In Zhang Fan's eyes, no clouds he had ever seen—white clouds or storm clouds alike—had ever hung so close to the ground as the black clouds tonight; nor had thunder ever been so deafening, nor lightning ever so blinding, that he could scarcely bring himself to look.
As if it were all about to come crashing down.
He stood there in a daze, watching the black-robed man and the old monk glare at each other inside the thatched shrine, each poised to strike.
Suddenly, a thunderclap exploded overhead, setting his ears ringing, and in that very instant he saw a blinding bolt of lightning tear across the sky—striking down into the mortal earth and landing squarely upon the black-clad figure's sword.
In an instant, the black-robed figure's garments billowed outward in every direction, his eyes wide and round, as though they might burst from their sockets at any moment. By now, the thatched shrine was bathed in the fierce glare of lightning—bright as full day.
The lightning that bloomed upon the tip of the sword in the night was so breathtakingly beautiful that Zhang Fan held his breath, while in Puzhi's eyes, that strange, feverish light appeared once more.
"So this is the tremendous power and might of the authentic Taoist arts?"
The man in black let out a thunderous cry. His left hand formed the sword seal, and with every ounce of his strength he snapped his wrist. A crack of thunder split the air as arcs of lightning blazed off the blade and shot straight toward Puzhi. All along its path, grass and trees, brick and stone, were blasted into the air in violent upheaval — yet down the center of that road, a single deep, searing groove was scorched into the earth.
Puzhi retreated three steps in succession, releasing his hand seals. He pressed his palms together, his face suffused with solemn reverence, a faint golden radiance emanating from his entire body. In a low murmur, he intoned: "May the Buddha have mercy!"
With a sharp crack, the seven jade prayer beads remaining before him shattered all at once, coalescing three feet ahead into an enormous blaze of golden light—so blinding it could not be met with the naked eye.
The next moment, the bolt of lightning and that Buddhist character collided.
Zhang Fan suddenly felt his heart give a violent lurch, as though every drop of blood in his body had reversed course in a single instant. His limbs went limp, his breath left him — and in that one frozen moment, the wind fell silent, the thunder died away, and the entire world came to a stop.
Then, against his will, he was sent flying backward—before he even had time to feel fear. All he could see was a blazing white light laced with golden radiance, dazzling beyond compare, far surpassing the sun itself. The entire thatched temple shattered apart, with the two combatants at its center, debris blasted outward in every direction—including straight up.
His heart felt hollow and empty, aware of nothing but the fierce howl of the wind sweeping ceaselessly past his ears.
He felt afraid. Instinctively, he wanted to curl into himself, but his body would not obey — he could only let himself drift away toward the unknown.
A thought rose in his mind: *Am I going to die?*
Violent fear surged over him without warning—cold sweat drenched his body, and he trembled faintly.
When death stands before you, how does one face it?
He lost consciousness, utterly unresponsive to the world.
※※※
Puzhi shuffled slowly forward, his steps unsteady, Zhang Fan and Lin Jingyu tucked under each arm. When he reached a patch of relatively clean ground, he gently set the two children down—and in that instant, agonizing pain erupted through his entire body, as though he were being split apart. He could hold himself up no longer, and crumpled heavily to the ground.
He looked down at his chest. Through the charred and reeking monk's robe, he could dimly make out a dark miasma that had slowly closed in around him, leaving only the space directly over his heart still untouched.
He let out a bitter laugh and reached into his robe. His hands were trembling badly; only after a long moment did he slowly produce a red pill, roughly the size of a fingertip, plain and unremarkable.
Puzhi let out a long sigh and murmured, "To think I still fell for the Ghost Doctor's scheme—in the end, I have no choice but to swallow his 'Three-Day Death Pill.'"
He hesitated for a moment, then finally gave a nod and swallowed the pill.
Then, he raised his head and looked toward the distant mountains.
Rain finally drifted down from the sky.
Qingyun Mountain towered amid the wind and rain, shrouded in mist and mystery.
