Year 995 of Dashun. The Shu region, Changle Commandery, Longxing County, Qian Village.
The cold of winter was bitter. The bleak autumn wind had grown crueler by the day, like invisible swords hacking ceaselessly at the life of the land.
Even so, at dawn the common folk of Qian Village wrapped their clothes tight, pushed open their doors, and stepped out into the bitter chill. Some meant to go up the mountain to cut firewood; some meant to try their luck in nearby Longxing County and see whether they could find work.
On the muddy village road, people converged.
No one spoke. Even neighbors who met simply nodded to one another, because the moment you opened your mouth, the freezing wind poured in.
So large a village, and not even a crow or sparrow made a sound. There was only the silent tread of the common folk walking, and the whistling of the cold wind — the whole village like a beast frozen to death, crouched in the depths of the mountain forest.
...
At the village mouth, people went their separate ways: some toward the mountain behind, some toward the county town, and a portion heading north.
There stood a Daoist temple.
From outside it looked small, even crude — but draw near, and a gust of scorching wind struck your face. Inside, a great incense burner stood at the center: burning stones were heaped into it and set alight, sending heat billowing up to drive off the cold of deep winter, and the human voices within made the temple the only place of life in this frozen season.
"Ahh... that feels good!"
Several villagers walked in and sighed out their relief. Then a young man in a Daoist robe came out from the back courtyard.
"Is everyone here?" the young Daoist asked.
"Our respects, Senior Brother Xie."
The villagers bowed one after another, their faces lit with an indescribable fervor. They interlaced their fingers into a lotus-shaped hand seal and chanted:
"The Lotus Descends Upon the World, Delivering All Beings."
The young Daoist formed the same seal with both hands and returned the salute. "Master has been waiting for you for some time. Come in with me."
They filed into the back courtyard, where a good dozen or more men in the prime of life — built like bull calves, clearly eating meat three times a day — were drilling and sparring, throwing punches while grunting out hearty "ha!" and "hei!" with full-bellied force, spilling their youth and sweat without restraint.
The one leading them was a young man. He was stripped to the waist, sweat rolling off his shoulders and back, his skin glowing bronze in the sunlight, his features cleanly cut, his face handsome and refined.
"Junior brother, stop a moment," the young Daoist called out.
But the young man did not respond. He stood frozen in place, as if sunk in some memory, and for a long while did not come back to himself.
"Junior brother?" The young Daoist sounded curious.
"...It's nothing."
Wang Ping shook his head, drove the blankness from his eyes, and pulled himself together with a smile. "Master has come back — and he wants to see us?"
"That's right." The young Daoist grinned. "You've always helped organize the Qian Village believers, working hard without a word of complaint — no small merit. Master came back just for you. Junior brother, your good days are coming!"
Joy bloomed on Wang Ping's face.
Deep down, though, he felt nothing at all. He almost wanted to laugh. An ancient dynasty, a feudal society — what good days could there be? Staying alive at all was already a stroke of heaven-sent luck.
Twenty years since he had crossed over into this world, twenty years of scraping out a living in this run-down place called "Dashun" — by now he had blended completely into life here. Absent some accident, he would end up like Er Gou from the family next door: take a wife in the village, father a few children, work from sunup to sundown — and if he stayed safe and sound his whole life like that, he could successfully die at around thirty, right here on his little plot of land.
When he had first crossed over, he had even dared to hope for some kind of cheat ability. By now, after who knows how many rounds of rage, despair, and talking himself down, he had abandoned that unrealistic fantasy.
Even so, Wang Ping had not simply let himself rot. Across twenty years he had worked every angle, and in the end had landed himself a post that kept him fed while leaving a little savings besides.
"Come on, everyone gather up."
The young Daoist beckoned, Wang Ping followed close behind, and soon everyone in the temple had assembled and made their way, solemn-faced, to the main hall in the back courtyard.
On the pillars flanking the hall hung a couplet:
The earth shakes the high ridge: a stretch of streams and mountains, splendid for a thousand ages.
The gate faces the great sea: three converging rivers, their waters flowing for ten thousand years.
Wang Ping looked up — above the main door was a four-character inscription:
Mercy and Universal Aid
Just then an aged voice sounded: "These are words the First Patriarch left when he founded our lineage, moved by the sight of heaven, earth, and the natural world — a memento of that moment."
Wang Ping looked toward the voice. At the head of the hall stood a table set with all manner of offerings, and beside it a shrine. Leaning against the shrine was an old Daoist in a worn-out robe, helping himself to the offerings on the table and munching away, smack smack.
"Master!" the young Daoist frowned. "You're eating the First Patriarch's offerings again!"
The old Daoist waved a hand. "Can't be helped. A fatuous ruler sits the throne and the world is in chaos — we're pressed to make a living. The First Patriarch will surely understand."
"You still can't eat the offerings!" The young Daoist shook his head and lowered his voice. "Master, you'll regret this."
"Shut up. I'm the Sect Master!"
With that, the old Daoist waved the young Daoist off to stand to one side — and the young Daoist, plainly unwilling to indulge him, turned and slammed the great door shut behind him.
Bang!
As the door shut, the once-bright hall abruptly darkened, and most of the old Daoist's face, beside the shrine, sank into shadow.
Wang Ping realized at once that something was wrong. A master-disciple quarrel, storming out and slamming the door... it looked like farce, but in fact, before anyone had reacted, the main hall had been sealed shut. And if that fellow Xie Shi was staked out right outside, then this was a textbook turtle-in-a-jar trap — nowhere to run.
Wang Ping's heart rose quietly to his throat.
"Comrades," the old Daoist began just then, his expression full of feeling. "Twenty years ago, it was here in Qian Village that I set out on my campaign, raising troops against the tyranny of Dashun."
