For preview purposes only; final product may differ
Author: Priest
Translator: SassyStrawberry
Er-lang, the second son of the Cheng family, was noticeably shorter than the average ten-year-old.
Under the midday sun, he lugged some firewood from the courtyard into the house, and it took the small boy two trips to bring in the entire bundle. Wiping the sweat off his face, he proceeded to start a fire for the stove.
The Chengs had a visitor, and Er-lang’s father was busy playing host, leaving all the household chores to his second son. Er-lang had to chop wood, stoke the kitchen fire, and make the whole meal by himself, spinning about on his short legs in a whirlwind of activity.
The boy could reach the stove, but his pint-sized stature still proved a challenge when he handled the hefty cooking pot, so he fetched the little stool that usually stood in the corner.
At the age of six, Er-lang had mastered the skill of cooking while standing on this unstable stool. After nearly tumbling in and turning himself into human meat stew on several occasions, he eventually learned the precarious art of balancing on its four uneven legs and lived in harmony with it since.
Er-lang was adding water to the pot when his brother returned home.
Da-lang, the Cheng family’s eldest son, was a strapping young fellow of fifteen. He entered the house quietly, reeking of toil. After surveying his surroundings, he hoisted his younger brother off the stool before shoving him on the back, muttering, “I’ll do it. You go play.”
Of course, Er-lang knew better than to run off and relax without a care in the world. He greeted his brother before crouching by the stove in silence to work the bellows for the fire.
Da-lang glanced down at Er-lang. Not a word escaped his lips, yet his eyes brimmed with complex emotions.
The Chengs’ unexpected visitor was a Taoist priest who went by the name Muchun1. Despite shamelessly introducing himself as a zhenren, his unremarkable appearance contradicted these self-purported credentials of an enlightened being. One certainly could not glimpse the unfettered poise characteristic of an immortal and might instead peg him as a fortune-telling swindler based on his looks alone: his triangular eyes never seemed to open fully, his scraggly goatee was far from impressive, and beneath his flowing robes was a pair of scrawny legs that didn’t belong on someone with enough cultivation to be titled zhenren.
This Muchun Zhenren had shown up at their doorstep last night asking for a bowl of water, just in time to catch the ten-year-old returning home from the private school near the entrance of the village.
The school was run by an old man who had repeatedly failed the academy level of the nationwide imperial examinations. Undeterred by his apparent lack of knowledge, this failed scholar continued to tutor the local children. His approach to tuition fees was rather unkind, rejecting offers of cured meats and agricultural produce from the local farmers and demanding payment in genuine gold, silver, or copper coins. Worse yet, the amounts were never fixed. After frittering the money away, he would simply turn to his students for more. Needless to say, he was not qualified to impart knowledge and tutor children in the classics, but there were no viable alternatives in the vicinity for these rural families.
The Cheng family certainly could not afford to send their sons to school, but for some strange reason, Er-lang felt drawn to these abstruse and pedantic lectures peppered with archaic literary jargon. Since he could not openly attend lessons, he resorted to frequent eavesdropping.
Convinced that every speck of knowledge that issued with his spittle was the fruit of his painstaking efforts, the ungenerous old tutor often disrupted his lessons to patrol around his house, refusing to allow anyone to listen in for free. Whenever that happened, Er-lang had to hide like a monkey in the big pagoda tree in front of the house, working up a sweat in order to learn how an individual’s cultivation of self could bring about peace on earth, as per The Great Learning of Confucius.
Thus, drenched in sweat after another free lesson, Er-lang fetched a bowl of water for the peculiar visitor as instructed by his father. However, instead of accepting the water, the priest extended a withered hand to gently tilt the boy’s chin up. One might have expected him to feel Er-lang’s bones for divination or some other arcane practice, but all he did was stare into the eyes of the boy who was doing his best imitation of a dour student.
Regardless of what the zhenren had glimpsed in Er-lang, he nodded enigmatically after his scrutiny and solemnly announced to the Cheng family, “I see that this child was born with exceptional aptitude. Perhaps a great destiny awaits him.”
Da-lang witnessed the zhenren’s proclamation. As an innkeeper’s apprentice, he regularly interacted with travellers from all over and considered himself reasonably knowledgeable. Never before had he heard of anyone capable of gauging a person’s aptitude with a mere glance.
