped—a notorious sight indeed: the White Lotus Sect, the Luojiao cult.

By then, the old woman had returned with tea. Liaochen suppressed his questions, thanked her, and after drinking, left a talisman of peace, hoping her family might escape the coming calamity, then quickly departed. Once alone, he remounted his cloud, casting his spiritual sight in all directions. What he saw weighed heavy on his heart: the aura of bloodshed was rising. The White Lotus Sect’s momentum was growing, and if discovered by the authorities, these innocent villagers would likely suffer a great catastrophe.

Liaochen did not oppose uprisings in desperate times, but now the realm was at peace—though life was hard, it was not yet so unbearable. If the White Lotus wished to raise banners, let them gather those with nothing to lose—at worst, spend more gold. But to seduce innocent villagers—had they thought what suffering they would endure, what rivers of blood would be shed for the sect’s ambitions?

Transforming a hut in the nearby woods, Liaochen took the form of a hunter and settled alone not far from the village. He would wait for the White Lotus to appear, trace their roots, and root out this altar—granting the villagers a measure of peace.