Chapter One: Sanqing Mountain

In the vast world, countless sacred mountains dotted the land, with tranquil seas and clear rivers, where miraculous traces of immortals often appeared, and the pursuit of immortality and the Dao flourished everywhere.

Among all these places, Bashu and Yuzhang stood out as the most splendid.

Yuzhang was a land of exquisite beauty and abundance, producing treasures and talented souls. Merely its renowned immortal mountains, celebrated even overseas, included Mount Lu and Mount Mingyue, home to the Sword Sect; Mount Dajue and Mount Zhenru, seat of the Zen tradition. Its Daoist mountains enjoyed even greater fame, boasting ancestral halls of great sects and secluded treasure mountains of talismans and scriptures.

Thus, Yuzhang was also called the Capital of Dao Under Heaven.

Yuzhang led the Daoist sects of the East, with Mount Longhu and Mount Sanqing reigning supreme.

Mount Longhu, founded during the Han dynasty, was the ancestral court of the Celestial Masters’ Way, standing for nearly eight thousand years, the longest among its contemporaries, leading all schools of alchemy and governing the Five Thunders. However, it was exceedingly strict in accepting disciples, its followers few and revered, and the Celestial Master’s residence strictly forbidden to outsiders.

Mount Sanqing, opened during the Eastern Jin, was the ancestral hall of the Myriad Methods Sect, standing for over six thousand years. Here, practitioners cultivated internal and external alchemy, swordsmanship, talismans, formations, astrology, thunder rites, body refinement, medicine, corpse-raising, and many other arts, welcoming disciples from all walks of life. Notably, it also set aside an entire mountain and temple as a portal to the mundane world, opening its gates wide to pilgrims, whose incense never ceased.

This worldly portal was Mount Yuxiu, stretching north to south, with its east, west, and north slopes precipitous cliffs, and only the southern slope gentle and lovely, carved with a mountain path.

At the foot of this path lay a broad, flat expanse, through which the Golden Sand Stream flowed from east to west. About ten miles south of the stream stood a small town called Camphor Fragrance Town, encircled on three sides by mountains, its sole opening facing Mount Yuxiu. Behind the town, red camphor trees grew in abundance, their heartwood exuding a strange fragrance. The villagers from seven or eight nearby hamlets made their living by felling these trees, harvesting the heartwood to sell in town, where it was crafted into incense for the pilgrims.

The smoke of camphor incense was pure and aromatic, rising in pale curls without soot, refreshing the mind and repelling pests. Pilgrims visiting Mount Yuxiu to venerate the Three Pure Ones always bought some. Some travelers from afar would buy large quantities to take home, placing them in ancestral halls or family shrines.

Besides incense-making, the townsfolk often rented their homes to visitors, making the town rather affluent—its roads paved with bluestone, every house built of brick.

On this night, as midnight deepened, a bright moon leapt above the mountains behind the town, casting its pure light down, illuminating brows and hair alike.

In a small alley lined with blue-tiled courtyards, a young man was at work in the moonlight, his features refined and slender. He was carving with careful attention.

He worked the heartwood of red camphor, and beside him were ten or so finished pieces—small square plaques.

Each plaque was exquisitely carved, no two patterns alike: auspicious clouds, bats and longevity, joyful spiders, golden fish, lions, peonies—each eye-catching and unique. The characters on the plaques were also beautifully inscribed, bearing blessings such as “Safe Passage,” “Double Fortune and Prosperity,” “Virtue Brings Lasting Joy,” and “Auspiciousness Ascends, Fortune Accumulates.”

The youth had been carving these wooden plaques for a long time—nearly four months since the New Year—now sixteen finished, with only the last one remaining. Pressed for time, he hoped to complete the final plaque tonight.

When the moon hung high, the youth finished the last one, inscribing the words, “A Hundred Blessings Abound, Auspiciousness Opens the Door of Virtue.”

