Chapter 57: A Story?

"Please, go ahead," Chen Jin replied decisively.

He couldn’t let the old man hold back his words like this—pent-up emotions could lead to internal injury. Chen Jin had always cared deeply about the well-being of elders.

“…It was ten years ago. By the way, how many years have you been on the mountain?” Master Liaoxin shifted the topic himself.

“Three years,” Chen Jin answered, drawing from the memories of his predecessor.

“Three years? That’s quite some time. Looks like you really don’t know about what happened a decade ago.” Liaoxin nodded.

“I don’t know much,” Chen Jin admitted.

What could have happened ten years ago? He truly had no idea, and nothing surfaced in his memory.

The real reason, of course, was that the mountain was filled with Daoists who prized tranquility and non-action—none of them were gossips, and even if there were rumors, one would only learn what they were meant to know, when they were meant to know it; anything else was useless knowledge, best left unsaid.

As a result, Chen Jin knew nothing at all.

But Liaoxin was not a Daoist; he was a monk, unburdened by the tradition of serene detachment. Gossip was likely a regular pastime for him—after all, he was not a practitioner of the vow of silence.

And so, Liaoxin began to recount the events of ten years prior.

It was, more or less, the sort of melodrama found in common films and television.

A decade ago, Chen Jin’s master had taken on a disciple—an extraordinary talent, blessed with wisdom and aptitude along the path of cultivation. In only seven days, his spirit brimmed to overflowing. Seeing this, Chen Jin’s master taught him the method of regulating one’s breath, which he mastered within a day, swiftly reaching the stage of regulated breath. Another seven days, and he perfected this stage, showing signs of condensing true essence. Thus, Chen Jin’s master imparted to him the practice for stabilizing the mind.

The young man advanced rapidly, taking only a year to condense his shade-spirit and reach the Soul Gathering stage.

He was a prodigy, the kind who, in every legendary tale of immortals, inevitably sets off a chain of fateful events. The genius Liaoxin described was no exception.

But after reaching the Soul Gathering stage, he changed—he began frequenting the mortal world, his activities unknown. One day, Chen Jin’s master secretly followed him down the mountain and discovered that he was raising malevolent spirits, in hopes of furthering his own cultivation.

His method of feeding these spirits was to use the souls of ordinary people.

Chen Jin’s master could not stand for this. He confronted his disciple and offered him two options: the first, to kill the evil spirit himself, then seal away his cultivation for thirty years and do good deeds among humankind; the second, to abolish his own cultivation entirely, destroy the evil spirit, and be sent into the cycle of reincarnation, with the promise that his master would help him return one day.

Both choices seemed, at first glance, to be a form of forced extinction, but in truth, they were a test of conscience, both requiring the destruction of the evil spirit.

However, if he chose the first, Chen Jin’s master would have been pleased and would have assisted him. The second depended on fate—whether Chen Jin’s master would show mercy or not.

But the disciple chose a third path: to rebel and fight back.

Yet Chen Jin’s master had long since reached the pinnacle of the mortal realm, his power rivaling even that of Ge Hong, whom Chen Jin had met. There was no way the disciple could win. He was suppressed in short order and sent directly to the underworld for reincarnation, the evil spirit suffered the same fate.

From this, Chen Jin’s master concluded that his former disciple had failed to cultivate his heart, caring only for power, which led him astray. Hence, he resolved that any disciple he took in the future would be tested and tempered at every stage of cultivation, no matter how quickly they advanced—they would have to proceed step by step, slowly and steadily.

That was why, though Chen Jin’s spirit brimmed with power, he had yet to receive the next level of teachings.

So, ultimately, it was the fault of those who came before.

“Master truly had our best interests at heart,” Chen Jin sighed.

It was hardly a sincere sentiment, but in front of an elder, such a heartfelt sigh was necessary.

“Haha, I’m teasing you. Your master’s just muddled with age and probably forgot all about it. I’ll remind him for you later,” Liaoxin said with a loud laugh.

Chen Jin was speechless. Once again, he’d been set up—these elders really put thought into their jokes. Best not to provoke them, truly.

Yet, upon reflection, the tale Liaoxin had told was riddled with inconsistencies.

For one, Chen Jin’s master would never have forced his disciple in such a way—the two supposed options were not choices at all. According to Liaoxin’s account, this fabricated elder was eccentric and stubborn, so the two options were really just a push toward the third: seeking death.

But in Chen Jin’s memories, his master was nothing like that. He was indifferent to most matters—regardless of disasters in the world or the mistakes of his disciples, he never interfered, truly living by the creed of letting things unfold naturally, like a true cultivator.

Any trace of human warmth was almost impossible to discern in him.

He seemed more like an immortal than a man, though Chen Jin had never met an immortal and could not judge.

But for now, Chen Jin’s priority was to determine exactly where he was, what kind of mythic legend he had landed in.

The black-covered book spoke of the Heart of Seven Orifices and Painted Skin Beauties.

These words made Chen Jin think of the tales from Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio.

Though those were but stories penned by men, perhaps such things truly existed—after all, Chen Jin had already seen Wu Song fight a tiger firsthand…

So Chen Jin cherished this opportunity to descend the mountain—among those taciturn fellows up there, he’d never get any answers. Only by venturing into the world could he gather more information.

And now, with such a talkative companion, he could ask plenty of questions.

Still, best to be cautious.

After all, this fellow was shrewd.

“Master, do you know where my teacher achieved enlightenment? I’ve always been curious,” Chen Jin asked.

“Right here, on Mount Lao,” Liaoxin replied offhandedly.

So succinct.

“It seems he hasn’t yet attained full enlightenment—only realization,” Liaoxin added.

“Realization? Enlightenment?” Chen Jin was uncertain about the difference; they sounded similar, but surely there was a distinction.

Enlightenment likely meant becoming an immortal; realization, perhaps, was the stage just before.

“Have you heard of attaining the Dao and living forever?” Liaoxin asked.

“That’s what immortals do, isn’t it?” said Chen Jin.

“And what is an immortal?” Liaoxin countered.

“An immortal… isn’t that one who attains the Dao and gains eternal life?” Chen Jin tried to circle back to the main point.

“And what about arhats or bodhisattvas?” Liaoxin pressed.

“No idea,” Chen Jin shook his head.

“I don’t know either. I’m neither an immortal nor an arhat or bodhisattva,” Liaoxin shook his head as well.

…Then why say all that?

…