Chapter Three: Liberation Through Death

At this moment, Cheng Yunqi felt an extraordinary transformation, as if he were floating weightlessly in the air, having truly become a wisp of cloud and mist, with another “self” seated below him.

He listened—the wind roared, the rustling of bamboo leaves thundered in his ears; he looked—distance vanished, and he could clearly see ants carrying insect carcasses across the ground; he breathed—the sweet freshness of rain mist, the verdant aroma of spring bamboo shoots, and the faint, earthy tang of soil all came to him distinctly.

Just as he wished to delve deeper into these sensations, he caught sight of Daoist Master Sukun waving a sleeve at him, and was instantly overcome by a dizzying whirlwind. When he regained awareness, he found himself deep within a bamboo grove, the surroundings unfamiliar.

All around, a sea of green enveloped him, mountain winds threading through the woods. Yunqi felt as though he, too, might be swept away by the mountain breeze.

Steadying his mind, Yunqi concentrated on the sense of resonance with his soul that Daoist Master Sukun had spoken of.

In the depths of his consciousness, he sensed himself as a rootless waterweed, ready to drift far with the wind, to merge with the heavens, to sink into the earth—only in the northwest did he feel a subtle pull, a force beckoning him to take root there.

With his direction clear, Yunqi willed himself towards the northwest. The stronger his resolve, the faster his soul seemed to glide in that direction.

He had gone less than half a mile when a rich fragrance rose from the earth beneath him, and in a daze, his soul involuntarily descended. There, sprawled on the ground, was a green-leafed, purple-stemmed vine with heart-shaped leaves and white veins—it resembled a tuber fleeceflower, but exuded an otherworldly scent. Just drifting nearby, Yunqi felt his soul become more substantial.

Though only a few breaths passed, Yunqi sensed much time had elapsed. Lost in the fragrance, he suddenly jolted awake, realizing that if he’d still had a physical body, he would be drenched in cold sweat.

Forcing himself past the temptation, Yunqi resumed his journey northwest, avoiding distractions.

Along the way, golden butterflies, white cats, green snakes, macaques, black muntjacs, pheasants, and all manner of spiritual creatures discovered his wandering soul. Still unawakened, these beings had no concept of a wandering soul, and would often leap and play around him, making his journey all the more exhausting as he struggled to evade them.

Even worse was the persistent allure of strange flowers and rare grasses, their ethereal fragrances laying invisible snares, threatening to ensnare his soul.

Fortunately, Yunqi’s resolve remained unshaken; he ignored all temptation, focusing solely on returning to his body.

Yet, while the detached soul sharpened his senses, it dulled his perception of time. Yunqi did not know how long he had been journeying, nor how much longer he could go on. He pressed forward with all his strength, not daring to linger.

As he drifted, a wave of weakness and fatigue suddenly washed over him. Yunqi’s heart sank—was time up? Was his earth soul about to dissipate?

A surge of fear rose within him, and never before had the sensation of life slipping away felt so vivid.

Just then, the ever-present mountain wind shifted to blow from the northwest. Yunqi realized this was his chance. He focused, pondered, and tried to merge his soul with the wind, riding its currents.

His soul, hovering between substance and insubstantiality, had previously imagined itself as intangible when assaulted by scents or beset by spirits, suppressing his perceptions and drawing his soul inward. Now, to harness the wind’s power, he pictured himself as solid, limbs extended wide, swelling like a great banner.

These were but his own imaginings, yet they worked—the soul, riding the breeze, sped swiftly toward its goal.

As the wind slowed, Yunqi saw in the distance the stele marking “Zhan Biyun’s Bamboo Retreat.”

He breathed a sigh of relief and floated towards the stele. Soon, he saw a bamboo pavilion, but as he looked closer, a shudder of dread shot through him.

The place was just as before—the stele stood, the pavilion, the bamboo mats, all unchanged. But where was Daoist Master Sukun? Where were the youths who had come with him? Most importantly, where was his own body?

Desperately, Yunqi searched all around, circling the area countless times but finding nothing. He tried to call out, but as a soul, he could make no sound.

The sense of weakness intensified, and Yunqi grew frantic. Then, a sudden inspiration struck him, and he flew into the bamboo pavilion—only to be baffled by what he found.