"The arts of the Dao are truly wondrous — capable of commanding the powers of the divine. Were they compared and verified against our Buddhist teachings, each supplementing the other's shortcomings, the mystery of eternal life would surely be unraveled. What a pity that True Person Daoxuan's cultivation far surpasses mine, yet in the end he is no different from my three senior brothers — unable to let go of sectarian prejudice, unable to set aside his status and standing. Alas!"
Puzhi heaved a long sigh and withdrew his gaze, letting it fall upon the two children. The rain was growing heavier now, soaking their heads and faces. The thatched shrine had been reduced to splinters in the clash of spells just moments ago, and there was no shelter nearby that could fully block the wind and rain.
His heart seized with a sudden pang, and he could not help but feel dread for these two children. Only moments ago, he had forcibly channeled his True Yuan, employing the wondrous art of "Mahabrahma Prajna" from the Temple of Yin, and drawing upon the power of the supreme Buddhist treasure, the Jade Prayer Beads, to summon a great demon-subduing force. It was only thus that he had managed to withstand the villain's incomparably potent Divine Sword Thunder-Control True Formula, striking back to grievously wound the man and sending him fleeing in alarm. But his body was already gravely injured, and he had now absorbed a devastating blow from a Daoist arcane technique on top of that—his lamp was burned dry, even the last faint thread of vitality severed. At this moment, he survived solely by means of a miraculous drug given to him by the Ghost Doctor, the Three-Day Death Pill, clinging to life for no more than three additional days.
"Though that fiend has suffered grievous wounds, his foundations remain unbroken. Once I depart, he will surely double back to kill and silence the witnesses. By then, it will not be merely these two children at risk—I fear every soul in the village will have their lives in peril. What on earth is to be done?"
Puzhi's mind was in utter chaos. Though his cultivation and Dao-practice had reached the highest level, two things weighed upon him: first, knowing that his own death was all but certain, his spirit had already been shaken loose; second, he feared deeply for the lives of innocent common folk. Yet that wicked man appeared to be a figure of great standing within the Qingyu Sect—if Puzhi were to rashly ascend the mountain to seek aid, he feared the attempt would not be enough to succeed, yet more than enough to make things worse.
Yet there was one thing that weighed most heavily on his heart—his life's greatest aspiration had gone unfulfilled. As one of the Four Divine Monks of Yinsi Temple, he was revered throughout the realm and had attained the utmost of honor and prestige. But to him, what mattered far more was to pierce through the mystery of life and death, to unravel that ancient knot of mortality. It was just that as early as fifty years ago, he had already come to understand: no matter how diligently he pursued the Buddhist path of Cultivation, he could only deepen his power and practice—he could never unravel the mystery of life and death.
He racked his brains over the problem, and after decades of contemplation, he truly arrived at an unprecedented solution. At present, the three heterodox schools of the demonic path were at the height of their power, their command of arts and techniques reaching the utmost depths. The demonic sects had a vile reputation—their dark arts cruel and wicked, shunned by all—yet the arcane mysteries of the Daoist tradition were profound and wondrous, rivaling the Buddhist school each in its own domain. If the two could join forces in study, they would surely break through the deadlock.
What he had never expected, however, was that his three senior martial brothers—ordinarily the most broad-minded of men—spoke with one voice in opposition, dismissing it as a heretical notion, and instead urged him again and again with earnest and heartfelt counsel. Unwilling to resign himself to defeat, he sought out a number of renowned Daoist sects, climbing Qingyun Mountain alone on several occasions, yet in every instance he was met with a courteous refusal from True Person Daoxuan, the sect leader of Qingyun Sect.
Thinking this, he let out a wry, self-mocking laugh. *Only three days left to live,* he told himself, *and yet here I am still dreaming of immortality. Could there be a more pointless way to torment oneself?*
Yet even as he forced himself to let go, the sight of those two children still lying on the ground would not leave his heart. Unable to think of any better plan, he glanced left and right until he spotted a pine tree some distance away that might offer a measure of shelter from the wind and rain — scant comfort, but better than nothing. Mustering what resolve remained to him, he gathered both children in his arms and pressed on toward it.
