Chapter Seventy-One: Gazing at the Moon in Drunkenness, A Hundred Scenes Arise (Double-Length Chapter)

Since Feng Jihu had spoken so generously, Cheng Xinzhan saw no reason to be reserved and immediately began selecting. First, he chose the morning glory Feng Jihu had just used to cast a spell for transmitting sound; he also picked the orchid with butterfly-shaped blossoms, each flower on the stem a different hue, known as the Painted Butterfly Orchid.

Feng Jihu then took the initiative to dig up some medicinal herbs with healing properties—such as Cynanchum, calamus, notoginseng, and ginseng grass—which could be used in medicine or pill refinement.

Finally, they needed to select a principal tree to harmonize the Five Elements and the feng shui of Cheng Xinzhan’s cave dwelling.

“From what you just described, you’re nestled in a bamboo grove, so you lack no wood; there’s a pool in the forest, so water is sufficient; you dwell in a stone cave, so earth and metal are not missing. What you lack is fire. For the fire element, you should choose a persimmon or a pomegranate tree. I’ll take you to the orchard to dig up a large one—one that will bear fruit this year.”

“Then a persimmon tree,” Cheng Xinzhan replied, preferring it. In spring and summer, the branches spread lush and green; in autumn, the tree is adorned with clusters of blazing red fruit, and in winter, when the leaves fall, the gnarled branches still hang with fiery persimmons, swaying like lanterns amid the snow—a sight of exquisite beauty.

Especially in late autumn, after the first frost, picking a basket of persimmons and making dried persimmon cakes was a delight from his childhood, one he cherished most when his mother was still alive.

So Feng Jihu gathered the flowers and herbs he’d dug up, leading Cheng Xinzhan out of the courtyard to a nearby orchard, where they sought out a sturdy, low, and bushy old persimmon tree.

True to his reputation as the founder of the Wood Hall, Feng Jihu formed a hand seal, and the old persimmon tree seemed to pull itself from the earth, its roots and trunk emerging cleanly from the soil. Feng Jihu held the tree suspended, inviting Cheng Xinzhan to lead the way to Mingzhi Mountain, where he would plant it with a wave of his hand. As for the flowers and herbs, they couldn’t just be set randomly in the earth—soil quality, sunlight, and water were all of importance.

Cheng Xinzhan was naturally delighted, but he didn’t let Feng Jihu carry the tree all the way. He took it and stowed it inside his stone grotto; there was still enough space.

Feng Jihu was surprised—he, too, had a stone grotto, but it was just a small pellet, bought with much expense, and only five feet square inside—far too small to contain a whole tree.

“You actually managed to obtain such a fine treasure.”

“I saved a wealthy young master outside—he was generous and gave it as a gift,” Cheng Xinzhan replied with a smile.

With that, the two soared away on clouds—a crimson cloud for one, a blue for the other. Cheng Xinzhan recalled that when they first met, he, too, had ridden a blue cloud.

They landed by the Carefree Cave amid the emerald bamboo of Mingzhi Mountain.

“This is a treasure of a place—what unique scenery!” Feng Jihu praised.

“Not as elegant as your own courtyard, brother,” Cheng Xinzhan returned the compliment.

Their mutual flattery done, they set to work. Feng Jihu was evidently an expert at arranging gardens. First, he cleared the green bamboo between the cave and the pool, opening up the view. Then he carved out a plot by the pool for a medicinal garden and planted the flowers and herbs brought from Azalea Valley—placing the water-loving calamus on a rock in the pond.

He then asked for the persimmon tree, which he planted to the left front of the Carefree Cave, making it the finishing touch: the bamboo grove was no longer monotonous, and the tender green of the bamboo stood out even more. Come autumn and winter, it would be even more striking.

With the cave still lacking furniture, they set about making tables and chairs from the just-cleared bamboo—splitting the bamboo with swords, bending it with fire, weaving it with thought—and soon several bamboo chairs were complete. Finding they needed more bamboo, they cleared a path from the open space straight to the cliff’s edge; in future, they could descend the cloud right here and follow the path straight to the cave.

They wove the cleared bamboo into a long table and two bamboo couches.

By the time all was done, the sun was setting behind the western hills.

They carried a bamboo couch to the cliff’s edge and reclined upon it; the white dog jumped up, happily curling at their side.

Beyond the cliff, a sea of clouds billowed, the setting sun as orange as a citrus fruit.

“With scenery like this, who would not be enchanted?” Feng Jihu murmured.

“We seek immortality for nothing less than the splendors of the land and these endless beautiful vistas,” Cheng Xinzhan agreed.

They watched the sunset in silence, the white dog wagging its tail, resting its head on its master’s knee, dozing as the golden evening light outlined its fur.

—

As dusk deepened, the two men and their dog made their way to the Kitchen Courtyard of Little Wan Mountain.

