Chapter Eighteen: The Search for the Sword

On the ninth day of the tenth lunar month, an auspicious day according to the almanac—suitable for all endeavors, with no ill omens to avoid—Wudang Mountain was closed to visitors for three days in preparation. All the Daoist priests had gathered early before the Palace of Purple Clouds, ready to receive the teachings.

At the sound of three strikes on the Dharma bell, Liaochan, robed in a purple Eight Trigrams immortal garment and crowned with a Supreme Pure Lotus Cap, ascended the platform with measured steps.

Beneath the platform, over a thousand Daoist men and women from the various temples and halls of Wudang Mountain sat in utter silence. Liaochan smiled faintly. Senior Daoist Chongjing had once expressed a wish for a method to cultivate qi, but Wudang already possessed its own art of inner alchemy, though few had ever mastered it. The Dharma was not to be passed on lightly; who could comprehend it and who could attain the Dao depended entirely on individual destiny.

“The Dao does not universally deliver all, yet there are methods to guide others. Why so? Man follows the earth, earth follows heaven, heaven follows the Dao, and the Dao follows nature. To follow heaven is to prosper; to go against it is to decline. In gratitude to Wudang and the grace of the Mysterious Heavenly Emperor, I will open a gate to the Dharma here. Those entangled by worldly bonds, do not come; those without a sincere heart for the Way, do not listen; those without the destined affinity, entry shall be difficult. To listen is to accept causality; those unwilling may withdraw.” Thus, Liaochan set forth the threshold and advised caution in receiving the teaching. After all, those without the fortune to hear the Dharma would gain nothing, and might even be harmed.

Yet not a single person showed any sign of leaving, for who could willingly admit to a fate of scant blessings? Liaochan spoke no further, instead focusing his mind to visualize the Dharma image of the True Martial Emperor, seeking his approval to teach in his stead.

“The art of cultivating qi—refining the spirit, refining qi, preserving thought, guarding apertures, and inner alchemy. Refining the spirit reveals the source of spiritual energy; refining qi preserves its root; preserving thought prevents confusion; guarding apertures averts loss. The inner elixir is the source of spiritual energy and the foundation of life and destiny. Humans have seven apertures, the heart has…” Liaochan sat upright upon the altar, systematically laying out his century of insights into cultivating qi: some drawn from ancient texts, some from personal realization, some from contemplation, and some from experience. Gradually, even Liaochan himself became immersed in the expounding, his consciousness drifting deep within, where countless Dharma gates appeared and vanished in turn. The path of Heaven, the gateway to the Great Dao, is ever profound and mysterious. Liaochan cared not how much the listeners below understood; each person has their own path. Those with true destiny would naturally gain, and those without would remain empty-handed, no matter how many times they listened.

Three days passed in the blink of an eye. Some left, unable to settle their hearts, while others endured discomfort, persevering in their quest for the Way. Some gained a little, most gained nothing. Liaochan slowly opened his eyes—within them, a crystal clarity. To teach the Dharma was not only to transmit it, but also to reflect on one’s own journey.

“The Dao is not to be imparted lightly, nor the Dharma to be transmitted carelessly.” Liaochan bowed from the platform, signaling the end of this discourse. A wave of disappointment swept through the assembled Daoists; after this, there might not be another chance to receive such direct teaching.

As everyone was caught between the joy of gain and the sorrow of loss, Liaochan had already departed. Though the steps before the Palace of Purple Clouds were still crowded with Daoist men and women, not a single one had noticed when Liaochan had left.

“Look! What is that?” At last, someone looked up at the sky and cried out in astonishment. Everyone turned their gaze heavenward.

In the tenth month of the second year of the Zhengde reign, above the Palace of Purple Clouds on Wudang Mountain, auspicious lights appeared, surrounded by rosy clouds as an omen of celebration. Hundreds of birds sang in chorus, and the spectacle could be seen for a hundred miles.

On Jingmen Mountain, Liaochan returned with the monkey to the place of their former great battle, searching for his lost peachwood Dharma sword. The temple of the mountain god had been rebuilt, larger and more splendid than before, but lacking any spiritual aura, it was still just a clay idol. Liaochan glanced around briefly, uninterested in lingering. On that day, the thunder had shaken the heavens, and the mountain folk regarded it as a divine sign. Though the rebuilt temple was no longer miraculously responsive to prayer, incense offerings remained plentiful. The leaders of the White Lotus Sect had been wiped out in one stroke—he wondered what had become of them now.

Liaochan had no idea where his Dharma sword had fallen, nor any clue in his heart. The old cave abode had long since collapsed and vanished, and after three years, the land was unrecognizable. Liaochan stood for a long while, then began to sweep the surrounding earth inch by inch with his spiritual sense, hoping to find his sword.

“Hmm?” Suddenly, Liaochan frowned. “Why are you still here?”

He had spotted a red fox stealthily approaching a pheasant’s nest, clearly intending to steal some eggs. The fox seemed much thinner than three years before—life had evidently been hard. Foxes have short lifespans, and three years is not a brief span. Liaochan flew over at once, alighting on a branch above the fox’s head. The fox, startled, looked up to see Liaochan smiling down at it. The fox immediately began yelping and tried to climb the tree, but it had never been good at tree-climbing. It would get a few feet up, fall back down, and repeat the effort, crying plaintively, which made Liaochan’s heart ache. He stopped watching the fox’s clumsy attempts, descended to the ground, and picked it up. The fox was now little more than skin and bones, its once-lustrous crimson fur dull. Liaochan didn’t know why he felt this way until the fox, nestled in his arms, kept calling in one direction. Realizing its intent, Liaochan flew several miles, finding a small earthen mound. Around it were fox footprints pressed deep into the soil. Mystified, Liaochan swept the mound with his spiritual sense, and his heart softened. He stroked the fox’s head and said, “You’re far too thin; you must stay with me and regain your strength. Once you’re well, I’ll take you to see that other fellow.” Hearing this, the fox’s big tail swished back and forth in delight, tickling Liaochan’s neck.

Inside the mound lay the Daoist cap Liaochan once wore, now scorched black from thunder and fire. Apparently, the fox had not gone far during the battle. Afterward, it must have returned, found the scene of devastation—and, perhaps, bloodstains—but not Liaochan himself. Instead, it found his cap, carried it back to its den, and built this little mound, never leaving since.

Liaochan brought the fox back to the collapsed cave, where the monkey was already waiting. Yet, the moment the fox and monkey met, they bristled and glared at each other as if they were sworn enemies. Liaochan began to feel a headache; as long as he kept watch, things were fine, but the moment his attention slipped, they would fight. They had never met before—why such animosity? Liaochan was perplexed and had no choice but to keep them apart, opening a new cave on another peak: the fox to the east, the monkey to the west, himself in the middle. Whenever he went out to search for his sword, he would take one of them with him. He couldn’t risk leaving them alone, lest he return to a murder scene.

Half a month passed. Liaochan searched the mountains and ravines around the battlefield over and over, but found no trace of his sword. He consulted the divinations several times, but gained no answers. More troubling, his connection to the Dharma sword was faint and directionless; he could not sense its location. After much thought, Liaochan concluded his sword had been taken by someone with the power to suppress his call and sever his link to it—a cultivator of no small attainment.

Who, then, had taken his Dharma sword?