Chapter Twelve: The Ancients Have Passed

Time rushes on, never to return, and memories are always swept away by the wind.

It was the seventh day since Chen Jin had arrived in Si Ding, a night when the crescent moon hung in the sky. Tonight was the second night of his crossing.

These seven days had passed uneventfully for Chen Jin, as ordinary as ever; going to work, coming home, eating, sleeping. The only difference was that his meals now took place at the Prosperous Family Tavern. He had become a truly wealthy man, and in the chat group, he had started engaging in conversations, often exchanging banter with the Little Dragon from the East Sea. It was a slight step toward forming connections.

In terms of cultivation, Chen Jin could sense his own progress. Recently, he had purchased a pile of Daoist texts, as well as philosophical works by ancient thinkers, especially those from the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods. Yet these books left him with a sense of ambiguity; it was more practical to repeatedly transcribe the Dao De Jing. Reflecting on each character of the Gengxin Metal Qi Formula in his mind brought him great benefit.

Meanwhile, his sister Chen Lan continued to clamor about wanting to visit Mount Emei. Chen Jin simply informed their parents, resulting in Chen Lan being lectured and scolded thoroughly. Afterward, she became much more subdued. Chen Jin knew she would not give up so easily—she had her own stash of money—but her identification card had already been confiscated by their parents. So, even with money, it was of no use.

After much contemplation, Chen Jin noticed the black leather book hanging before his eyes had suddenly flipped to another page.

On this new page appeared several lines: “With the greatness of Heaven and Earth, all things seem small; with the smallness of all things, Heaven and Earth seem great.”

Having read so many ancient books, Chen Jin immediately recognized the source. It was from the inner chapters of “Baopuzi” by Ge Hong, the great Daoist alchemist of the Eastern Jin.

As soon as this thought crossed his mind, Chen Jin felt the world spinning—a sensation as if his head had been thrust into a washing machine.

Dizzy and disoriented, Chen Jin found himself inside a rustic earthen temple.

The temple was built entirely from yellow clay, with a thatched roof overhead, and the floor beneath his seat was an uneven patch of mud. It reminded Chen Jin of his ancestral home, a house over a hundred years old, whose floors were bare and riddled with potholes.

He knew it was a temple because on the wall before him hung portraits of the Three Pure Ones, the highest deities of Daoism.

It seemed this temple was truly impoverished, unable even to afford statues of the Three Pure Ones.

Chen Jin slowly rose, noticing that his clothes were no longer modern attire, but a tattered Daoist robe. He could tell it was a Daoist robe thanks to the many films and television programs he’d seen, as well as the Daoist health segments he’d recently watched, all featuring similar garments.

But this robe was certainly shabby.

It was riddled with holes—some burned by fire, some torn, others eaten by insects.

Moreover, Chen Jin felt an unusual coolness throughout his body, realizing he was wearing nothing beneath the robe. Looking down, his gaze could pass through the loose garment and see his Azure Dragon…

He reached up to touch his face.

“This isn’t my face—did I transmigrate as a soul this time?” Chen Jin wondered.

His memories had grown so vivid that he knew every contour of his own face, every roughness of his skin. The instant his hand brushed his cheek, he knew this was not his own, but a completely unfamiliar visage.

“When I return, I’ll check the footage on the camera and see what happened.”

Before this crossing, Chen Jin had placed a camera on his desk to record his experience.

As he pondered, suddenly his mind was flooded with a series of images.

These memories, all from a first-person perspective, depicted the half-life of a young Daoist.

Through them, Chen Jin learned where he was.

He was still in Xiahuxian, but not the modern county—he was in ancient Xiahuxian.

At this time, the place was not yet called Xiahuxian, but Wenmaxian.

Chen Jin had read plenty of history books and knew Wenmaxian was established during the Western Jin, later merged into Yuanfengxian during the Sui Dynasty. So, he guessed he was now somewhere between the Western Jin and the Northern and Southern Dynasties.

Further memories revealed the current era: the early Xianhe years, several years after the founding of Eastern Jin. The emperor was Sima Yan, a calligrapher as well as a competent ruler.

But Chen Jin’s historical interest focused mainly on cultivators—figures like Ge Hong and Zheng Yin—since he was now a practitioner, not a historian.

Having recalled the world’s structure, he began to reflect on the origins of this body.

He had no significant pedigree. The original name of this body was Wang Goudan. He was not an orphan or wanderer; his family were local shamans, specializing in exorcisms and rituals. Wang Goudan was the third son, thus not eligible to inherit the family trade. When Goudan was eleven, his uncle Wang Erhu returned from studying in the Central Plains. Erhu, unable to learn the family’s shamanic arts, had gone to study Daoist methods instead. Now, having completed his studies, he planned to establish a temple and spread the Dao.

Since Wang Erhu never married or had children, Goudan’s father decided to pass the boy to him, so Goudan could learn Daoism and inherit his uncle’s path, thus establishing a new branch of the family.

The plan was grand, but Wang Erhu had not mastered any genuine techniques—he’d learned only some tricks, equivalent to modern magic. His real reason for returning was that he couldn’t make a living in the Central Plains, so he came home to enjoy a triumphant return, playing the part of the foreign monk, hoping to earn some money for his old age.

Unexpectedly, as soon as he returned, his elder brother handed him a son to inherit his Daoist lineage.

Nevertheless, Wang Erhu established his temple and began taking disciples.

He accepted thirteen disciples; with Wang Goudan, there were fourteen, plus some so-called outer disciples, all of whom paid tuition.

Wang Erhu, intent on making money, did not act like a lofty true Daoist. He treated it as a business: a hundred coins for a disciple, fifty for an outer disciple.

Perhaps because he took too many disciples and suffered the heavenly retribution for teaching secret arts indiscriminately, Wang Erhu died when Wang Goudan was twenty, at the age of forty-six.

Though he died relatively young, he was still venerated as an immortal, since the local lifespan was around forty.

Afterwards, Wang Erhu's disciples dispersed, leaving only Wang Goudan, the adopted son. The Wang family would not take him back, for fear of inheritance disputes.

As for why Wang Goudan was now so destitute—it was entirely his own doing. He was clumsy, and after nine years, failed to learn any of Wang Erhu’s tricks. His fellow disciples picked up the skills quickly.

So Wang Erhu told Goudan to focus on studying Daoist scriptures and rely on his eloquence. But the scriptures were too orthodox—villagers couldn't understand them. At first, they were impressed, but after repeated sermons, they realized it was just empty talk and preferred real skills. Gradually, the rumor spread that Goudan hadn’t learned Wang Erhu’s true arts, and so offerings ceased. He was left to survive on what Wang Erhu had left, until now, when he was left with nothing.

“I am but a fleeting traveler, and you have passed on; I can do nothing for you,” Chen Jin sighed.

“Master, Master…” came a sudden call from outside the temple.