57: Chapter 57 Misty Rain over Junshan

Leaving White Deer Grotto, he crossed Poyang Lake and journeyed upstream along the river.

After half a month of travel, Lu Mingyuan reached Dongting Lake by the end of August.

From afar, the vast expanse of Dongting Lake stretched before him, where water and sky merged into one, shrouded in misty, boundless waves. The autumn water was as calm as a mirror; when a breeze occasionally stirred, it wrinkled the surface into a million shimmering scales. Several green specks dotted the lake—those were the isles of Junshan Mountain, like pieces of jade floating upon the water.

He stood by the lakeshore for a long time.

Within his Dantian, the tiny Nascent Soul stirred slightly. It was a resonance—the Qi of this water had struck a chord with it. Since his Nascent Soul first formed, he had gradually discovered a deeper connection with all things in heaven and earth. It was not the probing of an extended Divine Sense, but a more natural state of 'being.' Just like now, standing by this lake, it was as if he had become a part of the lake itself.

A few small boats were moored at the dock, all of the kind used by fishermen—narrow and worn. An old man was mending a net on the bow of one boat. Seeing Lu Mingyuan approach, he looked up.

"Passenger, looking to cross the lake?"

Lu Mingyuan nodded. "To Junshan Mountain."

The old man sized him up. "Junshan Mountain? There's nothing much to see there. A few dilapidated temples, some rocks, and a bunch of beggars."

Lu Mingyuan smiled. "This Junior is precisely going to visit those beggars."

The old man was taken aback for a moment, then suddenly chuckled. "Passenger, are you looking for the Beggars Gang?"

Lu Mingyuan nodded.

The old man set down the net in his hands and stood up. "Then this old man will take you. But it's agreed—I'll only take you to the foot of the mountain, not up it."

The small boat left the shore and headed toward the center of the lake.

As the boat sailed across the lake, the view in all directions was boundless.

The old man rowed the oar, its creaking sound exceptionally clear in the quiet of the lake. Lu Mingyuan sat at the bow, gazing at Junshan Mountain growing ever closer in the distance.

"Passenger, you're a cultivator, aren't you?" the old man suddenly asked.

Lu Mingyuan turned his head. "How did you know, old sir?"

The old man pointed to his waist. "That bamboo staff, that wooden sword—they're not ordinary items. I've lived seventy years and seen a few cultivators. I can recognize the signs."

Lu Mingyuan smiled.

The old man spoke again. "Passenger, are you going to Junshan Mountain to join the Beggars Gang?"

"I just want to see."

"See?" The old man shook his head. "What's there to see about the Beggars Gang? A bunch of beggars in tattered clothes, not knowing where their next meal is coming from."

Lu Mingyuan said, "Precisely because of that, I want to see."

The old man didn't understand.

Lu Mingyuan gazed at the distant Junshan Mountain. "On this journey, this Junior has walked the Three Mountains of Daoism and seen immortals with transcendent grace. I have walked the Three Temples of Buddhism and met eminent monks steeped in Zen. I have walked the Three Academies of Confucianism and seen scholarly gentlemen. The only thing I haven't seen is how a group of people who can barely survive... actually survive."

The old man fell silent for a moment, then suddenly laughed.

"Passenger, your words are quite novel." He paused. "Let this old man give you a piece of advice—once you're on the mountain, don't rush to find anyone. First, walk a full circle around the mountain. Look."

"Look at what?"

"Look at how those people live," the old man said. "Once you understand, then it won't be too late to meet the gang leader."

The boat reached the shore.

Junshan Mountain was not large, but extremely steep. A stone path wound its way upward, flanked by ancient trees that reached for the sky, their dense shade blocking out the sun. Lu Mingyuan did not hurry up the mountain. Instead, he walked slowly along its base.

When he reached the northern slope of the mountain, he suddenly heard a clamor.

Following the sound, he saw a hollow in the mountain where several dozen people were gathered. There were old and young, men and women, all dressed in ragged clothes, holding sticks, ladles, and bowls. In the center of the crowd, two figures could faintly be seen grappling.

He took a few steps closer, concealing himself behind a tree.