Cheng Xinzhan had reserved a “Success Banquet,” set on a spacious open-air terrace with a long table, surrounded by persimmon and orange trees. Though the trees were not yet bearing fruit, red lanterns shaped like persimmons and oranges were hung among the branches, illuminating the platform brightly.

Several guests had already arrived.

“Wan Hua, brother!”

“Lingzhi, brother!”

“Qunyu!”

Cheng Xinzhan greeted them warmly.

The others stood, responding with smiles.

“You’ve set this feast at just the right time. In the past two years, some have been in retreat, others traveling outside; it’s been far too long since we gathered. Last year, several opened their manors, but with people scattered, no one held a banquet. Now that everyone’s here, tonight we must enjoy ourselves!”

Tian Lingzhi laughed heartily—he had opened his Wood Hall right after He Jiyuan and was now a personal disciple of an old Daoist of Rainbow Mountain, with the Dao name Jian Gong, a generation above those present.

Luo Wanhua had opened the Water Hall last winter and was now the junior fellow of Pu Jixuan, Dao name Ji Shi.

Nie Qunyu hadn’t opened his own hall yet, but it wouldn’t be long.

As everyone took their seats and chatted, more guests arrived in twos and threes.

“Wan Chun, brother!”

Deng Wanchun had arrived—he had opened his Metal Hall last autumn and now devoted himself to sword practice at Sword-Casting Mountain.

Next, accompanied by a booming voice, He Jiyuan entered.

Just then, a stranger walked in—someone Cheng Xinzhan did not recognize.

Yet all those from Lantern Street—Feng Jihu, He Jiyuan, Luo Jishi—rose to their feet in unison.

“Xianyou!”

Hearing the name, Cheng Xinzhan realized who it was—Wang Xianyou, who, like Tian Lingzhi in Grape Vine Street, was the leader of Lantern Street, renowned for his prodigious talent and profound mastery; many had benefited from his guidance.

He was the very image of the legend: wide robes, white garments billowing, hair unbound and chest bare, pale and slender—a figure from the Wei and Jin era.

His cultivation method was unique, making the opening of his own hall particularly difficult. When the clouds entered the mountains he had already gone into seclusion; by the time he left the sect, he had not emerged. Now, unexpectedly, he appeared.

“I invite myself unbidden. Returning to the street after leaving seclusion, I found it deserted, and on inquiring, learned you were all gathered here.”

Wang Xianyou smiled, clasping his hands in apology.

Everyone drew him to the table, peppering him with questions.

“Xianyou, you’re finally out of seclusion! Have you opened your hall?”

“What hall did you open, brother?”

Wang Xianyou turned to Cheng Xinzhan. “This younger brother’s face is unfamiliar; I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Feng Jihu introduced them. “Xinzhan, this is Wang Xianyou; we entered the sect the same year, his name registered under Hundred Herbs Mountain. Xianyou, this is Xinzhan—his Dao name is Xinzhan and he is now a personal disciple of Master Su Kongyu on Mingzhi Mountain; his family name is Cheng. He entered after you went into seclusion.”

Wang Xianyou’s eyes sparkled. “Brother, you must be exceptionally gifted—two years to open a hall is rare. As for myself, I have only my seniority to boast of.”

Cheng Xinzhan replied with a smile, “You flatter me, brother. But while you were in seclusion, I missed the chance for your guidance—truly a regret.”

They took their seats, and Wang Xianyou declared, “Two years in retreat, and at last I have succeeded—opened both the Gold and Water Halls, now ranked among the inner disciples with the Dao name Miaoyuan.”

He had opened two halls at once!

All were amazed—it was no wonder he had been so long in seclusion. As for his elevated seniority, they already knew he was listed under an old elder at Hundred Herbs Mountain, so none were surprised.

Cheng Xinzhan realized there would always be a higher mountain.

When the last guests arrived, the banquet began, with dishes and wine flowing endlessly.

“Though friends are gathered this night, there is no moon overhead—what a pity!” Wang Miaoyuan sighed.

Everyone agreed; the moon was hidden behind thick clouds, the sky utterly dark.

Cheng Xinzhan laughed, “Though there is no moon, we have wine. Come, sample this fiery spirit I brought back from Miao Territory.”

He produced a jar of Bai Daozi, a potent liquor gifted by a Miao village.

“To victory in drinking, friends!”

“To victory!”

Cups were raised, wine was drunk.

“So spicy!”

“So strong!”

“What a drink!”

Reactions varied; some were brought to tears, and Cheng Xinzhan could not help but laugh.

Surprisingly, the gentle-looking Wang Miaoyuan took to the coarse, strong liquor at once, draining his cup in one go, his chest flushing red as he asked Cheng Xinzhan for more.

“Fill it up again, brother!”

