Chapter Thirty-One: Awakening to Dust and Reciting Sutras, a Flying Sword Pierces the Cheek

But time was short, and he could not afford to waste it lingering here. No matter what, this expedition with the army would be a trial in itself, and only by securing things at home could he set out with peace of mind. Thus, he decided to seek out Wu Chenzi for advice, hoping they might lay a net of heaven and earth, then lure Ci Hang Pu Du into the open.

Shangguan Chuan Yun studied the information about Wu Chenzi that Jia Deyin had given him, found the tavern, and entered under the guidance of the host. He glanced around but did not see Wu Chenzi, so he asked the innkeeper for the most expensive wine, refused the attendant’s offer to show him to a table, and climbed to the second floor.

There, by a window, he finally saw Wu Chenzi, who was gazing leisurely out as though his mind were wandering the heavens. Shangguan Chuan Yun walked over with the wine, filled Wu Chenzi’s cup, and sat across from him.

Wu Chenzi paid no heed to his new companion, still lost in thought, staring toward the palace, pondering how to draw out the centipede demon. He had not returned to Mount Qingcheng for half a year; he wondered if his disciples there had starved in his absence. A hint of regret stirred within him—this was no way to live. He picked up his cup, took a sip, and thought,

“Hm, the taste is off—far purer than Immortal’s Drunkenness.”

He considered asking the attendant if the wine had been switched, but looking up, he saw Shangguan Chuan Yun seated opposite. Instantly, Wu Chenzi tensed, gripping the coin sword hidden in his sleeve, and with a sudden leap, retreated two steps, cold sweat breaking out as he asked anxiously,

“How did you get here?”

Shangguan Chuan Yun found Wu Chenzi’s reaction baffling—was it really so alarming for him to appear? He replied,

“I happened to pass by, saw you here and came over. Sit, sit, let’s share a few cups.”

He gestured invitingly.

Wu Chenzi wore a look of skepticism. He was a cultivator of the Great Pellet, connected to the cosmic bridge, yet had sensed nothing of Shangguan’s arrival. Had there been an ambush, he might not have escaped. Luckily, Shangguan meant no harm.

“Heh, heh.” Wu Chenzi forced a dry laugh, sat back down, and quietly stowed the coin sword in his sleeve. He fixed Shangguan with a stern face and asked,

“Why leave the Marquis’s manor and blessings to seek out a humble Daoist like me?”

Shangguan Chuan Yun glanced at Wu Chenzi—so proud, so stubborn—and said,

“You mistake me, Daoist. I have business to attend, happened to pass here, saw you enjoying wine and small dishes, and truly envy this life of yours, so I came to exchange a few words.”

Wu Chenzi’s face grew red, almost as if angered enough to storm off. Shangguan Chuan Yun quickly composed himself and said solemnly,

“This is indeed for the sake of the people. When the nation is on the brink, monsters emerge.”

Wu Chenzi’s expression returned to normal; he thought, isn’t this why I’m here? He responded,

“Ah, I’ve tracked this monster from the north to Shengjing. It has entered the palace; if it’s not dealt with soon, disaster will befall the people.”

Shangguan Chuan Yun realized Wu Chenzi’s cultivation was well-earned—his heart for the people was unmatched. The Way values life above all, saving countless souls. But one must first secure their own footing before tending to others; when poor, cultivate oneself, when prosperous, aid the world. His own cultivation did not qualify him to truly consider the masses.

But Wu Chenzi was different—just a step away from refining the celestial and terrestrial energies, forming the Golden Elixir, and qualified to vanquish demons and accumulate three thousand merits in pursuit of immortality.

The path of merit is profound, not simply doing good or playing the saint. It requires attuning to heaven and earth, emulating nature, observing the Dao of heaven, and acting accordingly. Wu Chenzi understood this: as long as the imperial city remained stable, the world would not truly descend into chaos, yet lacking a method, he could only wait.

After some thought, Shangguan Chuan Yun said,

“I have not your cultivation, Daoist, but my family is in Shengjing, and I cannot allow chaos here. So this demon must be eliminated.”

Wu Chenzi looked at Shangguan in surprise—their goals were the same. He asked,

“If the world falls into turmoil, what would you choose?”

“I’d decide as circumstances require,” Shangguan replied without hesitation.

“Why?” Wu Chenzi was dissatisfied and pressed further.

Shangguan Chuan Yun found Wu Chenzi’s questions odd—why such probing? Though upright, Wu Chenzi was too soft-hearted, too rigid, too lacking in adaptability. In peaceful times, such a Daoist would do well, but in an era plagued by demons, besides exhaustion and toil, there was little benefit, and he might lose his life.

He guessed Wu Chenzi was probing his cultivation philosophy. Their paths differed, so Shangguan would not argue his own views. His philosophy was too pragmatic, too realistic, and always prioritized self-interest—he dared not share it with Wu Chenzi, who would surely explode if he did.

After a moment’s thought, he answered,

“No particular reason. I’ll adapt as events unfold—I don’t know what tomorrow holds.”

