“Sun and moon pass like a flowing river; time is fire struck from flint. I chant the Heart-Cleansing Mantra, and in my heart think of early spring wine.”
Eastern Ascendant Continent, Pingyuan Commandery.
It was just after dawn, the morning sun newly risen. In a small courtyard ringed by earthen walls at Yuansong Temple, a visitor arrived, and Qin Xuan set down the scroll of Spring Letters, Autumn Post he was holding.
“Where did a crooked little verse like that come from?”
A white crane with a vermilion crown stepped in through the gate. It looked as though the poem had exposed the feelings in its heart, and it fixed its displeasure on the young man in the courtyard.
He was in his early twenties, his black hair bound up with a bamboo hairpin and drawn loosely back, fine strands falling across his brows, his wide sleeves in a green robe. He was rather handsome.
“Qin Zihou, did you write this poem?”
“A gentleman lets virtue bear him like a cart that carries what is weighty.” Zihou was Qin Xuan's courtesy name, given to him by his father while he was still alive.
“Where would I get such learning? It's by Master Cai. I was only reciting it to myself.”
Qin Xuan smiled at the white crane.
Every year, when the first new peach blossoms were breaking open, a crane would come looking for him to drink. It always said this wine tasted of its homeland, “Feather Capital.” But Qin Xuan knew the crane was merely a glutton, just like its friend old Daoist Wu, the head of Yuansong Temple.
Behind the white crane trailed two young disciples, a man and a woman. When they heard “Master Cai,” they understood at once.
Master Cai was the Libationer of the Directorate of Education of the Great Yan Dynasty. He had once been imperial tutor to the emperor, then for reasons unknown left a single remark — “Writing poems and essays won't save Great Yan” — and abandoned his rank and title to go seeking immortals and inquiring into the Way.
As for the white crane...
“What Master Cai, what old master — I'm here on business. I have something to ask you.”
The white crane narrowed its eyes. “Did you ever save a fox on Snow Mountain?”
“A fox?”
“Oh,” Qin Xuan said, recalling it. “Supervisor Qian of the Records Hall had me go to Eagle Beak Cliff to pay my respects at the ancestral shrine. I saved one along the way. What, has the fox come to repay me?”
“You wish.” The white crane gave a dry laugh. “But do you still remember when it was?”
“Two months ago.”
Even as Qin Xuan answered, he could guess what it was about to say.
Sure enough...
“Good thing you still remember! These two months, every time there's been an offering rite or fasting service to attend, every time they've gone out to the altar to perform rites, you haven't been once.
That brat Shen Yunfei has gone and filed a report with the Enforcement Hall. He says you're arrogant and presumptuous, breaking the temple's rules, and he wants you expelled from the sect.
At this the white crane turned serious:
“Our Yuansong Temple belongs to the lineage of Perfected Xuangling of Guanjiang Mountain. We carry the incense fire of the Way, and that is the only reason we get the chance to offer a stick of incense to the Dao Ancestor. Even if the temple head looks after you, the sect's rules and statutes are not something he can defy.
“This time, your trouble is no small matter.”
Before Qin Xuan could reply, the two disciples had already lowered their heads and drawn in their necks.
Both Qin Xuan and Shen Yunfei were core disciples of the sect; a conflict between them was not something ordinary disciples could get mixed up in.
The white crane looked around the courtyard. The small place was simply furnished, though one could also say it was rather crude. A low fence ran around it, hung with trails of flowering vine, and in the middle stood a single green pine. The rest was just four bamboo chairs and a stone table.
It grew curious. “What have you been doing these past two months?”
What had he been doing?
Qin Xuan badly wanted to say: I've awakened my past-life wisdom and recovered all the memories of my former life under the red banner. Not only that, but a priceless treasure came from Earth along with me into this world of the Nine Provinces.
These two months he had been busy with research and cultivation. Where would he find the time for the temple's mundane affairs?
Of course, he could never tell anyone that.
So he answered:
“Brother Crane, the path of cultivation is long. There's an old saying: 'Gazing far at a thousand layers of green mountains; by the window a half-cup of oil burns to the last drop.' These days I've simply been lost in my cultivation.”