Having barely made it to the tree and set the two of them down, Puzhi was utterly spent. He collapsed to the ground at once, his back against the trunk, gasping ceaselessly for breath.
The Earth shows no benevolence—it treats all things as fawning dogs!
This Taoist adage, laden with a note of mournful anguish and simmering rage, was slowly recited from Puzhi's lips.
The vault of heaven was dark as ink, arching over the earth entire. Boundless black clouds bore down from above; threads of rain fell from the sky, fine and dense. A cold wind swept in, and drop by drop the rain struck the face, chilling one to the very heart.
He gazed up at the heavens for a long moment before slowly drawing his eyes back to the two children standing before him. In a low voice he said: "Young benefactors, this old monk's heart longs to save you, yet I fear my heart is willing while my strength is not. This matter arose from me in the first place, and yet it is you two who have suffered for it — what a sin, what a sin. Were you disciples of Qingyu Sect, up on Qingyu Mountain among your fellow cultivators, you might at least be somewhat safer. But now…"
Suddenly, Puzhi shuddered from head to toe, murmuring under his breath: "Qingyun disciples, Qingyun disciples." His thoughts churned furiously, as though he had seized upon something — yet it threatened to vanish from his grasp in the blink of an eye. In that fleeting instant, a cold sweat had already broken out across his skin.
Then, for reasons unknown, that inexplicable fervor appeared once more in his eyes.
He threw his head back in laughter — yet within it ran a thread of madness!
"Marvelous, simply marvelous! Though my days are numbered, if I were to impart the Buddhist divine arts to one person and then send him to join Qingyun Sect to study Daoist techniques — would that not be killing two birds with one stone? I could save the lives of both, and fulfill my heart's wish all the same!"
The Buddhist and Daoist schools have been estranged since ancient times, living and dying without ever crossing paths. What the Azure Cloud Sect could never have imagined is that a young boy—one who grew up at the very foot of Azure Cloud Mountain—would carry within him the hidden legacy of the Buddhist path. So long as there exists one who masters the learning of both schools, he shall surely break through the great riddle of immortality that has confounded the world for ten thousand years. Heh heh… if that comes to pass, what regret could I have in death?
His mind was made up in an instant. His whole being surged with uncontrollable excitement—cheeks flushed crimson, eyes threaded with red—and almost without thinking, his gaze fell upon Lin Jingyu. His hand reached out. Halfway there, it stopped. His thoughts churned: *This matter is of the gravest consequence. The sects of today are fiercely territorial, and to steal another's arts is the deepest taboo. Should anyone discover it, should it ever come to light, death would be the only outcome.* The child Lin Jingyu had extraordinary talent; once taken under the Qingyun Sect's wing, he would surely draw the constant attention of his masters and elders. At his age—how could he possibly keep such an enormous secret?
Thinking of this, his heart stirred. His gaze shifted to fall upon Zhang Fan, and he recalled the boy's unyielding nature—how he had refused to bow his head even at death's door. He gave a slow nod. "The quality may be somewhat lacking, but that's no matter. From here on, your fate is yours to forge."
Done, he hesitated no longer. Reaching out, he struck Zhang Fan's body several times, channeling what remained of his Buddhist power to rouse him back to consciousness.
※※※
Zhang Fan slowly came to, his vision blurry, his ears still buzzing with a persistent ringing. Only after quite some time did his senses return to normal. When he finally made out what lay before him, he was so startled that his mouth fell open and refused to close.
The old monk sat before him, his entire body covered in wounds. The left side of his torso looked as though it had been scorched by something, charred and ghastly, while dark miasma hung heavy across his face, giving him the pallor of a dying man. Yet for some inexplicable reason, the old monk's expression was animated, his eyes brimming with a smile. He also noticed his childhood companion Lin Jingyu lying nearby, unconscious.
"What do you want?" Zhang Fan stood there in a daze for a long moment before finally managing to stammer out the words.
Puzhi gave no answer. He studied the boy at length, then turned the question around: "Benefactor, with wind and rain this fierce, why has a child like you come to such a remote place?"
