Chapter Sixty-Three: Master Xingyun

This is a harsh and deeply realistic dilemma. When Wang Ying returns home, she can only look upon her grandparents once more before being separated from them by the divide between life and death. Such an outcome is almost impossible to accept. As the saying goes, there is no greater sorrow than the death of hope. Her family, her grandparents, and even her father in prison already know she is dead. They have accepted her loss. If she were to suddenly reappear, what kind of ripple would it cause? What reactions would it stir? No one could say.

If she were alive, and could remain so, she could stay with her family, visit them often even after marrying me. But if she appears once only to vanish again, it would be unbearably cruel to her loved ones. Yet, having been granted life once more, how could she not wish to see her family, her grandparents, her imprisoned father? This is only human nature.

What should I do? What should Wang Ying do?

“Darling, let me think this over,” I said, my mind in turmoil. This is indeed a cruel matter.

Wang Ying forced a bitter smile. “Da Chuan, I’ll do as you say. If you want me to go, I’ll go. If you don’t want me to, I won’t. I really can’t decide for myself.”

I pulled her into my arms. “Don’t worry, darling. Even if you choose not to go, I will visit them. Your grandfather is my grandfather, your grandmother is my grandmother, and your father is my father too.”

Wang Ying clung to me in silence, but her body trembled slightly—I knew she was crying again.

After breakfast, I went to see Wei Qi. He was sitting across from Yingzi, sharing fried dough sticks and millet porridge, looking every bit the loving couple. I was glad for him; truly, Yingzi was a good match for him, and she cared for him deeply. As for Shang Xiaoyun, I felt their ending was for the best. After all, they belonged to different worlds.

“Da Chuan, come eat with us,” Yingzi called out cheerfully when she saw me. She seemed much more open than yesterday, the blush on her cheeks almost faded, her whole demeanor gentler.

“You can’t call me Da Chuan, you should call me big brother. I’m older than you,” I teased with a grin.

Wei Qi, biting into a dough stick, lifted his head and said, “What’s wrong with calling you Da Chuan? It’s a mercy I don’t call you nephew.”

I rolled my eyes. I’ll deal with you two later; for now, let’s talk business. I put on a smile. “Alright, Auntie Yingzi, call me whatever you like.”

Yingzi blushed and swatted Wei Qi’s arm. “Say that again and I won’t cook for you anymore.” Wei Qi quickly begged for mercy, promising not to do it again.

After Yingzi finished eating and left, I sat down and discussed my plans with Wei Qi, finally telling him about my intention to refine the Scarlet Crystal.

Wei Qi’s expression grew serious. “You found three Scarlet Spirit Mushrooms by pure chance. Do you really believe there’s a way to make elixirs in this world?” Truthfully, I found it hard to believe as well. But this is a multiverse; nothing is impossible. Newton, Da Vinci—they moved from science to mysticism. I never believed in ghosts, but I married one. I didn’t believe Wang Ying could be resurrected, yet she was, if only for a short time. So in this world, nothing is impossible.

I laid out my theory, and Wei Qi agreed it made sense. If we could really find a method to refine the Scarlet Spirit Mushroom, the whole world could be changed, and everyone’s worldview overturned.

I remembered Shangguan Wan’er had mentioned that a Daoist sage once came to Mount Fulaishan. Wei Qi and I called out Shangguan Wan’er from the Soul Urn and questioned her thoroughly. She tilted her head and said the sage’s name was Zhuge Jin. She recalled part of the recipe: blood of the crimson swallow, the flawless body, fruit of ginseng, but remembered nothing more.

With this clue, Wei Qi and I drove to Mount Fulaishan. By day, the mountain is a fine tourist spot, famous for its thousand-year-old ginkgo trees and the former residence of Liu Xie. Watching crowds of modern visitors come and go, we wondered where we might find Zhuge Jin’s descendants. I remembered Tian Xing saying that Zhuge Jin had been killed by Zi’ang’s brother. Who knows if he left any heirs? Over two thousand years have passed—it would be next to impossible.