Within the pavilion sat:

—A handsome youth in white, slender, pallid, brow tightly furrowed, sitting cross-legged, life or death uncertain. He looked exactly as Yunqi’s own body did when his soul was absent.
—A burly, well-built man in his thirties or forties, his right eye ruined, his expression fierce, also soulless and slumped.
—A slovenly, bald old Daoist, filthy and reeking, yet his robe matched exactly the style worn by Daoist Nun Bikun, and he too sat vacant-eyed.
—An eerie paper figure, dressed in human clothes, complete with hat, shoes, and socks.
—A plant with thick roots and few leaves, its inky-black tuber already shaped like a person, with clear limbs and features, resembling a small child. The leaves atop its head twisted into a grassy crown.
—And, most remarkably, a bamboo staff: seven feet and seven joints long, perfectly straight, emerald green and faintly translucent, the top and base segments hollow, the five middle segments glowing with radiant colors. The second joint sprouted two bamboo branches, as did the last segment at the base, each ending in five leaves, giving the staff a vaguely limbed appearance.

Yunqi was at a loss, but his intuition told him any of these people or things could host his earth soul—the only question was which to choose.

He glanced at the incense burner; the stick of incense was nearly spent, only a little ash left before it burned out.

Was the true test not returning in time, but choosing wisely at the end?

Should he choose a human vessel?
The weak yet handsome youth? The strong yet maimed man? The high-ranking yet filthy elder?

Or a simulacrum?
The uncanny paper figure or bamboo staff, or the vaguely human, fragrant tuber fleeceflower?

His thoughts whirled between the three people and three objects.

It didn’t take long for Yunqi to dismiss the three human bodies; if he was to be reborn, he did not wish to inhabit another’s flesh, and besides, perhaps these bodies awaited the return of their own souls.

If immortals truly existed, why not inhabit an object?

Next, he quickly rejected the paper figure, for the tuber fleeceflower and bamboo staff at least seemed full of life, while the paper figure radiated only deathly stillness.

His mind hovered between the tuber fleeceflower and the bamboo staff, unable to decide. As the final bit of incense ash was about to fall, he prepared to merge with the more humanoid tuber fleeceflower.

But just as his soul brushed the tuber, he sensed a faint consciousness within it—fear and pleading directed at his earth soul.

So this tuber fleeceflower was already a spirit, possessed of its own awareness.

Relieved, Yunqi no longer hesitated and immediately entered the bamboo staff beside it.

Just in time—the last bit of incense ash drifted down.

—

Cheng Yunqi abruptly opened his eyes.

Before him stood the stele of Zhan Biyun’s Bamboo Retreat. All around, Daoist Master Sukun sat serenely within the bamboo pavilion, and around him, circle upon circle, sat those who had lost their souls, heads drooping. By the stele, two or three dozen young boys and girls still stood at a distance, not daring to approach.

He touched his cheeks, his chest, his back, and realized he had somehow returned to his body. The youths, the man, the old Daoist, the paper figure, the tuber fleeceflower, the bamboo staff—all had vanished.

As if it had all been a dream.

"You, come stand behind me."

Yunqi looked up to see Daoist Master Sukun gazing directly at him.

He dared not delay, rose, and moved to stand behind her.

He now noticed that the incense stick in the brazier was still more than half unburned.

"Could it really be immortal magic? Have I passed the trial?" Yunqi wondered silently, but quickly steadied his mind, standing perfectly still.

He watched as the incense burned out, but no one else awoke.

Those who remained slumped on the bamboo mats showed no reaction at all.

Watching this, the faces of the dozens of onlookers by the stele were a study in emotion—shock, horror, regret—all mingled with a palpable sense of relief at having survived unscathed.

When the incense finally burned out, Sukun’s face remained impassive. She drew a small white banner from her sleeve and waved it gently, chanting softly:

“Wandering souls adrift, where will you stay?
From a thousand miles, return swiftly to your shells!”

A sudden wind swept through. Yunqi felt a chill brush his face, and then all at once, those who had lost their souls jerked upright as if awakening from a nightmare.

They looked around, gradually returning to their senses. When they saw Yunqi behind Sukun and the incense extinguished, their faces filled with regret and unwillingness.

But when the soul-lost awoke, the faces of those standing by the stele changed again, growing even more ashen than those who had failed the test. If they had known the Daoist Master could summon back wandering souls, would they have dared to abstain from the trial?

Just then, as all those on the bamboo mats regained consciousness, Daoist Jihu arrived as promised.

Sukun pointed to Yunqi and said,

“Jihu, please accompany these young ones down the mountain first. When you return, take him to Wanhu Peak.”

“Yes, Master Aunt,” Jihu replied.