Zhang Fan paused for a moment. "I saw you still standing in the temple at dusk. Then I noticed it was going to rain—this place is quite run-down, and I thought it would get cold, so I brought you something to eat."
Puzhi's lips curved faintly. He pressed his palms together and intoned, "So be it, so be it. All things arise from karma, and fate is written long before its hour. Buddha, in His boundless compassion, sees all."
Zhang Fan asked, puzzled, "You what?"
Puzhi smiled. "This monk is indeed so, and you and I share a karmic bond. In that case, this monk has a set of cultivation methods — would you be willing to learn them?"
Zhang Fan said, "What is a cultivation method, anyway?"
Puzhi was momentarily stunned, then burst into laughter. He reached out a withered, bony hand and patted him on the head. "It's nothing special — just some breathing techniques I'll teach you. Once you've learned them, you must promise me a few things. All right?"
Zhang Fan only half understood, but said nonetheless: "As you will."
Puzhi said, "You must never breathe a word of this to anyone else — not even your closest kin. Can you manage that?"
Zhang Fan gave a nod. "I would rather die than."
Puzhi's heart gave a sudden jolt. Taking in the boy's age, he found that face set in nothing but unyielding resolve — the endless threads of rain, sharp as blades, keen as swords, cold as frost, had soaked it through, leaving something gaunt and worn in their wake.
Puzhi suddenly drew a long, deep breath. He lowered his eyelids and looked away, yet his voice continued: "Furthermore, you must practice this method once every day, but never cultivate it before others—only when the night is deep and all is still may you do so. Finally, unless you stand at the threshold of life and death, you must never, under any circumstances, employ this art. Otherwise, great calamity will surely follow."
At this point, he opened his eyes once more, fixing his gaze on Zhang Fan. "Can you do it?"
Zhang Fan hesitated for a moment, tilting his head to one side and scratching it, his face a picture of bewilderment — but in the end, he gave a firm, emphatic nod.
Puzhi gave a faint smile, said nothing more, and began to pass on to him a set of oral formulas.
The set of mnemonics was not lengthy—barely a thousand characters in all—yet it was dry, abstruse, and profoundly difficult. Zhang Fan poured every ounce of his mental effort into the task, and only after a full three shichen did he finally commit every last word to memory.
Only when Zhang Fan had committed it all to memory did Puzhi finally let out a long breath, his expression one of utter exhaustion. He looked at Zhang Fan, and a tenderness he could not suppress crept into his eyes. "This monk has spent a lifetime in cultivation and never once entertained the thought of taking a disciple. Yet here, at the threshold of death, I find that fate has bound us in the relationship of master and student. Come—you should know my name." He paused. "My dharma name is Puzhi. I am a monk of Yinsi Temple. Do you know of Yinsi Temple?"
Zhang Fan thought it over, then shook his head.
Puzhi laughed in spite of himself — just a child. Then, as though something else crossed his mind, he reached into his robe and fumbled about until he produced a deep violet bead. He studied it carefully for a long moment, then held it out to Zhang Fan. "Keep this bead well hidden, and let no outsider lay eyes on it. When you have finally settled somewhere safe, find a deep gorge or a sheer cliff and cast it down — that is all you need do. And one more thing: the name I just gave you — never, under any circumstances, speak it to another soul."
Zhang Fan took the beads and said."
Puzhi patted him on the head. "To share such a bond of fate — who knows whether we shall meet again in the next life? Child, kneel and kowtow three times to me, and call me Master."
Zhang Fan glanced at Puzhi, only to find that he had already let his smile fade, his expression turning solemn. Zhang Fan nodded in assent, called out "Master," then dropped to his knees and kowtowed three times, each one deep and heavy. He had barely finished the last bow, his head not yet raised, when he heard Puzhi let out a low laugh — yet within that laugh lay a great weight of sorrow and a finality that admitted no retreat.
Zhang Fan was just about to raise his head to look at him when he suddenly felt a sharp blow land on his back. His vision went black in an instant, and he slipped into unconsciousness once more.