65: Chapter 65 The Return Journey to Zhongnan

At the foot of Mount Hua, there was a small tea stall.

Two wooden tables, a few long benches, an old woman tending a stove to boil water. The tea was coarse, the bowls were rough, yet those ascending or descending the mountain would always stop here to rest.

Lu Mingyuan ordered a bowl of tea and sat on a bench near the roadside.

The tea was scalding hot. He cradled the bowl, watching the passersby come and go. Woodcutters carrying loads, merchants hurrying on their way, Cultivators with swords on their backs, old men leading donkeys—each walked their own path, each headed toward their own future.

He suddenly thought of five years ago.

Back then, he had just descended the mountain. He had also sat at a roadside tea stall like this, watching the people come and go. His heart was full of anticipation, full of questions, full of uncertainty about the road ahead.

Five years.

He had traveled to Longhu Mountain, to Wudang Mountain, to Mount Qingcheng. He had entered Shaolin Temple, visited Daxiangguo Temple, and entered meditation at the site where the Buddha once preached. He had climbed Yuelu Mountain, sat in White Deer Grotto, debated the Investigation of Things with scholars of the School of Principle, and discussed the flowers and trees in the rock with followers of the School of Mind. He had been to Junshan Mountain on Lake Dongting, entered the Tang Clan in Shu, and finally ascended Mount Hua, sitting for a night before Zhenyue Palace.

Five years. The three teachings and nine schools of thought, myriad methods and doctrines.

Now, sitting at this tea stall, he was still the same person drinking coarse tea.

But he knew he was no longer the same person he was five years ago.

"Sir, would you like more hot water?" the old woman asked, approaching with a pot.

Lu Mingyuan shook his head, placed a few copper coins on the table, and stood up to leave.

After walking a long way, he looked back.

Mount Hua was already shrouded in mist and clouds, leaving only a faint silhouette.

East, or west?

Standing at the fork in the road, Lu Mingyuan hesitated for a moment.

East led back to Heyin. He wanted to go back and see that abandoned Daoist temple, that small path nearly washed away by the flood, and those villagers who had taught him to read and write.

West led back to Zhongnan Mountain. Xuanweizi was waiting for him there.

He thought for a moment, then walked westward.

It wasn't that he didn't want to return to Heyin. The time was not yet right.

When he had asked all he wanted to ask, realized all he wanted to realize, and walked all the paths he needed to walk—only then, returning to sit under the old locust tree at the village entrance, listening to the villagers' idle chatter, would be a true homecoming.

For now, he still had to return to Zhongnan Mountain.

There lay his final questions.

After three days of walking, he reached a small town called "Three Forks."

The town was not large, with a single main street stretching barely two li from east to west. Shops lined both sides of the street—a blacksmith, a general store, a coffin shop, an inn—everything one might need.

Lu Mingyuan entered an inn and requested a room.

The innkeeper was a middle-aged man. Seeing Lu Mingyuan dressed as a Cultivator, he gave him a second glance but asked no questions, simply instructing a servant to take him upstairs.

The room was small: a bed, a table, a window. The window paper was torn, and the evening wind seeped through the holes, carrying the noise from the street.

Lu Mingyuan sat down at the table and poured himself a bowl of water.

The water was cold. He didn't mind.

He was thinking about these past five years.

Five years. Nineteen places.

Each place was an inquiry.

At Longhu Mountain, he inquired about talismans—what is the vessel of the Dao?

At Wudang Mountain, he inquired about the sword—what is the essence of protection?

At Mount Qingcheng, he inquired about the heart—if the heart is clear, all methods are clear, but what is clarity?

At Shaolin Temple, he inquired about Chan—if it stands not on words, how is the Dharma transmitted?

At Daxiangguo Temple, he inquired about Buddha-recitation—when ten thousand thoughts become one, where does that one go?

At the Leiyin Ruins, he inquired about the Dharma-body—'Do not seek the Buddha far away on Vulture Peak, for Vulture Peak is within your own mind.' Where, then, is Vulture Peak?

At Yuelu Academy, he inquired about the Investigation of Things—today you investigate one thing, tomorrow another, when will the investigation end?

At White Deer Grotto Academy, he inquired about 'Nothing exists outside the mind'—the flowers and trees in the rock, are they within the mind or outside it?

At Junshan Mountain on Lake Dongting, he inquired about chivalry—what makes a great hero?

At the Tang Clan in Shu, he inquired about skill and clumsiness—skill arises from clumsiness, but where does clumsiness come from?

At Mount Hua, he inquired about the sword—when ten thousand swords return to their source, where is that source?

For every question, he had received an answer.

But every answer gave rise to new questions.

It was like climbing a mountain. Reaching one peak, you see a higher one. Climb that peak, and there is yet another higher one.