With the first round of wine, everyone’s spirits were raised, and conversation flowed freely—those who had opened their halls discussed plans for second or third halls, those who had not inquired about the subtleties, and those who had not left the mountain gate asked about the sights beyond.

By the second round, someone suddenly pointed skyward.

“Look, the moon is out!”

All looked up—indeed, a bright moon hung high, its silvery light outlining the clouds in sharp relief.

Wang Miaoyuan was delighted, and said, “Friends, with wine and moon, why not display our arts for amusement, to accompany our cups?”

Everyone agreed, asking what sort of contest he proposed.

Wang Miaoyuan pondered. “Since our main disciplines and methods differ, it would not be fair to compete with elemental arts or sword or talisman techniques.”

All found this reasonable—among them, each excelled in different elements; some in swords, others in talismans, so comparison was unfair.

“Then what do you suggest, Miaoyuan?”

He brightened. “What about an illusion contest? And we’ll name the theme: each takes the moon as subject. One recites a moon-themed line of poetry; the other must conjure the poetic image with illusion. If the illusion is good, the prompter drinks; if not, the performer drinks. How about that?”

Everyone found this amusing and agreed at once.

Wang Xianyou laughed, “Let me begin. I’ll give the prompt, Jihu will answer, and we’ll go left around the table. At the end, Xinzhan will give the prompt and I’ll answer.”

All nodded.

He raised his cup, gazed at the moon, and after a moment’s thought, recited:

“Beneath the moon, a flying mirror from the heavens; clouds gather to form a city of towers.”

“That’s a poem by Master Qinglian!” someone exclaimed.

Feng Jihu smiled, formed a few hand seals, and pointed beyond the terrace.

All saw, beyond the cliff, an unfolding scene: a great river approached from the distance, flowing past the edge of their banquet; it was as if they were drinking by the riverbank. The river glided past, its smooth surface reflecting the moon in the sky, as if a bright mirror had descended from above. Mist and vapor swirled above the waters, coalescing into towers and cities—a mirage of some distant street.

So real, yet so dreamlike.

“Wonderful! Wonderful!” Applause rang out.

“Such an illusion! The prompter should drink!”

Wang Miaoyuan laughed heartily, admitted his loss, and drained a bowl of Bai Daozi.

Now it was Feng Jihu’s turn. He thought and recited:

“On Dongting, the bright moon spans a thousand miles; in the cool wind, wild geese cry, heaven reflected in the water.”

Luo Jishi, who was to answer, laughed and protested, “You’re raising the difficulty, Jihu! The real focus is the wild geese’s call!”

All realized the challenge—unlike the last poem’s tranquil scene, this required not just the moon but also the cry of wild geese.

Confident, Luo Jishi pointed to the cliff, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and before their eyes, a vast lake appeared, its boundaries fading into the night as if endless—a true sense of a thousand miles.

“Gaa, gaa—” The lake reflected the moon; from afar came the cry of geese, and a cool wind rose, ruffling the water.

“Excellent! Excellent!” Applause again.

Feng Jihu shook his head, conceded, and drank; strong liquor did not agree with him, and he choked, drawing laughter.

So it went—some won, some lost, some conjured illusions so vivid they seemed real, while others, like He Jiyuan with his line, “Leaving the gate, I gaze upon the wild fields; the moon shines, and buckwheat blossoms like snow,” ended up with a blurry mess of moonlit buckwheat, earning jeers and a self-imposed drink.

Cheng Xinzhan, given the line, “On Longtou, the bright moon hangs over the pass; travelers on the ridge play flutes at night,” conjured a border outpost under the moon with exquisite detail, down to the tiles and bricks, and a traveler playing an ancient tune on a flute atop the pass, drawing waves of praise.

For Wang Xianyou, Cheng Xinzhan chose: “Ten thousand acres of rippling light shatter the moon’s reflection; a night’s breeze and dew scent the air with lotus.”

Here was a test not only of conjuring the shattering moonlight and rippling waves, but also the touch of damp wind and the scent of lotus.

Everyone agreed it was a difficult prompt.

But Wang Miaoyuan only laughed, saying it was not hard. He quickly formed seals, cast out three formation flags that vanished into the air, and soon a vast lake appeared. Waves rippled, shattering the moon’s reflection; cold, shimmering light invaded the senses. A gentle breeze brushed their faces, cool with night dew and laced with the fragrance of lotus.

The scene brought the banquet to its climax—not only did Cheng Xinzhan admit defeat and drink, but all, cheered by the lotus fragrance, drank heartily as well.

How many rounds passed, none could say. All ended up drunk, falling asleep where they sat.

Cheng Xinzhan, though barely able to keep his eyes open, watched as even Wang Miaoyuan, the heartiest drinker, finally succumbed and collapsed. With a sigh, he waved his sleeve and lay down as well.

And if one looked up at the sky, there was no moon at all—the moon had remained behind the clouds all night, never once appearing.

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(End of chapter)