41: Chapter 41 Deep Snow in Shaoshi

Snow has been falling on Mount Song for three days.

Lu Mingyuan stood outside the Shaoshi Mountain gate, his green robes covered in pristine white, frost condensing on his eyebrows and lashes, while the stone steps beneath his feet had accumulated three inches of fresh snow.

He did not use his spiritual power to brush it away.

Over the past three days, the mountain gate had opened and closed seventeen times. Kind souls offering incense, woodcutters delivering vegetables, and lay Buddhists visiting for Zen all passed by his side, some glancing curiously, some ignoring him in haste, and some suspecting he was a beggar and wanting to offer copper coins—only to pull back their hands upon seeing his refined clothing.

He just stood there quietly, like a green bamboo transplanted in the wrong season.

Zhang Qingyuan had been persuaded to return to the relay station two days ago. At that time, he said anxiously, "Layman Lu, I will just submit the name card. Although Shaolin is the ancestral home of the Zen Sect, it is not unreasonable; why suffer by standing here like a withered tree?"

Lu Mingyuan replied, "The name card has already been submitted."

"Then why..."

"I am waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

Lu Mingyuan did not answer. He simply gazed at the thousand-year-old cypress inside the mountain gate, its green branches weighed down by snow, drooping but not breaking.

What was he waiting for?

Even he did not know.

This was not the Three Questions Trial of Longhu Mountain, where questions had answers and Talismans achieved results; nor was it the Sword Gall Pass of Wudang Mountain, where one received a sword to discuss the Dao with clear victory or defeat; and certainly not the Wenjian Cliff of Mount Qingcheng, where one left a mark with a sword to prove one's heart through the trace.

There was no trial here, no opponent, not even a reason to see him.

He simply came, and then stood.

And the snow simply fell.

At dusk on the third day, footsteps were heard from within the mountain gate.

It was not the lightness of qinggong or the Divine Ability of ground-shrinking, but merely the creaking sound of a pair of cloth shoes stepping on fresh snow, extremely slow and extremely steady.

Half of the door opened.

An old monk stood behind the door, his monastic robes washed to a pale white, with fine patches on the cuffs. His beard and eyebrows were as white as snow, almost merging into one with the world outside the door, save for a pair of eyes as clear as a youth's.

He glanced at Lu Mingyuan.

There was no sizing up, no scrutiny; he just took a glance, as if watching a snowfall that had been going on for a long time.

"Come in," the old monk said.

He turned and walked inward, without asking for a name, without asking for the purpose of the visit, and without even turning back to confirm if Lu Mingyuan followed.

Lu Mingyuan lifted his foot and crossed the threshold.

In that single step, he suddenly understood what he had been waiting for these past three days.

It wasn't waiting for the door to open.

It was waiting for a person who does not ask.

The old monk led him through several courtyards, bypassed the release pond, and arrived at a secluded small courtyard in the Northwest corner.

The courtyard gate had no plaque, and the lintel was mottled. Inside the courtyard was an old plum tree, not yet in bloom, its branches like iron. Beneath the plum tree stood a stone pillar, over three feet high, with characters carved on all four sides, half-covered in moss.

Lu Mingyuan brushed away the accumulated snow, revealing the first side.

There was only one word.

"Emptiness."

The brushwork was extremely simple, its sharpness entirely hidden, as if a blade had carved three inches into the stone, yet it turned slightly upward at the end of the stroke—it was not an emptiness of despair, but an emptiness that left room for more.

The old monk had already come to a halt in the courtyard.

"This is the Shizhuang Courtyard; no one has lived here in Shaolin for three hundred years," he said, his voice as calm as melting water. "If the benefactor does not mind the quietude, you may stay here temporarily."

Lu Mingyuan bowed deeply, "Thank you, Zen Master."

"This poor monk is Jingchen," the old monk returned the greeting. "Not a Zen Master, but a leaf-sweeping monk."