He let out a long breath, went inside, and fetched the yellow tassels and his travel bundle, already prepared. Slinging his bundle over his back, he threaded the yellow tassels through each plaque. Thus, seventeen blessing plaques were complete.

He swept the courtyard clean before leaving. Over his own doorway hung a plaque as well, inscribed, “May Your Journey Soar, Joy and Fortune Arrive”—crafted by his father and hung there since he was ten, never replaced.

One by one, he hung the plaques on the doors of the other seventeen households in the alley, as farewell gifts.

Tonight, he would leave the town, and might not return for three or five years.

He had grown up in Camphor Fragrance Town, yet was not a native son. He was an abandoned child, left at half a year old in a farmer’s bamboo basket lined with worn cotton, and delivered to the first house in Bluetile Alley—the home of Mr. Cheng Tingxian.

Mr. Cheng was the town’s schoolmaster, a scholar from elsewhere who had once served as a local magistrate. Learned and fond of the Dao, he retired and settled at the foot of Mount Sanqing with his wife. Deeply affectionate, though childless, Mr. Cheng never took a concubine. Both were free-spirited, unlike ordinary folk, and even as age left their knees empty, they had never adopted a child.

Fifteen years ago, after settling in Camphor Fragrance Town, the couple began teaching the local children in their leisure. Villagers from nearby sent their children without reservation, for Mr. Cheng’s learning surpassed the local tutors by far, and his reputation grew.

Two years thus passed before, one day, a child appeared at their door. The couple took it as fate and took him in. Mr. Cheng, devoted to the Dao, named him Yunqi, taking inspiration from a verse by the southern immortal Bai Yuchan of Mount Wuyi’s alchemical tradition:

“Drifting along on clouds of energy, bending to view the world below.”

When Yunqi was eleven, Mrs. Cheng, frail by birth and suffering from failing organs, passed away. That she lived beyond seventy was thanks to Mr. Cheng’s tireless care.

A month after her death, Mr. Cheng, consumed by grief, followed her, leaving Yunqi only the house and the goodwill of the whole town.

Yunqi chose to leave tonight because word had spread from Mount Yuxiu in the New Year: a master of the Three Pure Ones’ Immortal Mountain would take a disciple—only one—after a test held on Grain Rain day.

The method of accepting disciples at the Immortal Mountain was unusual—not like the Sword Sect, whose masters scoured the land, testing both sword and heart, nor like Mount Longhu, which opened its gates once every few centuries with tests numbering in the hundreds.

Instead, the Immortal Mountain, through Mount Yuxiu, offered pilgrims a method of breathing and nourishing life called the Meridian Unblocking and Stretching Exercise. It was free, and ordinary folk who practiced daily could strengthen their blood and organs, unblocking their meridians. Those exceptionally gifted might even nurture a breath of pure energy within, with miraculous effects of warding off poison and illness.

The first requirement to become a disciple was to possess this clear energy, and the second was to be under sixteen years of age. Only those who met both could sit for the test.

The time and occurrence of the test were always unpredictable—some years it happened three or five times, other times not at all for centuries.

The last public recruitment by the Immortal Mountain was twenty-eight years ago.

Yunqi was both talented and fortunate. Under his father’s guidance, he had practiced the breathing art daily: though his father, after a lifetime of practice, remained healthy but never cultivated clear energy, Yunqi began at two and achieved it by five. Now fifteen, he had caught his chance—after this year, it would be too late.

Now, with nothing to hold him back, nurtured by a Daoist upbringing, Yunqi naturally had to try.

Tomorrow was Grain Rain. Worried that a tearful farewell would be too hard to bear, he chose to leave quietly in the night.

As the season of Grain Rain arrived, a fine mist began to fall. Yunqi walked from the bluestone road to gravel, then to muddy country paths, finally stopping before a green mound.

Around the mound, a low wall of river stones was built. To the left and right before it stood a pine and a cypress. Between them, a stele bore words clear in the moonlight: “The joint tomb of the Honored Father Cheng Tingxian and Honored Mother Zhu Mingjun.”