The white crane cocked its head, unconvinced.
Qin Xuan didn't bother explaining. He turned to the two disciples behind the crane. “Did Supervisor Qian send you?”
Supervisor Qian was the first seat of the Records Hall at Yuansong Temple, in charge of all matters of offering rites and altar processions. Qin Xuan's last trip to the mountains had been arranged by him.
“That's right.”
The somewhat green-looking young man stepped forward, ahead of the woman, and said respectfully:
“Senior Brother Qin, recently the Geng family in the city has had trouble with its business. Their caravans on the road from Pingyuan Commandery to Chuanlai Commandery have been robbed again and again by bandits, and last month the Geng family head's nephew died of consumption. He suspects the feng shui has gone bad and wants to move the ancestral grave, so he's come to make a request up at the temple.”
The Geng family was a major patron of incense; Yuansong Temple naturally had to attend to them.
But...
Qin Xuan was quick-minded and sensed something odd. “Moving an ancestral grave is just a matter of feng shui positioning, of fixing the burial site's sands and waters. It's nothing that should be made such a big deal of. Why are you two so solemn about it?”
The woman beside him said quietly:
“Senior Brother, a few days ago an earth dragon moved beneath Yunxiu Mountain. The rural spirits of the land were startled, and the mountain's face was overturned. The Geng family head's great-grandfather's grave was originally beneath a hundred-year-old pear tree. Now the rocks and soil have shifted, the qian and kan directions have changed, and his great-grandfather is nowhere to be found.”
Oh. So the ancestral grave had gone missing.
That being so, he would probably have to search for it in the mountains.
In the great mountains, it wasn't only tigers, leopards, wolves and jackals that made their dens — there were also mountain demons and shadowy ghosts, and the spirits of wildlands. Dealing with such things required experience.
Qin Xuan thought to himself: Six years ago, when I first came to Yuansong Temple and started doing these errands, I still had a very reliable partner. These two newcomers in front of me now — how could they shoulder such a task?
He understood Supervisor Qian's intent, and asked gently, “When do we set out?”
“Reporting to Senior Brother, it's set for the day after tomorrow.”
“Good. Please tell Supervisor Qian that I'll go with you.”
Seeing how readily Qin Xuan agreed, the two of them felt a great relief.
This Senior Brother Qin ranked in the upper-middle among the core disciples of the last nearly five generations at Yuansong Temple, and he had considerable ties to the temple head — a notable figure in these parts.
This trip into the mountains was no ordinary trifling errand, and with this senior brother leading, it would naturally be much safer.
As they were leaving, the two gave their names: the young man was called Liu Xi, the woman Yu Han.
Once they were far off, Qin Xuan, quite at ease, took a jar of fruit wine from the hundred-treasure pouch he used for storage.
The white crane didn't stand on ceremony. It hugged the porcelain jar and drank in great gulps.
As the saying goes: wine gives the crane courage, and talk lifts the spirits. Drinking as it went, it said:
“Zihou, this time I can still cover for you. Let me go trade on some face, make the rounds at the Enforcement Hall, and I guarantee you won't get thrown out of the sect — but you'd better accept whatever punishment they give, since you're the one who left people something to grab onto.”
Qin Xuan handed it another jar of wine. “Brother Crane is loyal. Still, it's not so easy to catch me out.”
The white crane lifted its neck, and for the first time a look of surprise showed.
It had sensed the aura Qin Xuan was giving off just now. “You... when did you reach the sixth layer of Qi Gathering?”
Immortal cultivators followed the path of “Refining Essence into Qi, then Jade Fluid back to the Elixir.”
Refining Essence into Qi was divided into two great realms: Qi Refining and Foundation Building.
The Qi Refining stage was called the Twelve-Storied Tower, divided into twelve layers.
The first six layers were the “Qi Gathering stage.”
At this stage it was slow, patient work — breathing exercises and guiding techniques, using spiritual energy to nourish the body and frame, making a mortal body suited to the spiritual energy of heaven and earth, prolonging life.
An ordinary Qi Refiner with sufficient resources would mostly need fifteen years to reach perfection.
