Chapter Five: The Daoist Lineages and Sects (Your Comments Are Welcome!)

Clouds drifted and curled, and once again the sun shone bright and clear. On Mount Qingtai, a Daoist temple lay hidden in the woods, and from within echoed the bright, resonant sound of chanting.

“Purity is such that one listens without speaking, eats without regret, and acts without deviation; thus the heart and nature become as they will, truly an unending principle…”

“The wind passes clearly, the heavens and earth are observed…”

Looking into the courtyard, there sat a young man clad in a short grey jacket, arms bare, engrossed in reading a thread-bound book.

This was not the *Long Wind*, but another Daoist text.

Titled *The Ten Lives of Pure Splendor*, this book was even more abstruse than the former, its pages filled with discussions on clarity of mind and purity of thought, occasionally interspersed with technical terminology from the Daoist schools of this world. An ordinary reader would find their head spinning after merely a few lines, unable to continue.

But Chen Yu was different. Not only did he not struggle, he grew increasingly absorbed as he read.

Unlike the ultimate unification and flow of Daoism in his previous world, here the Daoist schools were yet to coalesce under one doctrine, and countless schools flourished. In just the southern realm of the Great Liang, there existed dozens, even hundreds, of distinct sects.

New Daoist theories often emerged from ancient temples of the great sects, sparking heated debates among countless Daoists. Some admired and praised, others rejected in anger.

Through millennia, as mighty waves sift the sands, the vast majority of doctrines faded into obscurity, but a few continued to be celebrated.

As far as Chen Yu’s predecessor knew, among the many Daoist lineages and schools today, only five were considered truly illustrious in Daoist learning. The three in the north were little known to him, and may be set aside for now. Of those remembered most clearly, the greatest renown belonged to Zhengyang Temple, which had stood south of the great river for centuries, and to True Warrior Mountain, honored by emperors through successive dynasties.

One revered the principle of Pure Yang; the other upheld Clear Subtlety.

Both sects flourished with incense and worship, jointly holding the leadership of the world’s Daoist tradition.

Of the five classic Daoist texts preserved at Crane Cloud Temple, the *Broad Cloud Treatise: Five Elements Volumes* and the *Record of the Bright Spirit* both originated from these two lineages. The former, like the *Long Wind Scripture*, was broad and miscellaneous—a sort of casual record—while the latter was deeper, standing alongside the *Ten Lives of Pure Splendor* in its profundity. It contained the reflections and philosophical musings of a great Daoist sage of Zhengyang Temple on the Way, freedom, and other lifelong pursuits sought by disciples. Such works were meant for deep study, not mere introductory reading.

As the abbot of a Daoist temple in the Great Liang, Chen Yu could not avoid delving into these texts. Of course, his predecessor had been mediocre in study, leaving behind no special insights, so in the end, Chen Yu still had to grind through the words himself, digesting every sentence.

For reading, the memories in his mind offered little help.

Time passed—over half an hour slipped by. Chen Yu closed his book, then practiced the “Crane Cloud Technique” several times, following the increasingly familiar steps. After stretching his body, he picked up his hatchet and basket and headed to the back mountain.

A light rain had fallen yesterday, soaking the mountain paths. Today dawned clear, with the sun rising bright and red above the mountain’s crest.

The dew had dried, and the jagged blue stones were no longer slick. He intended to take advantage of this fine day to prepare for wild fishing—

At this point, he already had hooks, line, and bait; only a sturdy, lightweight fishing rod was lacking.

The bamboo behind the mountain was resilient and slender—ideal material.

With a bamboo grove at his back, Chen Yu had no reason to make the long trip down to the county town. After all, in this age, fishing rods didn’t differ much; metal rods were out of the question, and all were made of bamboo, the only difference being the species.

Rather than waste the effort, he might as well craft one himself.

It happened that there was little work needed in the fields outside the temple lately, and with some idle time—there were only so many books, after all, and it was impossible to read them night and day, over and over. As for practicing techniques, that was even less feasible. Mastery required a balance of work and rest, tension and relaxation. Excessive training only strained muscles and harmed the body; beyond moderation, it would do more harm than good.