There is no end.

He suddenly understood why Xuanweizi had said, "Cultivation is climbing a mountain with no summit."

It was not modesty, but the truth.

A commotion came from outside the window.

He leaned out to look. Several children were playing by the roadside, chasing a leather ball. The ball rolled into the middle of the street, and a child ran after it, nearly getting hit by a passing carriage. The driver cursed a few times. The child's mother ran out, dragged the child back, and apologized to the driver.

Watching this, Lu Mingyuan suddenly smiled.

This was the human world.

The three teachings and nine schools of thought, the myriad methods and doctrines—in the end, they all must return to this human world.

Buddhism speaks of liberating all sentient beings. These sentient beings are these children, mothers, and carriage drivers.

Confucianism speaks of governing the state and bringing peace to the world. This world is this street, this town, these people coming and going.

Daoism speaks of long life and enduring vision. But after attaining long life? After enduring vision? One still ends up watching these people, living these kinds of days.

He thought of Hui Ke.

That old monk who for seventy-two years had only practiced one set of fist forms, only swept one patch of ground. He did not go to liberate sentient beings, did not go to bring peace to the world, did not seek long life. He simply practiced his fist forms, swept the ground, and guarded that dilapidated temple.

Yet he was the Buddha, he was the Sage, he was the Immortal.

Why?

Because he was alive.

Alive in that one fist, alive in that one sweep, alive in this very moment.

When myriad methods return to their source, what they return to is the heart.

Where does the heart return? It returns to this moment.

At this moment, he was in an inn, with children playing outside the window. This was the Dao.

Night deepened, and the noise from the street gradually faded.

Lu Mingyuan sat cross-legged on the bed, closed his eyes, and looked inward.

Within his Dantian, the Primordial Spirit formed after Soul Transformation sat quietly in meditation, enveloped in a faint layer of golden light. Within the light, one could faintly see countless tiny talismanic scripts flowing—the talismanic intent of Longhu Mountain, the Sword Intent of Wudang Mountain, the heart-mind intent of Mount Qingcheng; the Chan intent of Shaolin, the Buddha-recitation samadhi of Daxiangguo Temple, the Dharma-body emptiness of the Leiyin Ruins; the principle and Qi of Yuelu, the innate knowledge of White Deer Grotto; the Dragon Subduing Palm intent of the Beggars Gang, the intricate ingenuity of the Tang Clan's hidden weapons, the 'Ten Thousand Swords Return to Source' of Mount Hua.

The three teachings and nine schools of thought, the myriad methods and doctrines—all were within him at this moment.

Not piled up chaotically, but coexisting in an orderly manner.

Just like the three strands of Sword Intent he had left on Wenjian Cliff that day—Heaven, Earth, and Humanity existing side by side, not interfering with each other.

But this was merely "coexistence."

What he wanted was "Fusion."

Xuanweizi had said that the three teachings share the same origin, and myriad methods return to the same source. But how do they return? How are they the same? He did not know.

He only knew that these five years of travel and study had planted all the seeds.

When they would sprout, when they would blossom, when they would bear fruit—he did not know.

But he was not anxious.

The road was long. He would walk it slowly.

On the fifth day, he reached a place called "Gaze-at-Zhongnan Pavilion."

The pavilion stood on a hillside beside the official road, not high up, reached by climbing a few dozen stone steps. Standing in the pavilion, one could see Zhongnan Mountain in the distance.

Lu Mingyuan ascended the stone steps and entered the pavilion.

The pavilion was small, with four stone pillars supporting a thatched roof. In the center was a stone table with several stone stools. A Go board was carved into the tabletop; the stones were long gone, leaving only the nineteen intersecting lines.

He sat on a stone stool, gazing in the direction of Zhongnan Mountain.

The mountain was shrouded in mist and clouds, appearing and disappearing.

He suddenly remembered the first time he had seen Zhongnan Mountain.

Back then, he had just descended the mountain, his heart full of anticipation, full of questions, full of uncertainty about the road ahead. Standing at the mountain's foot, looking at those cloud-wreathed peaks, he had not known what kind of people lived within, what kind of Dao was hidden there.

Five years later, he stood here again.

It was still the same mountain, the same mist and clouds.

But he knew that within the mountain lived an old man. That old man had taught him the Classic of Purity and Tranquility, had taught him to draw Qi into his body, had taught him to draw talismans, had taught him how to be a person. That old man had given him a green bamboo staff, a jade pendant, a qiankun bag, and had said to him, "Go. Come back when you've finished your journey."

Had he finished his journey?

No.

He had only finished the first leg.

There was a second leg, a third, a fourth.

But he still had to return.

Because this was the place from which he had set out.

