Chapter Twenty-Four: Hearing the Golden Mantra by the Banks of Poyang Lake

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In May, the green grasshoppers begin to stir; in June, the bush crickets beat their wings. When Yun Qi heard that the weaver cicadas had started to sing, he knew it was time to set out on his journey.

On the morning of the first day of the sixth lunar month, Yun Qi strapped a bundle of suitable size to his back, fastened "Autumn Waters" at his waist, and stepped out of his home.

This time, he did not slip away in secret; he had already informed the town in advance. As he pushed open the door, the sky was still cloaked in predawn gloom, yet the gate of the Cheng family courtyard was already crowded with people. When they saw Yun Qi emerge, the crowd stirred and parted to make way for him.

Yun Qi smiled and waved to everyone. “Today I travel far. I must trouble you all to take care of the old house and my parents' graves.”

The quiet crowd suddenly burst into noise.

“It’s only right, it’s only right.”

“Safe travels, Yun Qi.”

“Little Master, come back and visit often!”

Voices overlapped in a lively chorus, and Yun Qi nodded and responded with a gentle smile.

Walking along the path the crowd had cleared, he took three or five steps, then turned back for one last look at the words on the sign above the eaves. They read:

Clouds rise, fortune begins; happiness and blessings follow.

With a smile on his face, he strode away.

————

Leaving the town, he followed the familiar path to Yulin Temple. This time, however, Yun Qi did not enter. Like many pilgrims, he offered three sticks of incense at the censer on the square in front of the gate.

As he bowed, he saw the temple master standing at the entrance. Yun Qi raised "Autumn Waters," waving it in the air a few times as a gesture.

For the past several days, he had come to the temple almost daily to discuss swordsmanship with the master, gaining great benefit. Though the old master could not tell Yun Qi what lay ahead, he shared every detour of his own journey without reservation. To say he was half a mentor in swordcraft to Yun Qi would not be an exaggeration.

Yet at parting, few words needed to be said.

The master’s face held a faint smile as he watched Yun Qi depart into the distance.

Beside the master, the young acolyte looked up at him, wondering whether the master seemed even younger these days—could he truly be an immortal?

Yun Qi descended Yu Xiu Mountain and headed west. On this journey, unless faced with insurmountable natural barriers, he did not plan to ride the clouds.

————

More than twenty days passed. By the latter half of the sixth month, the summer heat was growing intense.

Summer dawns were curious things: one moment the world was pitch black; the next, with a single blink, the sky turned deep blue, then swiftly to pale gray, and morning arrived in a flash.

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In an unnamed forest, atop a modest summit, stood a dead tree—its bark charred, trunk hollow, branches leafless and broken, as if scorched by lightning.

For several miles around, it was the tallest thing in sight, unshaded by anything else.

Perched cross-legged on a slender branch at its crown, Yun Qi swayed gently in the summer morning breeze.

The previous year, He Bingkun had told Yun Qi that to sit in meditation atop a racing thunderbird was the true sign of mastery. Back then, Yun Qi couldn’t even stand steadily; now he was as light as a leaf, able to find stillness on a slender branch in the wind—all within a single year.

Yun Qi’s eyes were half-closed, lips barely parted, leaving a small opening through which he exhaled stale breath. If one listened closely, each outbreath carried a subtle “shhh” sound. As he inhaled, wisps of wood-elemental energy entered his nose, then his throat, passing through twelve inner gates, circulating through a minor cycle of wood energy, and settling near his liver.

Suddenly, a beam of crimson light shot up from the eastern horizon, shining through Yun Qi’s eyelids. Instinctively, his exhalation shifted from “shhh” to “ha,” drawing in fire energy.

If Master Sukun could enter Yun Qi’s inner world at that moment, he would see countless crimson motes swirling around the Fire Palace, far more splendid than the other four. Among the five palaces, water and earth energies were most abundant, wood was next, and metal was the least.

Today’s weather was superb: the sky a flawless blue, not a cloud in sight, the sun blazing overhead. Yun Qi was in no hurry to travel on such a fine day, remaining motionless from dawn to noon, absorbing the sun’s fire energy.

Only after midday did he slowly open his eyes and stop drawing in energy. After noon, the sun’s fire mingled with dusk energy; consuming too much of it would not aid in cultivating pure Yang fire.

Leaning slightly, the Daoist dropped from the tree, picked up his bundle, and prepared to set out again.

This had been his way for more than half a month: drawing metal energy from mineral veins, wood from forests, water from rivers, fire from bright sun, earth from all else. He chose to travel through deep mountains and remote marshes, where the world’s energy was richer, avoiding bustling towns where spiritual energies were thin and scattered.

Yet, before he left, there was still something to do. Drawing his sword, Yun Qi sliced off a palm-sized piece of charred bark. He recognized the tree as a jujube; struck by lightning, its wood now possessed the vigorous energy of thunder and fire, perfect for making talisman paper for thunder or fire sigils.

Such a find was not especially rare, but to come across it by chance was a delight. These things could never be found when intentionally sought—only met by fortune.

This was one of the joys of journeying: with attentiveness, unexpected treasures always awaited.

Yun Qi did not take more than he needed—a small piece was enough, leaving the rest for the next fortunate soul.

He tucked the lightning-struck bark into his bundle, sheathed his sword, and set off again.