The two men were both dressed as beggars, one tall and one short. The tall one had pinned the short one to the ground, raining down punches like hail. The short one hugged his head, curled up, not fighting back, just enduring. Those around them—some cheered, some jeered, some watched coldly—but not a single person stepped forward.

After a dozen or so punches, the tall one suddenly stopped. He stood up and kicked the short one. "Had enough?"

The short one lay curled on the ground, motionless.

Just as the tall one was about to kick again, a voice suddenly came from outside the crowd. "Enough."

The voice was not loud, yet it reached everyone's ears clearly. The crowd automatically parted to make way as an old beggar slowly walked forward.

This old beggar was different from the others. Though he also wore ragged clothes, they were washed clean, and the patches were neat and orderly. Though he also leaned on a stick, it was straight and smooth, clearly well-maintained. Though he also went barefoot, his feet bore no mud or filth, planted firmly on the mountain rocks.

He walked up to the two men, looked at the short one curled on the ground, then at the tall one standing. "What happened?"

The tall one lowered his head and said nothing.

Someone beside them spoke up. "Gang Leader, it was Er Gouzi who started it. He stole Lao Wai's steamed bun, so Lao Wai hit him."

The old beggar nodded. He crouched down and helped the short one up.

The short one's face was covered in blood, his nose crooked to one side, his eyes swollen to slits. Seeing the old beggar, tears immediately streamed down his face. "Gang... Gang Leader... I didn't mean to... I haven't eaten in three days..."

The old beggar looked at him. There was no blame in his gaze, only something indescribable. "If you haven't eaten in three days, why didn't you come find me?"

The short one lowered his head. "I... I didn't dare... Last time, you gave me a bun and told me to find work, but I didn't go... I was afraid you'd scold me..."

The old beggar fell silent for a moment. Then he took a steamed bun from his robe and handed it to the short one. "Eat."

The short one was stunned, not daring to take it.

The old beggar pushed the bun into his hand. "Eat. Then come with me."

He stood up and looked at the tall one. "Lao Wai."

The tall one kept his head lowered, not daring to look at him.

"You hit him because he stole your bun. He stole your bun because he was hungry. He was hungry because he didn't dare come to me. He didn't dare come to me because I scolded him last time." The old beggar paused. "So, in this matter, where does the root lie?"

The tall one looked up, his face full of confusion.

The old beggar offered no explanation, only said, "Starting today, take an extra bun each day and deliver it to Er Gouzi. Continue until he finds work and can support himself."

The tall one was stunned for a moment, then suddenly knelt down. "Gang Leader, I was wrong."

The old beggar shook his head. "You weren't wrong. Protecting what's yours—what's wrong with that? The one who was wrong is me."

He turned and walked away from the crowd. After a few steps, he said without looking back, "Everyone, disperse. Tomorrow at the hour of chen, we meet at the mountaintop."

The crowd gradually scattered.

Lu Mingyuan stepped out from behind the tree, watching the receding figure.

This was the leader of the Beggars Gang.

No majestic aura, no commanding of heroes—just an old man in ragged clothes, handling a minor dispute. Yet his way of handling it wasn't to judge who was right or wrong, not to punish or reward anyone, but to take all the responsibility upon himself.

"The one who was wrong is me."

Four words. They made the one who struck kneel and admit his fault, made the one who stole the bun weep bitterly.

This wasn't political maneuvering. This was genuine heart.

He suddenly recalled the words Xuanweizi had once said: 'A true leader does not stand on high ground to command the masses; he stands on low ground to lift them up.'

Now he understood.

He continued walking.

Halfway up the mountain, he saw several people sitting together in a circle. Drawing closer, he saw an old woman bandaging a young man's wound. There was a deep gash on the young man's arm, blood still seeping out.

The old woman had no medicine, only some rags. She tore the rags into strips and wrapped them around the young man's arm, one loop after another. She worked slowly, meticulously, each loop applied evenly, as if it were not a piece of rag but some precious silk.

The young man grimaced in pain but did not cry out. He just clenched his teeth, watching the old woman wrap the bandage, loop by loop.

Someone nearby said, "Auntie Li, your skill is no worse than a doctor's."

