Chapter Forty-Seven: The Nine Marvels Give Rise to All Methods and Deeds

“Jiuqi’s Grand Assembly of the Myriad Daoist Rites?”

In the courtyard, beside the large pear tree, the two men sat across from each other on stone stools.

Cool well water had been poured into a pair of small clay bowls. Visitors of virtue or incense-offering pilgrims were rare at Cloud Crane Monastery, and none had come for over a month, so no tea or fruit had been set out. In the end, Chen Yu had no choice but to pick a handful of ripe, red Lanting berries from the garden, wash them, and place them between the two as a modest gesture of hospitality.

Fortunately, Jiang Qin’an only paused for a moment before casually picking up a berry and popping it into his mouth.

Tart and sweet juice burst forth, quenching the thirst from his climb.

The Daoist bowed his hands in praise: “Master Chen, you have such refined taste—living among pines in a tranquil court, drinking clear spring water and eating fruit from the mountain, so natural and free. I envy you deeply!”

“You flatter me, friend,” Chen Yu replied with a smile and said no more. He could hardly point out that the old clay bowl on the table held not clear spring water but last night’s well water. Besides, the other man obviously knew what he was drinking and had made no pretense of savoring mountain spring.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, the conversation soon turned to its true purpose.

Jiang Qin’an, who claimed to be a disciple of Sea Cloud Monastery, had come by his master’s order to deliver invitations far and wide.

As for the invitation itself, it concerned a grand Daoist assembly.

“I beg your pardon,” Chen Yu said, “I’ve only recently taken charge of Cloud Crane Monastery and have spent little time outside these mountains, so I must ask—what exactly is this Jiuqi’s Grand Assembly of the Myriad Daoist Rites?”

It was a fair question. Chen Yu truly had no idea, for his predecessor’s memories held no such knowledge. Only later did Jiang Qin’an explain that this assembly was new, first established this year.

The reason was obvious to any with eyes to see: chaos loomed on the horizon. It had been less than twenty years since the Yuan Liang replaced the Song, and already another shift in dynasties seemed imminent.

Of course, the Daoists did not meddle in such affairs—at least not openly. Their focus was on the Way and the cultivation of the heart, always in harmony with the times.

Except for the Way of Great Peace.

Among the four major Daoist sects—Great Peace, Pure Subtlety, Primal Yang, and True Unity—all taught both worldly involvement and withdrawal. Yet only the Way of Great Peace openly advocated for “punishing others rather than oneself, and changing fate over cultivating the heart,” seeking to alter destiny and upend the world, to stir the winds and clouds and reshape the realm.

In their own words: “Abandon this one fleeting life to bring peace to generations to come!”

The idea was alluring. Many within the Daoist world secretly supported it, or else Great Peace could never have risen so swiftly in a few decades to become one of the major sects.

But support was one thing; that was for the great figures to decide. Monasteries like Sea Cloud, modest custodians of a single county, only hoped to keep their incense burning and avoid disaster should the world turn upside down.

As for who wore the emperor’s crown… the Daoists cared little.

Thus, to avoid being swept away in the coming turmoil, smaller temples and monasteries began to ally themselves.

The Grand Assembly of the Myriad Daoist Rites was born from this need.

Yet, publicly, the assembly was declared to have another purpose.

“We rarely debate our teachings face-to-face; each of us shuts himself away, working in isolation. How can our understanding of the Dao ever advance? So, this assembly is mainly to give all our fellow practitioners a place to sit together and discuss the Way—while also strengthening our bonds and doing our part for the peace of Guangyong.”

Across the stone table, Chen Yu listened quietly to the Daoist’s eloquent words, then nodded in agreement. He saw no reason to refuse the invitation.

He accepted the invitation card, and, unable to resist Jiang Qin’an’s enthusiasm, the two engaged in a brief exchange on the Dao. In truth, Chen Yu simply repeated sayings from Daoist scriptures he’d read in his previous life, sometimes with a new twist, but the essence remained unchanged.