After crossing this modest stretch of woodland, a surge of moist air swept in on the wind, crashing into the Daoist as he emerged from the forest.

Yun Qi took a deep breath, and almost unconsciously, began to draw in water energy with the “blow” technique.

Suddenly realizing something, he looked out into the distance and saw to the south an endless expanse of shimmering lake, dotted with mountains and islets, where a flock of white cranes was flying past—a true aquatic paradise.

He had reached Lake Boyang.

Lake Boyang, also known as Dashi Lake, was one of the Five Great Lakes, a rare giant lake under heaven.

Sanqing Mountain lay to the southeast of the lake; Yun Qi, having traveled west from the mountain, was now at the lake’s southern tip.

He walked toward the shore. A place of such beauty could not be rushed through; Yun Qi planned to linger for some days here, where the abundant vapor would allow him to amass much water energy. Of the Five Great Lakes, each was associated with an element; Lake Boyang belonged to metal, which would also aid in his cultivation of metal energy—the rarest of the five elements in the world, and incidentally, also his own weakest.

Moreover, Boyang stones had long been renowned. Surely, beneath the waters, there would be metal-water essence ores. Should he find a few, they would serve as fodder for “Autumn Waters.” Back at his home in the mountain gate, he had a stone lamp given by He Bingkun, forged from this very lake’s stone.

Though the lake now lay before his eyes, it still took Yun Qi, with all his swiftness, more than an hour to finally reach the shore—a testament to its vastness.

Standing at the water’s edge, the afternoon breeze was tinged with warmth. The glittering waves looked like gold leaf floating upon the lake, dazzling to the eyes.

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Yun Qi squinted into the distance, yet, even straining his eyes, he could not see the northern shore. He had never seen the sea, but wondered: if both were boundless, what difference could there be between lake and ocean?

Looking left and right, he could not see the end of the southern shore either, nor where it reached east or west. All he knew was that here, the vegetation was lush, the calls of tigers and monkeys echoed in his ears, and herds of rhinoceros and crocodiles roamed before his eyes, yet there was no sign of human habitation.

He searched along the southern shore, stopping and starting for the better part of half an hour, until at last he found a perfect spot.

A flat promontory jutted into the lake, unshaded save by tall osmanthus trees. Scattered among them were several giant boulders, the largest even taller than the trees themselves—a splendid place for meditation and cultivation.

Most importantly, of all the places he had drawn in energy along the way, none surpassed this one in the richness of metal energy. No wonder the osmanthus forest thrived here.

Yun Qi summoned the “Dragon Carriage,” soared above the treetops, and surveyed the area within a fifty-mile radius of the grove. He found nothing amiss, nor any sign of another’s dwelling—only wild, untamed wilderness.

Returning to the great stone at the grove’s center, Yun Qi decided to make this his hermitage for a time—be it ten days, a month or two, or perhaps until the osmanthus bloomed and filled the air with fragrance.

He unfastened his bundle and took out a length of vine strung with nine wooden bells—eight the size of fingernails, one half the size of a palm.

This was a magical artifact known as the “Eight Trigram Parent-Child Bells.” By placing the eight child bells at the eight compass points around him, with himself in the center, the parent bell would chime to warn of any disturbance of spiritual power or the approach of a creature with vigorous life force.

It was one of the few magical items Yun Qi had bought for his travels, costing ten taels of snowflake silver.

He plucked off the eight child bells, hanging them at the eight directions on trees about three miles from the central boulder. As each bell touched a trunk, its stem fused naturally with the bark, as if it had always grown there.

Returning to the center, he pressed the vine to an osmanthus tree, and it clung to the trunk of its own accord—nothing more was needed.

A simple protective warning was thus established. Outside the security of one’s sect, one must always be vigilant; to stay long in one place, precautions were essential.

But magical tools were, in the end, lifeless things. If he had a zombie servant or spiritual beast to stand guard, it would be much safer and more convenient; but Yun Qi had none—only an unmoving insect corpse in his pouch.

He glanced at the boulders. There were four in all, each spanning several paces; the smallest was as tall as a person, the largest twice a man’s height.

Yun Qi chose one about the height of two men, tested it with a pat—finding it solid, not brittle—and sat down on the ground, leaning against the osmanthus tree where the parent bell hung.

“To go without rain for a few days would be best,” he murmured to himself.

He drew a jade slip from his robe, the one he always kept close—“The Expansive Edict of Spontaneity.”

He pressed the slip to his brow, and with practiced ease, projected his consciousness into it, once more seeing the forty-nine golden characters floating in a white void. His gaze fell on the character “Rend,” and without hesitation, he focused his mind upon it.

Once again, Yun Qi’s consciousness was pulled into a blazing world, a place like a mountain of blades and a rain of swords, sharpness pressing in from every side, golden threads floating through the air. Across the sky, the shadowy form of a white tiger stretched from horizon to horizon.

Seated atop the tiger’s back was a spectral Daoist whose face could not be discerned. The Daoist’s left hand formed a mystical sign: thumb pressed to the middle and ring fingers, index and little fingers extended, pointing directly at himself.

At that moment, countless weapons throughout heaven and earth pointed in the direction indicated by the hand sign, ringing and wailing, echoing the sound that burst forth from the Daoist’s lips:

“Rend!”