After wandering a long time, we found no leads. Near the foot of the mountain, beside a stall selling local specialties, stood a blind fortune-teller. Wei Qi dragged me over.

“Sir, would you like your fortune told or a divination?” The blind man adjusted his glasses as we crouched before him.

“Cut it out, we’re not officials and you’re not… whatever. We’re just here to ask something,” Wei Qi said, smacking his lips. He was sharp—he’d seen right away that the man wasn’t really blind.

The fake blind man chuckled. “Gentlemen, ask away.”

“Do you know Zhuge Jin?” Wei Qi got straight to the point.

“Zhuge Jin? Which Zhuge Jin? Surely you mean the legendary Zhuge Jin?” The fake blind man removed his glasses. Truth be told, he was blind in one eye, but the other was perfectly fine.

My heart raced—his words suggested he knew of Zhuge Jin. The legendary Zhuge Jin was exactly whom we sought, not any modern namesake.

“Sir, yes, we mean the legendary Zhuge Jin. Can you tell us about him?” Wei Qi became more courteous, taking out a cigarette and lighting it for the old man.

The old man took a deep drag. “Well, since there’s nothing else to do, I’ll chat with you a bit. There are three great legends about Mount Fulaishan. Long ago, a Daoist priest named Zhuge Jin was said to be able to refine immortal elixirs that granted eternal life. The emperor ordered him to make pills, but he delayed too long, and by the time the pills were finished, the emperor was dead and Zhuge Jin was killed.”

Although the details differed, the story matched what Shangguan Wan’er had told us. I grabbed the old man’s hand, excited. “Sir, could you tell me if Zhuge Jin has any descendants? Where do they live?”

The old man laughed and waved his hand. “You really believe these things? They’re legends—just stories! Stories are all false, like the Monkey King; Wu Cheng’en made him up.”

I shook my head reflexively. The Monkey King was indeed a creation of Wu Cheng’en, but Zhuge Jin was real—Shangguan Wan’er could testify to that. But where to find his descendants?

Seeing our disappointed faces, the old man fanned himself and said, “Well, I’m just a humble fortune-teller, not very learned, everything I know is hearsay. If you want to know more about Zhuge Jin, you might try Dinglin Temple. There’s a high monk named Master Xingyun there—he’s known for his broad knowledge and is rumored to have insight into the unseen. You could go ask him.”

We thanked the old man, gave him the last hundred yuan I had, and hurried to Dinglin Temple.

Dinglin Temple is an ancient site on Mount Fulaishan, famous as the place where Liu Xie once lived. As we approached the temple, Wei Qi stopped and looked at me with a puzzled expression. “Da Chuan, do you feel anything?”

“What?” I looked at Wei Qi—I hadn’t noticed anything.

“It’s so heavy with yin energy. How could a Buddhist holy site have such a chill?” Wei Qi muttered. Now that he mentioned it, I felt it too—a pervasive chill that at first I thought was due to the mountain woods. But this was midsummer; it shouldn’t have been cold at all.

We entered and saw a young monk sweeping. Wei Qi politely approached, but the monk only shook his head without speaking.

Wei Qi grew anxious and motioned for us to walk in. Only then did the young monk start gesturing—a mute, it turned out. He blocked our way, and no matter how we explained, he wouldn’t let us pass.

“Little master, we must see Master Xingyun on urgent business. Please let us through,” I pleaded, unwilling to give up the one lead we’d found. But the young monk was strong, and we simply couldn’t get past him.

“Amitabha, well met, well met. Yikong, let these two benefactors enter. They are my destined guests—I foresaw their coming.”

At that moment, a firm yet gentle voice reached us, and an elderly monk with a lean face and graying beard stepped out from the side.

At his words, the young monk immediately stepped aside.

Strange—hadn’t they said that nine out of ten mutes are also deaf? How could he hear? When we’d spoken before, he had only shaken his head.