The teenager readied himself to deride this itinerant charlatan’s claims. However, before he could voice his objections, he realised that his father had gladly accepted this baseless observation as fact. A wave of horror swept over him as the reality of the situation dawned.
The Chengs had always grappled with poverty. His mother had given birth to his youngest brother before the new year, complications from the labour leaving her bedridden. With this, their family lost a capable worker and gained an ailing invalid who required copious amounts of medicine, straining their already delicate finances. The year’s harvest was poor. Months had gone by without a drop of rain, the drought signalling an impending famine. If worse came to worst, the family might not be able to feed the three sons.
Da-lang knew that his parents had pinned their hopes on him. After spending a year and a half learning his trade, he still had another year and a half before he could start contributing to the family’s finances. Their youngest brother was merely an infant in swaddling clothes, and his parents were naturally loath to part with him. That left only their middle child, the surplus Er-lang. If they could sell him, palming him off on this travelling Taoist priest who would guide him in immortal cultivation, it would at least chart him a path for the future.
If Er-lang could achieve immortality through cultivation, it would be a great blessing for the Cheng family. And if he failed, so be it. Allowing Er-lang to leave with someone else would at least afford him the means to survive, be it as a wanderer or a con artist. As long as he had enough to eat and could grow to adulthood, it would serve as a way out of this current predicament.
Very swiftly, Muchun Zhenren and the short-sighted Cheng patriarch struck a deal. The zhenren would pay two taels of silver, and the father would hand over the boy the very next afternoon. Er-lang would sever all worldly ties with his natal family and set off on a journey with his new teacher—his shifu.
Da-lang had never been close to this younger brother of his, since their age difference left them little to talk about. Nevertheless, his second brother had always been a sensible, well-tempered child who never caused any trouble. The clothes he wore were Da-lang’s hand-me-downs, and the food he ate was leftovers from his infant brother and ailing mother. The only time that he ever came first was in doing household chores, and he never complained.
Da-lang never voiced his feelings, but deep down, he truly cherished this younger brother of his.
Alas, he was powerless. The Chengs were too poor to feed all three sons, and Da-lang was ill-prepared to shoulder the household responsibilities as the eldest son just yet. His words carried no weight.
Still, was he supposed to watch his own flesh and blood being sold off just because the times were tough? The more Da-lang considered the situation, the more distasteful it felt. He contemplated smacking a dent into that old fraudster’s skull with a hefty iron ladle but ultimately stopped himself. After all, if he had been so bold of a person, he would have chosen the far more lucrative life of banditry and revelled in the stolen riches, rather than working as a mere apprentice and errand boy.
Er-lang was not entirely in the dark about his parents’ intentions or his eldest brother’s brooding thoughts. He was by no means precocious, unlike those prodigies who composed poetry at seven or were appointed grand chancellor at thirteen. He was simply an ordinary person, slightly more perceptive than most.
His father toiled day and night, and Da-lang toiled night and day. His mother had only enough regard for her eldest and youngest sons. Thus, nobody in the Cheng house cared enough to scold or mistreat Er-lang, but it also meant nobody really cared enough about him, period. And Er-lang knew it, tactfully going out of his way to avoid being noisy or annoying. The only times he ever stepped out of line were when he climbed the tree to eavesdrop on that failed scholar’s incoherent lectures on Confucian values.
He saw himself as an errand boy, a farmhand, a servant—always conscientious and diligent. But he was not a son.
He did not know what being a son felt like.
He supposed a child ought to be talkative and lively, but he knew he didn’t have that right—because he was not a son.
He grew accustomed to bottling up his words and opinions, and over time, without an outlet, these unspoken thoughts ricocheted inwards. Like a sandy shore battered by relentless rain, the little boy’s heart was left with countless holes in its wake. These wounds scabbed over as shrewd little eyes that influenced how he saw the world, revealing to him that his parents had sold him to the Taoist. However, he remained strangely composed upon learning this, as if he had anticipated it all along.
Prior to Er-lang’s departure, his sickly mother left her bed for the first time in a long while, shakily calling him over. Her eyes reddened as she pressed a small bundle into Er-lang’s hands. Inside were a few changes of clothing altered from Da-lang’s hand-me-downs and a dozen pieces of leavened flatbread made by his father overnight.