He paused and looked at the old plum tree that had not yet bloomed, "I have been sweeping this courtyard for thirty-seven years."

Lu Mingyuan followed his gaze and saw a bamboo broom placed under the plum tree; the bamboo handle had been worn as smooth and oily as jade, and the tip of the broom was mostly bald.

Thirty-seven years, sweeping leaves every day.

Sweeping fallen flowers, sweeping fallen leaves, sweeping fallen snow.

Yet the plum tree still dropped its flowers every year after the sweeping was done.

"Master Jingchen," Lu Mingyuan said, "this Disciple has a question."

Jingchen raised his hand to stop him.

"The benefactor has come from afar; rest first." The old monk's tone was neither rejecting nor welcoming. "Questions are not urgent."

He turned to leave the courtyard, and upon reaching the threshold, he suddenly stopped.

"The stone chamber where Senior Brother Chengguan is in seclusion is deep in the bamboo forest behind the courtyard." He did not look back, his voice as light as falling snow. "He carved characters for twenty years, and I swept leaves for twenty years."

"And then?"

"Then one day, he threw his carving knife into the stream, laughed thrice, and went down the mountain."

"What did he carve?"

"I do not know," Jingchen said. "The first thing he did after coming out of seclusion was to seal the door of the stone chamber."

He stepped out of the threshold, his figure vanishing into the twilight snow.

Lu Mingyuan sat alone in the courtyard.

He did not go to the depths of the bamboo forest to find that sealed stone chamber, nor did he think further about Zen Master Chengguan, who had carved characters for twenty years and finally threw his knife and laughed.

He just sat under the corridor, watching the snow fall, watching the plum branches, and watching the word "Emptiness" on the stone pillar being covered and revealed, revealed and covered again.

Twilight deepened, and no lamps were lit in the courtyard.

He did not use his spiritual power to ward off the cold, nor did he enter a meditative state to regulate his breathing. In over twenty years of cultivation, from Qi Refining to Foundation Establishment Perfection, he had long been accustomed to using every moment for progress—reading was cultivation, observing swords was cultivation, contemplating was cultivation; even walking, eating, and sleeping had methods, mantras, and sequences.

But at this moment, he did nothing.

He just sat.

Snow fell silently, the stone pillar was speechless, and the plum branches had no flowers.

This was the first time in his life he did not ask, did not think, did not cultivate, and did not seek enlightenment.

He just sat.

At midnight, Lu Mingyuan suddenly felt something.

It was not a Divine Sense warning, nor was it a fluctuation of spiritual power. It was an extremely clear and faint "presence"—like the moon emerging from the clouds without shining down, like the wind passing through the bamboo tops without brushing his face.

He opened his eyes.

A person was standing in the courtyard.

It was not Jingchen. The newcomer wore a grey monk's robe, his figure thin and scholarly, his features unclear in the snowy light, except for a pair of eyes like a cold pond reflecting the moon, so clear they were almost empty.

He did not carry an umbrella, and his shoulders were covered in snow, yet there was not a single trace of dampness.

It was not that spiritual power had blocked the snow; it was that when the snow fell on him, it simply stayed there.

Lu Mingyuan rose to greet him.

The newcomer shook his head slightly.

He sat down across from Lu Mingyuan, separated by three feet of snow, as if by an invisible window.

"This poor monk is Zen Master Huijue," he said, his voice as light as the night wind through bamboo. "Pardon me for disturbing a guest so late at night."

Lu Mingyuan's heart stirred slightly.

He had seen this name when he was reading the fragments of the heart sword in the Sword Pavilion of Mount Qingcheng.

Not as a high monk, not as a great virtuous one.

But as the only "friend beyond the secular world" mentioned by Daoist Songyun.

Daoist Songyun wrote: "Zen Master Huijue asked me: The heart is the Xuan Shu; by what does the pivot turn? I could not answer. Twenty years later, Zen Master Huijue passed away; I heard of it at the East Sea, looked north and bowed, my tears soaking my robes."