The old Daoist sighed. "The Lotus Descends Upon the World, Delivering All Beings — what a mighty tide that slogan stirred in its day! Which county seat in Changle Commandery did not answer our call? Wherever the White Lotus Sect went, the people welcomed us with all their hearts. That scene of surging vitality, of the ten thousand things racing to flourish — it is still before my eyes."
"But..."
Here the old Daoist's tone turned. "Has a mere twenty years been enough to turn this place into the ground where we are buried?"
"Sect Master... what do you mean?" someone asked.
"What do I mean?" The old Daoist shook his head, his face growing sadder still, and looked out over them all. "I have investigated, and I have the truth: there is a traitor among us."
A traitor?!
The hall erupted. Every face went stricken, and then everyone was glancing around, wary and searching.
Others lit up with sudden understanding and said bitterly, "No wonder our White Lotus cause has met setback after setback these last few years! Forced to move our hall again and again, and still the officials chased us like dogs, and we couldn't strike back at all... So it's because we have a traitor!"
"Investigate! There must be a full investigation!"
At that moment Wang Ping stood up, his expression resolute, his eyes burning. "Lord Sect Master — please give the order!"
At these words many turned to look at him.
"Give the order?"
"What order?"
Even the old Daoist by the shrine looked puzzled, then curious. "Tell us, Wang Ping — what order would you have me give?"
Wang Ping looked around, his tone level.
"Let us all kill ourselves."
The words fell — and the hall, roaring with voices only moments before, dropped into a dead silence so absolute that even the old Daoist's mouth hung slightly open in surprise.
Wang Ping paid it no mind. "If the mole had already been found, Lord Sect Master would not have summoned every one of us here. Clearly, we are all under suspicion. And picking out one mole with precision from this many people is like fishing a needle from the sea."
"So we might as well settle it in one step."
Here Wang Ping's tone turned utterly solemn.
"If every one of us kills ourselves — all dead — then the mole is naturally dead too. And the loyal believers who die because of it will enter the Void Homeland after death."
"So why not?"
"..."
The silence in the hall grew deafening.
Wang Ping's brow knotted. "What — are you not loyal followers of the White Lotus? If you are loyal, you must not hesitate when it is your time to die."
"Understand this: the most important thing in the White Lotus Sect is Lord Sect Master. He is the sun of the believers. If we die, the sun can go on shining over all things. But if the sun dies, how could we live?"
"Besides, death touches only the flesh. Our souls will enter the Void Homeland and enjoy eternal life — what is there to fear?"
When Wang Ping finished, everyone looked at one another. At last they turned to him with an indescribable look, as if asking: Wait — you actually believe that Void Homeland nonsense?
People die when they are killed!
Seeing that the crowd still said nothing, Wang Ping shook his head, then drew the short blade at his waist. "In that case, I'll go first—"
Shing—!
The blade flashed — but no blood gushed, for one heartbeat before Wang Ping slit his own throat, a second dazzling silver flash barred his way.
"All right, little brother Wang. You're being far too extreme."
With a rebuke pitched neither light nor heavy, the old Daoist had Wang Ping back in his seat, then went on: "In any case, ferreting out the mole must be done. I have decided to entrust the task to someone loyal and dependable, someone worthy of trust."
The old Daoist looked at Wang Ping and smiled.
"Wang Ping, I remember you. When I left Qian Village to found the White Lotus Sect, you had only just been born — I even held you when you were small. Among the believers, apart from Xie Shi, you are the one I trust most. You will take charge of this task."
Wang Ping was on his feet at once, alight with excitement. "I guarantee it will be done—"
Then the old Daoist seemed to remember something and added hastily, "No slaughtering innocents. I want hard evidence tied to the mole."
"...Oh."
Wang Ping sat back down without a flicker of expression.
Seeing him like this, the old Daoist felt somewhat helpless and could only pivot. "From this day on, you are Hall Master of our Qian Village hall."
"As you command." Wang Ping bowed with respect.
Since the mole had to be found, comings and goings naturally had to be restricted; everyone was confined to the main hall, and only Wang Ping was allowed out, for the time being.
"You drilled all morning — you haven't eaten yet, have you?"
Outside the hall, the young Daoist Xie Shi was indeed lying in wait; if the mole had truly tried to burst out through that door just now, he would simply have been cut down by the man standing there waiting for exactly that.
"Come on, I'll take you to get something to eat," Xie Shi said warmly.
"Then I'll trouble you, eldest senior brother." Wang Ping cupped his hands and added casually, "How about my place first? To find out who the mole is, I'm afraid we can't do without certain tools of interrogation..."
"That works too!"
Xie Shi's tone was offhand, and the two of them left the temple at a brisk pace, arriving at a compound in the northwest corner of Qian Village: Wang Ping's house.
Five years ago, this had been nothing but a thatched hut. Then, five years ago, on the recommendation of the village elders, Wang Ping had joined the White Lotus Sect — and the hut had risen, step by step, into a brick-and-stone house, then a grand compound.
Now he had even become a Hall Master of the White Lotus Sect. With that status, even in winter he need not worry about grain; meat with every meal came standard, and now and then he could go spend money in the neighboring county town. In this day and age, that made him a proper country rich man.
There was only one small problem.
Wang Ping walked into the compound, settled Xie Shi in a seat, and went to the woodshed — where, out of a hole in the corner wall, a black, plump mouse suddenly popped out. Its eyes were bright, its forepaws tipped with charcoal ash, and it wrote smoothly on the ground:
Tomorrow at the shen hour — mid-afternoon — meet at the grass market outside town
"........"
Wang Ping gave it one glance, lifted a foot and kicked the mouse away, and wiped the charcoal words off the ground as he did so.
This was his one small problem: the mole the old Daoist spoke of was him.