Faced with her ten-year-old son, she could not resist reaching into her sleeves, quivering as she fished out a string of copper coins. The sight of these treasured copper coins with their pitted and tarnished surfaces tugged at Er-lang’s apathetic heartstrings. Like a cub alone and frozen in snow, he thought his twitching nose had caught the scent of his absent mother. Unfortunately, his father caught sight of the money. One loud cough from him was enough to compel the teary woman to tuck the money away.
And just like that, the fleeting scent of his mother evaded capture like an image mirrored in a rippling pond, dispersing with the wind before Er-lang truly could savour its presence.
“Er-lang, come here,” his insipid mother tugged at his hand, leading him into the room. She barely managed two steps before gasping for breath and sank wearily back onto her bed. Gesturing at a small lamp suspended from the ceiling, she asked him in a feeble voice, “Er-lang, do you know what this is?”
Er-lang looked upward indifferently, “It’s the Immortals’ Eternal Flame Lamp.”
Once part of Er-lang’s great-grandmother’s dowry, this unassuming little lamp was a treasured family heirloom of the Cheng household. Although this palm-sized lamp lacked a wick and required no lamp oil, the talismanic engravings covering the simple but quaint ebony base enabled it to glow perpetually, illuminating that tiny area.
Nevertheless, Er-lang could not make sense of it. Try as he might, he couldn’t find a purpose for this shoddy trinket other than attracting bugs in the summer.
Nonetheless, a “celestial artefact” required no practical utility. As long as it was ornamental enough to impress visiting neighbours and friends, these rural villagers would consider it a precious heirloom worthy of being passed down to future generations.
These so-called “celestial artefacts” bore talismanic charms inscribed by the “immortals”, impossible for ordinary people to replicate. They existed in various forms with diverse uses, such as eternal flame lamps, fireproof paper, climate-adaptive beds, and the list goes on.
These “immortals” were often referred to as cultivators or Taoists, and high-level cultivators might be addressed as zhenren. According to legends, they harnessed life energy from nature, communing with heaven and earth during their initiation. As their cultivation deepened, they might achieve inedia, foregoing the need for food, gain superhuman abilities, attain eternal youth, and even ascend to immortality.
Despite numerous myths and legends that vividly portrayed immortals, no one had ever laid eyes on one, and good celestial artefacts were almost impossible to come by.
Leaning forward, Mrs Cheng cast an earnest gaze upon Er-lang. Her tone was gentle, almost ingratiating, “Er-lang, when you return after completing your training, you’ll also make an Eternal Flame Lamp for Mother, won’t you?”
Er-lang did not reply, merely glancing up at her as callous words formed in his mind.
You wish.
Now that you’ve sent me away, I won’t ever come back, immortal or not, alive or dead—even if I end up no better than a pig or a dog.
You’ll never see me again.
Mrs Cheng flinched when she realised that her child was unlike either of his parents. Instead, she could almost glimpse a shadow of her elder brother in him. That older sibling had been a stroke of luck for her natal family. Even as a child, his features displayed a painterly refinement that set him apart from other farm boys. Their parents had nearly bankrupted themselves to fund his education, and he certainly had not disappointed, passing the academy-level imperial examinations at the tender age of eleven and earning the title of scholar.
People believed that these remarkable achievements marked him as the incarnation of the Star of Literary Excellence, descending to earth to be born into her family. Alas, this noble star seemed reluctant to linger in the mortal realm, succumbing to illness before he could undertake the next level of examinations.
Mrs Cheng was very young when her brother passed away. Memories once obscured by time surfaced once more and reminded her that in life, her elder brother’s temperament had been the same, inherently astute with unfathomable thoughts. He faced the world with a simple and indifferent gaze, unaffected by great joy or anger, reining in himself to impassivity. This composure intimidated others, making it difficult to get close to him.
She felt herself letting go of Er-lang’s hand. The boy, as if he had grasped the reason for the distancing, subtly took a step back. In this meek and silent manner, he brought this final adieu between mother and son to an abrupt end.
Cheng Er-lang left with the old Taoist.
This self-styled Muchun “Zhenren” looked sleazy, his hat precariously perched atop a stringy, emaciated frame. As he led Er-lang by the hand, he resembled nothing more than the leader of a roving theatre troupe tugging along his freshest recruit—a young flunky abducted from somewhere.
