Chapter Eight: Rustling Bamboo Leaves Shutter the Sparse Windows

This cluster of bamboo dwellings was arranged with careful artistry. Before Shen Lian and Lu Shouyi even reached the threshold, the door swung open to reveal an elderly man. His hair was ash-grey, his Daoist robe somewhat tattered, and his right sleeve hung empty.

Shen Lian sensed that this man was truly old—unlike the sect leader or the two elders who had guided them. Though their appearances were aged, they still brimmed with vitality. This old man, however, gave the impression of the sun setting in the west.

“Come with me, brothers,” the old man said, glancing at Shen Lian and Lu Shouyi as if he already knew who they were.

Shen Lian surmised that perhaps Jingqing, the child attendant, had notified the elder by some other means. The people of Qingxuan were indeed peculiar. When Jingqing arrived, everyone came in and greeted the elder, but it was clear to Shen Lian that, as seekers of the Dao, few would care for worldly formalities.

Inside the bamboo house, they found it spacious, its construction entirely of bamboo. Shen Lian could not tell what kind of bamboo it was, but it was solid and sturdy. They had not walked far before reaching a long corridor beneath which a clear stream flowed gently.

Lu Sheng, more enthusiastic than Shen Lian, asked before they had crossed the corridor, “How may we address you, senior brother?”

“You may call me ‘Three Questions,’” the old man replied.

“Senior Three Questions, how many people are left in the inner courtyard?” Lu Sheng inquired.

“Excluding the two of you, there are four,” he answered unhurriedly.

“I’ve heard that Qingxuan admits only ten disciples every fifty years. Senior Three Questions, did you enter Qingxuan fifty years ago?” Lu Sheng was curious. Could the pursuit of the Dao be so arduous that after fifty years, one would appear so aged?

“I entered Qingxuan a hundred years ago,” the old man shook his head.

“When may we begin our cultivation?” Lu Sheng pressed.

“Do you know why I am called Three Questions? Because I answer only three questions each day,” the old Daoist cast an indifferent glance at Lu Sheng, his cloudy eyes revealing a hint of coldness that silenced Lu Sheng completely.

Shen Lian had not spoken a word, quietly observing his surroundings. The ambient spiritual energy here was particularly dense. The bamboo house was like a reservoir, constantly accumulating external spiritual essence to nourish those within. The stream below, infused with spiritual energy, flowed clear and lively, serving as a conduit.

Shen Lian had long been able to sense the presence of spiritual energy and absorb some of it, though little remained within him. Even so, after opening his meridians, he could draw enough spiritual essence from the world to no longer depend on grains, sustaining himself for long periods without food or drink, like a turtle in hibernation. He also felt his constitution subtly improve—as if spring rain gently nurtured nature, changes accumulating silently until they became tangible.

He thought, living in such a place, one could reach over a hundred years without growing as aged as the Daoist Three Questions. Qingxuan was no utopian retreat; it was not without strife. That was unsurprising—wherever there is intent, there are emotions. Shen Lian himself was tranquil and disinclined to conflict, but that did not mean others felt the same. The Dao had myriad paths, without fixed rules, and right or wrong was hard to define.

Moreover, Shen Lian believed that the pursuit of the Dao and longevity did not require total detachment. If immortality demanded cold indifference, it would not be true longevity. True longevity should be inclusive, offering infinite possibilities for the future. If one lived for centuries with a heart as cold as stone, how would one differ from the frozen rocks of the mountain?

Along the way, the red-robed elder, the grey-robed elder, the sect leader, and Jingqing each had their own temperament. Perhaps Daoists were just people who lived longer.

As for what immortality truly meant, Shen Lian could not yet imagine.

The corridor was winding, revealing various Daoist residences along the way. Most shared similar layouts; some appeared long uninhabited, their courtyards desolate.

Finally, they came upon two adjacent Daoist dwellings. Three Questions said, “Each of you choose a room. Once the sect leader finishes his affairs, he will make arrangements for you.”

With that, he departed, light as a breeze.

Lu Sheng shook his head. “Everyone on this mountain is stranger than the last.”

Shen Lian smiled without reply, pointing to the two houses. “Which do you prefer, Brother Lu?”

“Then I’ll take the right one,” Lu Sheng said.

Inside, there was only a bamboo couch—no other furnishings, truly austere.

Shen Lian did not sleep right away. After closing the door, he sat on the bamboo couch, eyes shut in meditation. Only when Lu Sheng’s snores sounded from next door did he focus his mind.

Within his spiritual platform, all was void. This time, Shen Lian did not visualize the innate deity holding a ruyi scepter. Instead, a vast chessboard appeared in his mind.

A white stone fell, followed by a black one. Soon, the board was densely covered.

His memory was extraordinarily powerful—whether from a strong soul or the wonders of his visualization method, he could recall much, undisturbed and focused.

The chessboard was intricate, yet Shen Lian reconstructed it. Compared to his unconscious impressions during the day, he now appreciated the subtlety of the cultivation method it contained.

Shen Lian could already absorb spiritual energy, edging toward an existence free from worldly needs, but his understanding of spiritual essence remained shallow.

That chessboard technique, called the ‘Profound Polar Art,’ connected different acupoints like wiring a circuit board. As spiritual energy flowed, unexpected effects arose.

Previously, Shen Lian had been like a leaky sieve—spiritual energy flowed in and out, leaving little behind, insufficient even to sustain life. Otherwise, he would have long ceased needing food.

He operated the Profound Polar Art’s pathways, verifying the effect of spiritual energy on his body.

The amount he could retain had increased, giving him more feedback. His soul’s power gradually diffused into his limbs and bones, allowing for more detailed observation.

If someone had witnessed this, they would have seen a thin mist enveloping Shen Lian, his figure shrouded and indistinct.

Elsewhere in another Daoist dwelling, Three Questions sat across from another Daoist. This younger Daoist, perhaps in his early thirties, wore thick brows and a green robe.

The young Daoist said, “Uncle Hong has waited so many years to finally find a disciple capable of cultivating the ‘Purple Star Mystical True Solution,’ which is why he so urgently passed on the ‘Profound Polar Art.’”

“Besides Uncle Hong, in three thousand years only Shen Lian has traversed the Heart Road in such a short time. This shows his exceptional mental strength, making him the ideal candidate for the ‘Purple Star Mystical True Solution.’ Uncle Hong’s urgency is understandable,” Three Questions replied calmly.

The young Daoist sighed, “I’ve always wondered what manner of person that uncle truly is. He took your arm, yet you bear little resentment.”

[End of chapter: Thanks to Kunshan Xiaoyu for the generous reward and becoming the fifth helm master of the Dao, and thanks also to Guangyin Huafumo, SOS member, Qingmo Jing Shangyu, and others for their support.]