Yunqi knelt before the stele, bowing deeply, his sobs echoing across the wilds, mingled with broken whispers.

The moon shifted further west. The youth rose, carefully wiped the stele with his sleeve, checked the wall for damage, then followed the path away—toward Mount Yuxiu.

———

The next day, rain still fell in gentle threads. The sky was dark overhead, but bright all around.

As Yunqi ascended the southern slope, more and more people joined the path. By the time he reached the Rain-Bestowing Jade Temple at the summit, the crowd was shoulder to shoulder.

The Rain-Bestowing Jade Temple—Rain Jade Temple for short—was a Daoist temple established by Mount Sanqing especially for the secular world. Here, pilgrims came for blessings, dream interpretation, talismanic healing, exorcism, and soul-soothing. Incense burned ever bright.

The temple was always busy with believers, but today was unprecedented. Yunqi carried no umbrella, but walking beneath the others’ umbrellas, was hardly touched by rain.

Before the temple lay a vast bluestone square, at whose center stood a massive red-bronze incense burner, glowing faintly. Now, the square was packed, umbrellas forming a sea of shifting color.

The temple gates stood wide open. At the entrance, the abbot, Master Zhenwei—rarely seen—stood waiting, as if expecting something.

The crowd, too, was waiting. When the appointed hour arrived, a remarkably young Daoist came out to stand by Master Zhenwei—barely twenty, with a dignified bearing but unfamiliar features, never before seen at Rain Jade Temple. His deep blue feathered robe was also of an unseen pattern.

The Daoist bowed and spoke:

“We must apologize to all our honored guests who have come to offer incense today. This is the day when a master from the mountain will select a disciple. We are indeed many. Please be patient—once we have seen off those with destiny, you may enter for your devotions.”

At once a murmur rose from the crowd, but all replied, “We wouldn’t dare!”

“Would all young guests under sixteen, possessing clear and pure energy, please follow me into the temple.”

Again the crowd stirred, and a hundred or so youths—boys and girls—stepped forward.

Yunqi, without an umbrella, also stepped out, grateful that the rain was light.

The youths formed several lines, standing shoulder to shoulder. Most looked back toward the crowd, where their loved ones waited.

Yunqi did not look back.

“Yunqi!”
“Little Teacher!”
“Cheng family boy!”

Suddenly, familiar voices called from behind. Yunqi turned and saw the familiar faces of Camphor Fragrance Town—Aunt Zhang, Uncle Li, old Madam Wang, even at her great age—how had she come? Yunqi raised his hand and waved with all his might.

At that moment, the line began to move. However reluctant, none dared linger. Yunqi waved them back, tears in his eyes, but did not pause to wipe them, hurrying after the young Daoist into the temple.

The temple ran north-south. Entering from the south gate, one first encountered the Hall of Marshal Wang Lingguan, then, on either side, the Halls of Thunder God, Lightning Mother, Wind Earl, and Rain Master. Passing the bell and drum towers, one reached the Hall of the Grand Magus of the Mystical Capital, the Hall of Lord Guangcheng, and the Hall of Lady Doumu, flanking left and right. At the very end, as was proper, stood the Hall of the Three Pure Ones.

To the west of the Three Pure Ones’ Hall stood another, named the Hall of Immortal Ge.

Inside, a stone statue was enshrined, depicting an elder in a green Daoist robe, hands folded, brow full and face kindly.

No introduction was needed—all knew this was the mountain’s founding patriarch, Immortal Ge Hong, called Master Baopuzi.

The leading Daoist guided the boys and girls past the patriarch’s statue, having them line up before the rear wall of the great hall.

While they wondered what was to come, the Daoist formed a gesture and began chanting an incantation. Suddenly, the white wall rippled like a lake. As the ripples shimmered, the wall seemed to dissolve.

Amid the astonished gazes of all, a vast, boundless ocean of milky white clouds surged before their eyes.