Er-lang’s child-like exterior belied the maturity of his heart and mind. He padded away for a few steps but could not resist glancing back over his shoulder. There stood his weeping mother, carrying a broken wicker basket with his youngest brother asleep inside. Tears obscured her features. Beside her, his father stood silently with a bowed head, resembling a desolate, dingy shadow. It was unclear whether he sighed with sorrow or guilt, but he was unwilling to raise his head to look at Er-lang.
Er-lang believed that his actions were not driven by resentment. After all, why should he feel resentful? His parents had blessed him with the gift of life and the grace of nurture. Admittedly, they had abandoned that grace mid-way, their merits probably compensated for their failings.
He stared at his toes as he told himself,
It’s all right that Father and Mother don’t value me.
It’s all right that they’ve sold me to a Taoist priest with triangles for eyes.
I’m just cutting ties with them. All I have to do is see myself as a stubborn rock born of heaven and earth.
Er-lang looked away, averting his gaze untinted by nostalgia. The long, uncertain road unfolded before him like the endless darkness of the night. As he clutched his shifu’s withered hand, it was as if he held a lamp akin to the Cheng family’s precious heirloom. Despite the lofty “celestial” prefix tacked onto its name, its halo of light could barely illuminate a small area below it. Charming as it might be, charm was all it had.
There were two approaches to travelling: travelling to gain experience, and fleeing like a fugitive.
As Er-lang followed the man who had become his shifu through no merit of his own, not only did he have to brave the elements, eating and sleeping in the wilderness, but he also got an earful of that old fellow’s illogical, twisted reasoning and fallacious beliefs. Describing his experience as “a fugitive on the run” would be an understatement.
Muchun Zhenren might have proclaimed himself an immortal cultivator, but Er-lang did not believe a word of it, allowing the former’s words to enter one ear and exit through the other.
This world abounded with individuals with fantastical notions of reaching immortality, resembling nothing more than a shoal of carp swarming across a river.
During the reign of the former emperor, sects of all sizes sprouted up on every street and alley like mushrooms after the rain. Families with many offspring flocked to them, leveraging connections to send their youth to these random sects in hopes of uncovering the secrets to immortality. However, the children only learned petty circus tricks like smashing boulders against their chests. In this era, pill-refining alchemists outnumbered cooks, and the number of people reciting scriptures surpassed those who tilled the land. For many years, both martial arts and academic studies were neglected, allowing these idle, itinerant charlatans to run amok.
At the height of this absurdity, there might have been as many as twenty cultivation sects clustered around a single county like trees around a clearing. One could easily purchase books with nonsensical mental cultivation methods from street vendors or travelling peddlers and brazenly recruit disciples under the banner of immortal cultivation, fleecing them for their wealth. If all these people found a way to ascend to heaven, it remained to be seen if the gates could even accommodate such a throng of nobodies.
Even mountain bandits known for raiding and plunder followed suit in causing a ruckus, joining in these deceptive practices. They rebranded the Black Tiger Stronghold to “Clear Wind Temple” and the Ravenous Wolf Gang to “Pavilion of the Profound Mind”, performing sleight-of-hand tricks such as fishing coins from boiling oil and fire-breathing. Before conducting their heists, they would stage clamorous and chaotic performances to intimidate passersby into making generous “donations”.
An army veteran, the late emperor had been an unrefined sort with an explosive temper. Fearing that the empire would inevitably collapse if the common folk continued cultivating in this miasma of chaos, he issued an edict demanding the arrest of all these “immortals and deities” running rampant in the countryside. Regardless of whether they were true immortals or false gods, they would all be exiled into penal servitude.
Before this earth-shattering edict could exit the palace gates, the upper echelons of the imperial court caught wind of it. Terrified, they scrambled out of their warm beds and assembled in the Great Hall, lining up in order of seniority for the climactic finale. They stood ready to protest the decree by smashing their heads in turn against the palace pillars in hopes that their monarch might repent, lest he incur the wrath of the immortals and inflict ruin upon the empire.
The emperor certainly could not allow his entire court of civil and military officials to become martyrs. Besides, his exquisite pillars carved with dragons would not have survived it, so the old monarch had no choice but to rescind his decree. The next day, he instructed the Imperial Astronomical Bureau to establish an Office of Celestial Precepts under the direct oversight of the Grand Astrologer. After jumping through some hoops, they managed to invite a handful of accomplished cultivators to serve on the committee, mandating that all cultivation sects must undergo verification by this office. The recruitment of disciples now required prior approval in the form of an iron plaque, and the unauthorised establishment of sects became strictly forbidden.