Nine hundred years had passed.

The person before him looked to be in his thirties; time had not left any marks on Him—or rather, it had left all the marks, but He was no longer within time.

Lu Mingyuan did not ask about his identity.

He simply, truthfully, calmly, and even somewhat awkwardly expressed the thoughts that had accumulated over these three days and that he himself had not yet clarified in one sentence:

"Zen Master, this Disciple has come all this way, asking at every step. Asking about Talismans, asking about swords, asking about the Dao, asking about the heart. Longhu had an answer, Wudang Mountain had an answer, and Mount Qingcheng also had an answer. But the more answers I get, the more questions I have."

He paused.

"Upon arriving at Shaolin, this Disciple originally intended to ask about Zen. But standing outside the mountain gate these past three days, I no longer know what to ask."

Zen Master Huijue listened quietly.

Snow fell between His brows, neither melting nor accumulating, as if falling into a void.

After a long while, He spoke:

"When the benefactor came, did you see the snow on the road?"

Lu Mingyuan was startled: "I did."

"When the snow falls, does it ever ask itself where it should land?"

"...It does not."

"Does it ever ask why the mountain gate does not open, why the stone steps are uneven, or why the plum branches have no flowers?"

"It does not."

"Does it ever ask why the wind blows the snow, why the clouds condense the snow, or why the heavens send down the snow?"

"...It does not."

Zen Master Huijue nodded slightly.

"The snow just falls."

He spoke no more.

Silence returned to the courtyard. The snow continued to fall, the plum branches remained dark and firm, and the word "Emptiness" on the stone pillar was mostly covered by fresh snow, leaving only the last slanted hook, like the ripple left by a boat's wake.

Lu Mingyuan sat in a daze.

He suddenly remembered the day he left Zhongnan Mountain, when Xuanweizi deliver he to the mountain pass and said:

"The mountains are high and the waters are long on this journey; do not ask about the date of return."

At that time, he thought it was encouragement, an entrustment, a Master's earnest expectation.

At this moment, he finally knew that it was only—

The snow just falls.

The mountains are just high.

The waters are just long.

The date of return is just the date of return.

Yet on this journey, he had asked at every step and sought solutions for everything. Seeing a mountain, he had to ask its height; seeing water, he had to ask its depth; seeing a monk, he had to ask for Zen secrets; seeing the Dao, he had to ask about truth or falsehood.

He had turned himself into a ruler.

Measuring heaven and earth, measuring all living beings, measuring scriptures, and measuring himself.

But who measures the ruler itself?

Lu Mingyuan felt something stuck in his throat.

He was not crying. A Cultivator at Foundation Establishment Perfection was already immune to heat and cold, and their tears were naturally contained.

But he clearly felt that an extremely thin and tough layer had silently cracked at this moment.

It was not a cultivation Bottleneck.

It was the first time in over twenty years that he allowed himself—

To stop asking.

After an unknown amount of time, Zen Master Huijue rose.

He walked to the stone pillar and gently brushed away the snow on the word "Emptiness."

Moonlight suddenly appeared.

It wasn't that the clouds had parted, but that the snow had stopped. Cold white moonlight poured down from the center of the sky, shining on the stone pillar, on the word "Emptiness" that had been carved for three hundred years, covered three hundred times, and brushed away three hundred times.

Zen Master Huijue turned back and looked at Lu Mingyuan.

"Does the benefactor know what Chengguan carved for twenty years?"

Lu Mingyuan shook his head.

"He carved 'letting go'," Zen Master Huijue said. "He carved it for twenty years, filling the walls of a stone chamber. Every 'letting go' was different—some neat, some messy, some deep and sharp, some light and faint. He spent twenty years exhausting every method of writing 'letting go'."

"And then?"

"Then he discovered that he was merely holding on in a different way."

Zen Master Huijue's voice was very light, like listening to a mountain stream under the moon.