He sat for a long time, until the sun began to set in the west, before he finally rose and descended the hill.

After walking a few steps, he suddenly heard someone call from behind:

"Fellow Daoist, please wait!"

He turned and saw a young Daoist hurriedly catching up. Around twenty years old, with clear brows and bright eyes, carrying a wooden sword on his back.

The young Daoist reached him and bowed with hands clasped. "Might I ask, Fellow Daoist, are you heading to Zhongnan Mountain?"

Lu Mingyuan nodded.

The young Daoist's face lit up with joy. "Excellent! I am also going to Zhongnan Mountain, seeking to find a reclusive Master to study under. Might Fellow Daoist be willing to travel together?"

Lu Mingyuan looked at him.

Qi Refinement Stage, Foundation passable, eyes clear and bright, no apparent ill intent.

"Let's go."

The young Daoist was overjoyed and thanked him profusely.

The two walked side by side down the hill. The young Daoist was talkative, chattering nonstop along the way. He said his name was Qingyuan, that he had admired the Dao since childhood, read countless Daoist texts, but could never find the door to enter. Hearing there were Masters on Zhongnan Mountain, he had bid farewell to his parents and traveled a thousand li to seek them.

"And you, Fellow Daoist?" Qingyuan asked. "Are you from Zhongnan Mountain?"

Lu Mingyuan shook his head. "No."

"Then are you visiting a friend?"

Lu Mingyuan thought for a moment. "You could say that."

Qingyuan was curious. "What kind of friend?"

Lu Mingyuan gazed at the distant mountain silhouette and said softly, "An old man. Five years ago, he saw me off down the mountain, saying, 'Come back when you've finished your journey.'"

Qingyuan was taken aback for a moment, then suddenly grew solemn with respect. "Is that your Master?"

Lu Mingyuan was silent for a while.

"Yes."

The two walked for a stretch. When night fell, they sought lodging in a village.

The village was small, with about ten households. At the village entrance stood a large locust tree, with several elderly people sitting beneath it enjoying the cool air. Seeing two young men dressed as Daoists, the elders showed no surprise. They pointed to an empty house at the east end of the village, saying it was for travelers, free of charge, and they could clean it themselves.

Lu Mingyuan and Qingyuan thanked them and went to the empty house.

The house was small: an earthen kang bed, a broken table. The kang was spread with dry grass; though crude, it was clean.

While Qingyuan busied himself cleaning, Lu Mingyuan stood in the courtyard, looking up at the night sky.

The moon was bright, the stars sparse, the Milky Way stretched across.

He suddenly remembered that night on Zhongnan Mountain when Xuanweizi had pointed at the starry sky and said, "The fabric of heaven has a flaw, a crack in the Northwest."

Five years had passed. Was that crack still there?

He wanted to go see.

But not now.

For now, he had to return to Zhongnan Mountain first.

To recount, one by one, the experiences of these five years to that old man.

In the afternoon of the second day, they finally reached the foot of Zhongnan Mountain.

Qingyuan gazed at the cloud-wreathed peaks, his face full of excitement. "This is Zhongnan Mountain! I've arrived! I've truly arrived!"

Lu Mingyuan said nothing, only looked at the path leading up the mountain.

The path was still the same path, the stone steps still the same stone steps. Five years ago, when he had descended the mountain, he had trodden every single step. Now, walking them again, each step felt like treading on memory itself.

When they reached the mountainside, Qingyuan suddenly stopped.

"Fellow Daoist..." His voice trembled slightly. "There's someone ahead."

Lu Mingyuan looked up.

On the mountain path stood a grey-robed old man, hands clasped behind his back. His hair and beard were completely white, his face lean, his gaze gentle.

Xuanweizi.

Lu Mingyuan quickened his pace, stopping before the old man.

He wanted to speak, but didn't know where to begin. Five years of experiences, five years of questions, five years of longing—all clogged in his throat, unable to form even a single word.

Xuanweizi looked at him and smiled faintly.

"You've returned?"

Lu Mingyuan nodded.

"Have you finished your journey?"

Lu Mingyuan thought for a moment, then shook his head.

Xuanweizi's smile deepened. "Returning after finishing the journey is coming home. Returning before finishing the journey is also coming home. Come, let's talk more back at the place."

He turned and walked up the mountain.

Lu Mingyuan followed behind.

After a few steps, he suddenly remembered something and looked back at Qingyuan. The young Daoist was still standing there dumbfounded, staring at them.

Lu Mingyuan smiled. "Weren't you seeking a Master? Come on."

Qingyuan seemed to wake from a dream and hurried to catch up.

The three of them followed the stone steps, walking deep into the mist and clouds.

The mountain wind blew, rustling through the pines.

That dilapidated Daoist temple was waiting for them just ahead.