The old woman didn't look up. "A doctor? People like us, can we afford a doctor?"

The man gave an embarrassed laugh.

After wrapping the final loop and tying a knot, the old woman gently patted the young man's shoulder. "There. Don't use that arm for the next few days. It'll heal in a few days."

The young man stood up and bowed to her. "Thank you, Auntie Li."

The old woman waved her hand. "What's there to thank? When my son was injured back then, someone saved him the same way. Now that he's dead, I save people in his place."

Lu Mingyuan stood not far away, watching all of this.

He suddenly recalled a saying: A 'xia' is not someone who knows martial arts. A 'xia' is someone who lends a hand when others cannot survive.

This old woman did not know martial arts. Yet she was saving someone.

He didn't know the gang leader's martial prowess. Yet he was also saving someone.

The people all over this mountain—they had all been saved, and they had all saved others.

As dusk deepened, he continued up the mountain.

At the mountaintop was a flat clearing. A few thatched huts were scattered about, with several bonfires burning in front of them. The firelight illuminated the faces gathered there—old and young, men and women, some with missing arms, some with lame legs.

They sat around the fires. Some were roasting food to eat, some were mending clothes, some simply sat quietly, staring blankly into the flames.

Lu Mingyuan saw the gang leader sitting in the most inconspicuous spot by a fire, holding a broken bowl containing half a bowl of thin porridge. He ate no better than anyone else, sat no more comfortably than anyone else. He just sat there, the same as everyone.

Yet the way everyone looked at him was different.

In their gazes were respect, dependence, trust, and closeness.

Not fear, but genuine acceptance.

Not authority, but gratitude.

He suddenly recalled what his old Martial Master had once said: 'A true xia is not measured by how many he can defeat, but by how many he can save.'

Now, looking at that gang leader, he suddenly understood—this was 'the greatest of xia.'

Not about how high one's martial arts are, but about how many people one's heart can hold.

Lu Mingyuan walked to the fireside and sat down beside the gang leader.

The gang leader did not look at him, only gazed into the flames and said slowly, "Young man, you've been watching from below the mountain all day. What did you see?"

Lu Mingyuan thought for a moment. "I saw that the people here live with great difficulty. I also saw that they are all willing to live."

"Why are they willing to live?"

"Because you are here."

The gang leader turned his head to look at him. The firelight played across that weathered face, its wrinkles deep and shallow, as if carved by a knife.

"Not me," the gang leader said. "It's themselves."

He looked at those people sitting around the fires. "In every person's heart, there is a bit of light. That bit of light makes them want to live. I just help them brighten that light a little."

He paused. "This is the Beggars Gang."

Lu Mingyuan remained silent for a long time.

Then he asked, "Gang Leader, this Junior wishes to learn. To learn how to save people."

The gang leader looked at him. In his gaze was scrutiny, expectation, and something indescribable.

"Have you studied martial arts?"

"For twenty-three years."

"Can you fight?"

"Yes."

"How many you can fight is not important," the gang leader said. "What's important is how many you can save."

He stood up and looked at the distant lake. The moon had risen, shining upon Dongting Lake, where water and sky merged, shimmering with silver light.

"Starting tomorrow, follow me."

Lu Mingyuan stood and bowed deeply, his hands reaching the ground. "Thank you, Gang Leader."

The gang leader did not turn around, only waved a hand. "Go sleep. There's much to do tomorrow."

Night deepened.

Lu Mingyuan lay in one of the thatched huts, listening to the sound of wind outside, the sound of water, and faint snores.

He thought of the people he had seen during the day—the beaten Er Gouzi, the striker Lao Wai, the bandaging Auntie Li, the young man who had lost his parents, and the gang leader sitting by the fire.

They were all people who could barely survive.

Yet they were all still alive.

Because they had light in their hearts. Because someone was helping them brighten that light a little.

He suddenly recalled a saying.

It was what Zen Master Huijue had said in the small courtyard in Luoyang: 'After the snow falls, the snow still melts.'

Now he understood. After the snow melts, there is water. Water nourishes all things, letting withered grass sprout again, letting dried-up rivers flow once more.

Saving people was being that water.

He closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

Tomorrow, there was much to do.