"He spent twenty years carving 'letting go', but what he carved was not letting go, but 'how to let go'. When he reached the final stroke, he asked himself: If I have truly let go, why must I carve this stroke?"

He looked at Lu Mingyuan.

"So he threw his carving knife into the stream."

Lu Mingyuan was silent for a long time.

"Did he let go?"

"He laughed when he threw the knife," Zen Master Huijue said. "He laughed because it took him twenty years to understand that the one who asks 'have I let go' is the one who has not let go."

He paused.

"Over these three months, the benefactor has traveled three mountains, obtaining Talismans, swords, and the Dao. Longhu asked 'how does the heart carry the Dao', Wudang Mountain asked 'how does the sword shouxin', and Mount Qingcheng asked 'how do all methods return to the source'."

He looked into Lu Mingyuan's eyes.

"Every question has an answer. Every answer is the correct answer."

"But has the benefactor ever asked—if you ask about everything and seek a solution at every step, then at the moment when you do not ask and do not seek a solution, where is the Dao?"

Lu Mingyuan opened his mouth to speak but had no words to say.

Zen Master Huijue asked no more.

He walked toward the courtyard gate, His figure casting a long shadow on the snow, yet leaving not a single footprint.

After three steps, He suddenly stopped.

"If the benefactor is free tomorrow, you may go to the bamboo forest on the back mountain."

"Does the Zen Master mean... Zen Master Chengguan's stone chamber?"

Zen Master Huijue did not look back.

"The one who sealed the door was him, and the one who opens the door is also him," His voice faded like a distant bell. "That door has not been locked since thirty years ago."

The snow began to fall again.

Lu Mingyuan looked toward the courtyard gate, where no one was left.

He sat alone under the corridor; the snow fell silently, the moon sank behind the West Ridge, and the plum branches still had no flowers.

He suddenly thought of the word "Emptiness" on the stone pillar, mostly covered by snow.

The last slanted hook was like the ripple left by a boat's wake.

In this life, how many rivers had he crossed?

The Yellow River, the Yangtze River, the Xiang River, Dongting, and the East Sea.

Ferry boats, flying vessels, rainbow bridges, sword light, and Talismans.

But what truly delivered him was never the river, nor the boat, nor the sword.

It was the moment he stepped onto the ferry without asking how wide the river was, how steady the boat was, or how sharp the sword was.

He did not ask.

He just went.

The east grew white with dawn.

Jingchen pushed open the door and entered the courtyard carrying a bamboo broom, seeing Lu Mingyuan still sitting under the corridor, his shoulders covered in a night's worth of snow.

The old monk did not speak; he merely began to sweep the snow in the courtyard silently.

The tip of the broom brushed over the bluestone, the rustling sound like silkworms eating mulberry leaves.

Lu Mingyuan stood up and took the bamboo broom from his hand.

"Master Jingchen, let this Disciple do it."

Jingchen did not refuse.

He stood under the plum tree, watching this young man sweep the stone path he had cleared every day for thirty-seven years with slightly awkward movements, stroke by stroke.

The broom left no trace, and the falling snow covered it again.

But as that broom swept past, the stone path was clean.

Lu Mingyuan finished sweeping the last inch of ground and leaned the bamboo broom back under the plum tree.

He turned and pressed his palms together toward Jingchen.

"This Disciple wishes to take a walk in the bamboo forest on the back mountain."

Jingchen nodded, without asking or giving instructions.

Lu Mingyuan left the courtyard and headed east.

Behind him, the old monk stood under the old plum tree that had not yet bloomed, watching his retreating figure, suddenly remembering the day Senior Brother Chengguan came out of seclusion thirty-seven years ago.

It was also such a clear morning after a snowfall.

His Senior Brother walked past him without looking back, leaving only one sentence:

"Junior Brother, a broom can sweep the ground, but it cannot sweep the heart. The snow on the heart must wait for it to melt on its own."

Jingchen withdrew his gaze, picked up the bamboo broom, and continued to sweep the snow that would never be finished.