Enforcing such restrictions across this vast and magnificent empire, spanning nine administrative provinces with limited north-south connectivity, proved nearly impossible. The Imperial Court already struggled with addressing issues like robbery and trafficking, let alone overseeing the recruitment practices of immortal sects. The genuine cultivation sects ignored this profane emperor’s directives and did as they pleased, and although certain guilty charlatans did show restraint, the impact was marginal. After all, both iron and copper plaques could be forged.
Nevertheless, the late emperor’s painstaking efforts did bear some fruit. The Imperial Court’s repeated inspections and purges significantly dampened the public’s enthusiasm for immortal cultivation. Eventually, the populace realized they had never witnessed a cultivator finding success, so they reverted to their customary rural activities. Farmers tilled their fields, shepherds tended to their flocks, and these lofty daydreams were soon forgotten.
By the time the current emperor took the reins, the immortality craze was already on its last legs, barely clinging to life once the fever had passed. Recognising the drawbacks of excessive policing and acknowledging that not everyone could be law-abiding, the emperor and his officials ignored immortal cultivation fraudsters, only intervening in the case of a formal complaint.
Er-lang had once heard the old tutor in the village narrate this sequence of events, and in his view, the stick-like figure holding his hand was precisely that—a stick. At best, he might be considered a stick that fed him, but there was nothing particularly worthy of Er-lang’s respect.
The twig-like Muchun stroked his quivering little moustache, prattling on, “My sect’s name is ‘Fuyao’. Do you know what that is?”
The old tutor had a strong aversion to anything involving deities, ghosts, Buddhism, and Taoism and categorically refused to discuss them. Er-lang, influenced by his first “teacher”, also shared his disdain for such topics. Alas, since this charlatan was in charge of the food, he had to at least feign interest.
Muchun raised a finger, and a swirling gale arose, as if summoned by a supernatural force, whisking blades of dry grass into an upward spiral. Then, a lightning bolt struck the yellowed grass, tracing a sharp, luminous line that nearly dazzled the boy’s eyes.
Er-lang was astounded by the display of supernatural power, and Muchun was equally surprised. Swiftly realising that he had cowed the meek-looking but cold-hearted brat, he discreetly withdrew his hand. Sliding his bony hands into his sleeves, he leisurely began his intellectual showmanship,
“The great Zhuangzi once wrote,
‘For the Peng2 flies southward over the foam,
a hundred miles the Seas swell like a dome.
At ev’ry midsummer the mighty bird
alights on the fierce fuyao and doth ride,
its estival current a thousand miles,
soaring into the azure and beyond.’
Transcending the bounds of shape and form, the Peng emerges from the abyss of the sunless northern sea. Casting off its aquatic guise, it unfurls its wings and ascends with the fuyao—the whirlwind—soaring into the azure to fulfil its destiny.
This is the origin of the name Fuyao. Do you understand now?”
Er-lang struggled to wrap his head around this, grappling with his awe of unknown forces and his contempt for such unorthodox beliefs. Eventually, he came to regard his shifu with a curious blend of reverence and disdain, begrudgingly granting Muchun a level of respect on par with his family’s lousy lamp. The boy managed a baffled nod.
Muchun asked, “Do you have a proper name?”
Er-lang lowered his gaze submissively and shook his head.
“I see that your aptitude is exceptional, and you have the potential to soar into the azure and dive into the abyss. You’re not meant to be confined in a mere pond like a fish. You are a flood dragon that will surpass its origins to evolve into a true dragon.” Muchun wiggled his fingers, busy with calculations. After a moment, as if he had divined the vicissitudes of Er-lang’s life, he pronounced, “This teacher will bestow upon you the single character of ‘Qian3’ for your given name, that you may fulfil your true potential. What say you?”
1. Muchun: mu, wood; chun, a Chinese mahogany or Chinese cedar, a symbol of longevity.
2. Peng: a majestic avian creature in ancient Chinese mythology, believed to have transformed from an enormous fish that lives in the Beiming—the sunless northern sea.
3. Qian(潜): In Chinese, “Qian(潜)” literally means “dive(下潜)” and “potential(潜能)”.