In modern parlance, he was serving up chicken soup for the soul.

Jiang Qin’an, however, was completely taken in—his face flushed with excitement, waving his hands and feet, exclaiming that he’d had a sudden insight. Were it not for Chen Yu sending him off in time, the man might have knelt down right there in veneration.

Once the Daoist’s figure had receded down the mountain path, Chen Yu turned back.

Daoist philosophy from his previous life was ancient and profound, worthy of deep contemplation. Even the most ignorant rogue, upon hearing it, could not help but marvel at its mysterious brilliance.

But for all that, Chen Yu saw little merit in rote memorization and pretending to be a learned man. In the end, he was just a half-baked, counterfeit Daoist—hardly competent if it came to real skills.

Nor did he like living that way.

These past months on the mountain had been peaceful and pleasant; there was nothing to complain about.

As for the invitation… Chen Yu put it away. Jiang Qin’an claimed to be a genuine cultivator, but Chen Yu knew his own limitations—this trip down the mountain would be the perfect chance to hear true practitioners debate the Dao.

“It’s just as well. I’d been thinking of finding some scripture or martial art on the five viscera and six bowels to study—this is an excellent opportunity.”

Daoists have always been at the forefront of studying the human body, especially in these benighted times. Who else but those devoted to cultivation would spend their days tinkering endlessly with body and mind?

“And I should buy some reed ginseng on the way back.”

With that, Chen Yu took up the invitation, tidied away the clay bowls and berries, and went into the back courtyard to continue his experiments on the effects of spiritual energy on Lanting berries and leafy vegetable sprouts.

…

Down the mountain, Jiang Qin’an strode briskly.

Reaching the end of the path, he mounted his horse and, with a crack of the whip, hurried off toward the next monastery.

Although this assembly was only a minor gathering, far from the scale of the Grand Luotian or Grand Zhou Tian ceremonies, or even the great assembly held at Zhengyang Monastery a decade ago, Sea Cloud Monastery still treated it with utmost seriousness.

They had no choice but to take it seriously.

With so many Daoist sects and monasteries gathering under the pretext of a grand assembly, even some famed heroes and wandering knights would surely be drawn in. In this age of Daoist fervor, such figures would hardly be few.

As one of the initiators and conveners, Sea Cloud Monastery bore enormous pressure.

Moreover, this was no minor local affair, but a great event spanning the entire Prefecture of Guangyong.

For Sea Cloud Monastery, it was a rare opportunity.

Whoever could distinguish himself at the assembly would surely gain greater influence in the united councils of the sects.

In truth, had Sea Cloud not established solid roots in Shiya County, they might not have been chosen to host and deliver invitations for their region.

If the event proved a success, Jiang the Daoist, as a disciple of Sea Cloud, would share in the honor.

That was why he was willing to run about so tirelessly.

“How much longer can this world endure…” he murmured.

Riding on, the scenery flashed by—yet most of what he saw was human misery and wretchedness.

West and south of Shiya were still tolerable: the mountains were high, the forests deep, the paths remote and difficult, but the people could at least eke out a living from the land and water.

But traveling north of the county, past the jagged mountains, the sights and sounds changed completely.

Like Daoist Li, Jiang had wandered the martial world, though not as widely—mostly within the seven southwestern provinces, with only a single journey beyond the great river, years ago, to the fabled, prosperous Central Plains.

Recalling what he’d seen and felt back then, he was seized by nostalgia, mingled with sorrow.

This world is a place to bury bones, where the rich feast on fivefold banquets behind vermilion gates.

And so the perils and hardships of these times felt ever more acute.

The blazing sun hung high and slowly sank; crimson dusk spread its glow, painting the mountains blood-red.

Jiang the Daoist cast one last glance at the horizon, then lowered his head and pressed on.

The Yuan clan’s Great Liang now ruled only half a kingdom; its days were surely numbered.