The white crane raised a wing and counted on it:
“You entered the mountain six years ago. With mid-grade metal spiritual root as your aptitude — from cultivating the Daoist Qi-Indrawing Art and first producing a sense of qi, to now the sixth layer of Qi Gathering, it's only been five years and seven months. That's already fast.”
But that wasn't what surprised it. It was...
“I remember last year when the peach blossoms first opened, you were only at the fourth layer of Qi Gathering.”
Qin Xuan nodded. The crane's memory was correct. In fact, a month ago he had just broken through to the fifth layer of Qi Gathering, but only a month after that, he had broken through again.
There was no need to tell it that.
So he said:
“If I neglected the temple's mundane duties because of a breakthrough in cultivation, would the sect still pursue it?”
“Of course not,” the white crane said with a sly grin. “Don't show it off yet. Wait till Shen Yunfei brings the elders from the Enforcement Hall over, then rile the little brat up.”
Qin Xuan gave it a look that said, You don't need to tell me that.
“Right, Brother Crane, I wonder how much you know about magical techniques and arcane arts?”
The white crane raised its slender neck, its expression proud. “This crane carries the bloodline of the great Peng. I'm a spirit beast of the mountains and seas, born able to speak the human tongue without having to refine away the crossbar in my throat. And when it comes to knowledge and insight, I'm second to none among cranes!”
“Good. Then I'll ask Peerless Crane to do me a favor and identify this book.”
Qin Xuan picked up the ancient book from the stone table, less than two inches thick. When the white crane saw Spring Letters, Autumn Post written on the cover, it was puzzled.
It had read a good many books of the Way and books of demonic arts, and scrolls of innate martial methods, but it had never seen a magical art or arcane technique named like that.
“What's this book about?”
“I suspect it's a scroll of extremely profound immortal sect swordsmanship.”
What?!
The white crane was greatly shocked, both eyes burning. Immortal sect swordsmanship!
Qin Xuan had been watching the white crane's reaction closely. These past days he had shut himself away to study it and reached a good many conclusions, which now needed to be tested.
His good friend Zhao Huaimin was not at the temple at present, so the white crane was the most suitable.
“Brother Crane, this book must be looked at seriously, or you won't see through it.”
Hearing that, the white crane indeed turned serious. Serious, and yet it also felt a twinge of guilt in its heart — coveting another's magical arts and learning was a taboo.
But the moment it saw the page Qin Xuan opened, its expression collapsed.
The title of this piece was “Autumn Rain.” It told of a traveling scholar on his way to the examinations who was caught in the rain, took lodging at a farmhouse, and came to share feelings with a young woman, only to part from her in the end.
This was swordsmanship?
Still doubting, it saw the opening verse:
“Autumn rain patters on, the night not yet done; a lone lamp lights the wall, and sorrow has no end. Since olden days, deep love leaves only regret; the tale is told, and tears fall first.”
There was no mistake. This was a book of romance.
“You say this is immortal sect swordsmanship?”
“Yes.”
“Then what does this line say?”
Qin Xuan followed the crane's wing to the line and said earnestly, “It speaks of the realm of the sword's Way: the Way lies beyond withering and flourishing, the person between being and nonbeing.”
In this day and age, when you told the truth, not only did people not believe it — even the crane didn't.
“A fine Qin Zihou, wholly devoted to the Way. All right, stop making a fool of me.”
Peerless Crane rolled its eyes. Can't I read?
What “the Way lies beyond withering and flourishing”? What's written there is clearly: “Beauty is like a flower, and the flower is in full bloom. If one does not go to look at it, is that not heartless?”
From the white crane's reaction, Qin Xuan had his conclusion.
'It can't read it.'
Qin Xuan's gaze, too, flew to that opening verse:
“Autumn rain enters the river, the river flows to the sea; sword-qi hides in the blade's edge, the edge hides its meaning. Don't say the thunderclap falls from the heavens — deep within the sword's heart is the sound of thunder.”
—From “Autumn Rain” in Spring Letters, Autumn Post.
The same book, one man and one crane, and what they saw was utterly different.
This book of the Way, a scroll hiding true meaning — who among the ordinary-eyed could know that the sword is made into love?
...