Stepping along the mountain path, he avoided patches still damp with moisture and made his way upward.

Thinking of wild fishing, Chen Yu recalled the large red earthworm into which he had infused spiritual energy the day before.

Unfortunately, when he checked it this morning, it had already stiffened and died. Strangely, there was none of the usual strong stench that follows the death of an earthworm; moreover, at its head, a bit of flesh had protruded, encircling it like a crown.

The king of earthworms—collapsed.

Experiment failed. Indeed, spiritual energy still could not be infused into animal bodies; though, given the limited number of trials and samples, perhaps this conclusion was a bit hasty.

Perhaps his method was at fault, or perhaps the results on humans would differ.

But seeing that twisted, crown-like growth at the worm’s head, Chen Yu quietly gave up on testing it on himself.

Best to wait—until he understood spiritual energy more deeply.

Though the worm was dead, he did not throw it away, but kept it in a separate bamboo tube. As he had said before the experiment, failure was no loss—at worst, it could be used for fishing.

Ready-made bait.

But then he wondered: if the worm really had undergone some unpleasant change, such as becoming highly toxic, what would happen to a fish that ate it? Would it still be edible?

Rubbing his chin in thought, Chen Yu decided that the best approach was to catch the fish and keep it alive for observation.

The mountain path was rugged. Even with his growing familiarity with the temple’s surroundings over the past month, Chen Yu exerted considerable effort, winding his way over a rocky slope.

Before him stretched a patch of wild grass, much of it ankle-high and clustered in tufts—some sprawled in the shadows of rocks, roots sunk deep into the earth, others swayed in the breeze, greeting the morning sun.

Beyond the small, gentle meadow rose a dense stand of straight bamboo, slender and abundant, their long, narrow leaves hanging like blades from the branches.

Turning back, Chen Yu gazed upon the layered peaks and hazy mountains, faint mist coiling atop the hills, diffusing a gentle halo beneath the intensifying sunlight.

Gradually, the mist dispersed.

Moved by the sight, he felt a rare lightness of heart—not shouting and cheering like some character in a drama, but inwardly, he seemed to melt into the landscape, shedding his shackles and gaining a new sense of ease.

No wonder so many reclusive Daoists liked to vanish into such secluded mountains; to empty one’s mind now and then was indeed a pleasure.

Huh?

As his thoughts ebbed and flowed, Chen Yu sank into his consciousness. Entering that familiar, misty sea of awareness, he was surprised to find it much calmer than before.

Correspondingly, the points of light that floated up from the depths, when condensed by some mysterious web of force, now seemed more stable, no longer vanishing in an instant as they once had.

Was this change brought on by his mood just now?

A few breaths earlier, when he’d felt as though he might soar away on the wind, the depths of his consciousness had stirred faintly. In retrospect, this seemed no bad thing.

Examining the tranquil sea of his mind, this was the first time in a long while he had found such peace. Usually, whenever he entered this space, it was all crashing waves and raging torrents.

What was that? At this moment, his curiosity piqued, Chen Yu suddenly noticed a faint, almost invisible membrane in the corner where the light of spiritual energy gathered.

He had never noticed it before—perhaps it had always been concealed by the surging waves.

Now it was exposed, catching his attention.

He hurried closer, but only managed a quick, rough glance before the sea of consciousness grew turbulent again. Soon, waves surged and crashed before him, and the film he had glimpsed vanished.

Back in the outside world.

Chen Yu gathered his mind and opened his eyes.

With thoughtful eyes, he realized that his soul still harbored many mysteries—be it the boundless, ever-churning sea of consciousness, the silvery-white points of light of uncertain origin, or the spiritual energy gathered from them—all defied ordinary explanation.

Normal people were certainly not like this; neither his self from the previous life nor his predecessor had experienced such oddities.

So this is transmigration…

Chen Yu could not quite say how he felt now—his emotions were complex. In the end, he smiled carelessly.

“What’s the use of overthinking?”

“In any case, I’ve lost nothing.”

With that, he turned and entered the bamboo grove.