Wu Chenzi considered this and saw Shangguan as a typical noble indifferent to the people and the nation, but also recognized his insight: as long as Shengjing is stable, the world won’t descend into chaos. If Shangguan’s thinking changed, perhaps he could save the people in times of crisis. Wu Chenzi felt the need to guide him and said,

“Whenever the world is in turmoil and dynasties fall, monsters run rampant, and barely one in ten survives. As cultivators, we must take the salvation of the people as our duty, accumulate three thousand merits and eight hundred good deeds to attain immortality.”

Shangguan Chuan Yun was unconvinced—his cultivation was for himself, his Way his own, his path walked alone. Only he knew if his shoes fit.

Wu Chenzi was passionate, but if Shangguan answered poorly, he would be scolded. The general principle was right, but everyone’s path is different. Ten disciples under one master, each cultivates their own Way. Even when teaching his brother, Shangguan Qing Yun, he shared only essentials, avoiding many details—not out of unwillingness, but caution. Thus, there’s a saying: “Skill is passed, but not fire.”

Wu Chenzi was too passionate—he wished to save the world, but Shangguan did not. If Shangguan revealed his true philosophy, it would only lead to discord. He decided to feign ignorance and said,

“Oh, Daoist, your virtue is admirable—I truly respect it. I am willing to contribute a little strength to aid your pursuit of the Great Dao.”

Wu Chenzi smiled, nodding as if pleased with his teachability.

Shangguan Chuan Yun considered, though he wouldn’t act as Wu Chenzi did, there was nothing wrong with it. He took from his breast a ten-thousand-tael banknote from Jia’s Bank and handed it over, saying,

“Daoist, I admire your virtue and am willing to contribute ten thousand taels of silver to support you.”

Wu Chenzi’s face darkened—his efforts seemed wasted.

Shangguan Chuan Yun was puzzled; the banknote could be cashed at any branch throughout the Liang Dynasty, and supporting the Daoist’s mission with money seemed right. But Wu Chenzi, somewhat angered, said,

“The Dao is hard to find, the true Way harder still; once it’s taught, one must bear its responsibilities. Chasing after gold and silver in the mortal world is worse than not cultivating at all.”

Shangguan Chuan Yun grew annoyed—his cultivation was his own business, what right had Wu Chenzi to interfere? If not for their cooperation in slaying the centipede demon, he would not bother with him. The more he thought, the angrier he became, but quickly suppressed it. Wu Chenzi walked his path, Shangguan walked his; they need not interfere. Though Wu Chenzi’s words were correct—cultivation carries responsibility—everyone’s path is different. Shangguan now regretted seeking Wu Chenzi’s cooperation, his gaze turning cold.

Better to take the straight path than the crooked. Even if alone, he would not work with Wu Chenzi—this visit had been a mistake. Not wanting to argue, he replied coldly,

“Our paths diverge; we cannot plan together. My way does not permit Daoist’s interference. We are but passing acquaintances—farewell.”

With that, he cupped his hands and turned to descend the stairs.

“Hmph. Without merit, there is no blessing; with merit but no kindness, there is no good. When impermanence comes, you shall descend to Avici Hell.”

Hearing Wu Chenzi’s words, Shangguan nearly stumbled—the tone was not that of a Daoist, but rather Buddhist. Recalling the information from De Shu at Jia’s Bank, which named Wu Chen Monk, Shangguan suddenly understood: this was likely a dispute between fellow disciples over the centipede demon. He wanted nothing more to do with Wu Chenzi’s obsessive spiritual rigidity, shook his head, and prepared to leave.

Suddenly, a Buddhist chant echoed,

“Amitabha.”

Shangguan Chuan Yun felt countless voices converging from all directions, reverberating in his soul, as if intent on turning the world into a Pure Land. His vision was flooded with golden Buddhist light.

“Ong, ong, ong.” The three-foot sword in his hand trembled, sword intent surging forth to cut through all. The sword case on his back hummed in resonance.

Shangguan swiftly unbuckled the case, opened it, and the flying sword seemed eager to leap forth and slay the enemy. He realized the Buddhist chant had nearly injured his soul, and the sword had reacted to protect him.

A surge of anger toward Wu Chenzi welled up—if this Buddhist light tainted his soul, his own thoughts would be altered, his self lost, leaving only devotion to Buddhism and the urge to abandon all for monkhood.

Would he still be himself? He’d become a slave to that doctrine, and living a thousand years would mean nothing; it was worse than brainwashing. The path of the sword immortal abhors impurity of soul, pursues longevity and freedom.

I am myself, not anyone’s puppet, nor do I believe in any gods or spirits.

Shangguan Chuan Yun’s hatred for Wu Chenzi grew—no fanatic, no sword immortal, all who violate my soul shall be cut down. He gathered his vital essence, spirit, and mind into the flying sword, which, bound to his life, sensed his fury.

“Buzz.” The sword trembled, turned into a streak of light, and shot out. Wu Chenzi, hands pressed together, fingers pointed skyward, was chanting, but suddenly sensed danger and instinctively shielded his temple. The sword veered downward.

“Pfft—”

With a sound, it flew back to the case; Shangguan locked it and slung it onto his back.

“Ah, pfft—”

“You are unworthy as a son, disrespect monk and Dao, and after death, shall descend to the eighteenth level of hell.”

Shangguan Chuan Yun heard the wailing, the blood-spitting, the curses, every word ringing in his ears.