"In a Land of Uncharted Mysteries, in a Time Long, Long Ago"
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In the distant horizon of the twilight wasteland, a fiery orb hung suspended, casting a red glow like a massive flame. The newly born moss, emerging from the melted snow, spread across the desolate plain like scars of burnt skin. Silence enveloped the surroundings, occasionally broken by the distant cries of eagles and the leaps of yellow antelopes.
Three figures emerged on the vast expanse, gathering beneath a rare small tree of the barren land. Without exchanging greetings, they instinctively lowered their heads, as if the tree held something intriguing and worthy of deep contemplation.
Two ant colonies engaged in a fierce battle around the exposed, light-brown roots, for it seemed finding a perfect home like those roots in this wasteland was an arduous task. The war waged intensely, resulting in thousands of ant carcasses scattered about, although it appeared no more than a small black spot.
Despite the chilly weather, the three individuals wore minimal clothing, seemingly unfazed by the cold. They remained fixated, their attention unwavering. It was unclear how long they had been observing until one of them softly broke the silence, whispering, "In the realm of the mundane ants, how fares the grand path?"
The speaker had youthful features, with innocent eyes and an undersized, slender frame. He was a young boy dressed in a collarless, lightweight garment of moon-white color. Behind him, he carried a sheathless, flimsy wooden sword, while his black hair was delicately tied into a bun with a wooden fork piercing through it — the fork seemed poised to fall at any moment, yet it remained steadfast, like a resolute pine on a mountainside.
"When the Abbot was delivering his teachings, I once witnessed countless flying ants emitting radiant light as they ascended," spoke the young monk. He wore a tattered cotton robe, and a fresh stubble of dark hair sprouted on his head, reflecting the certainty and determination embedded in his countenance and words.
Shaking his head, the boy with the wooden sword replied, "Even flying ants eventually come crashing down. They can never truly reach the sky."
"If you persist in such thinking, you will never comprehend the essence of the Dao," the young monk gently closed his eyes and looked down at the scattered ant limbs beneath his feet. "I've heard that your family's monastery recently accepted a young child surnamed Chen. You should understand that a place like Zhi Shou Monastery will never have just one prodigy."
Raising an eyebrow, the young swordsman retorted with a touch of sarcasm, "I've never understood why someone like you, who can't embrace freedom, has the audacity to roam the world on behalf of the Floating Monastery."
The young monk remained unruffled by the swordsman's provocation, gazing at the anxious and scurrying ants beneath his feet. "Ants can fly and fall, but they excel at climbing, at being the foundation for their companions. They fear no sacrifice. With ants piling up one by one, as long as their numbers are sufficient, they will undoubtedly form a mound of ants that can reach the sky."
A sharp, startled cry of an eagle resounded through the dusky sky, evoking a sense of panic and fear. It was unclear whether the eagle feared the peculiar trio beneath the tree or the nonexistent colossal ant mound that stretched toward the heavens, or something else entirely.
"I'm scared," the boy carrying the wooden sword suddenly spoke, his slim shoulders shrinking inward.
The young monk nodded in agreement, though his expression remained calm and resolute.
The third youth under the small tree possessed a robust physique, clad in what appeared to be animal skins. His bare legs were as hard as stone, and beneath his rough skin, one could clearly see the accumulation of boundless explosive strength. He remained silent, without uttering a word, yet the goosebumps that arose on his skin ultimately betrayed his true feelings.
The three young individuals beneath the tree hailed from the world's most enigmatic places, tasked by their respective sects to journey through the realm. Like three dazzling stars traversing the mortal realm, they radiated a remarkable presence. However, even they felt an irresistible fear in this desolate wilderness today.
The eagle had no fear of ants, perceiving them as mere black dots. Ants, in turn, held no fear of the eagle, for they lacked the qualification to become prey in the talons of such a powerful creature. In their world, the mighty predator known as the eagle did not exist—unseen and untouched.
Yet, over countless millennia, it is believed that within the ant colony, there are always a few who, for some mysterious reason, decide to momentarily divert their gaze from decaying leaves and rotten shells and cast their eyes upon the azure sky above. And then, their world becomes different.
For it is in seeing that fear arises.
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The three young individuals beneath the tree looked up, their gaze fixed on a shallow trench several tens of meters away. The trench was naturally formed, not deep, and devoid of anything except darkness. It stood out vividly against the mottled surface of the desolate plain.
This trench had appeared abruptly two hours ago, extending vertically into the sky. It seemed as if an invisible celestial entity had cleaved it with a colossal axe or a divine craftsman had drawn it with an enormous brush. It sent shivers down the spine, evoking both confusion and fear.
The young man carrying the wooden sword stared at the dark line and said, "I always thought that the immovable King of the Netherworld was just a legend."
"In the legends, the King of the Netherworld has seventy thousand offspring. Perhaps this one has occasionally strayed into the mortal realm," the young monk replied.
"Legends are just legends," the young man with the wooden sword said expressionlessly. "Legends also claim that a sage appears every thousand years, but in these few thousand years, who has truly witnessed a sage?"
"If you truly don't believe, why don't you dare to cross that black line?"
No one dared to step over that black line, not even they who were proud and powerful.
Ants could crawl across, centipedes could leap over, yellow goats could bound over, eagles could fly over, but only humans couldn't.
It is precisely because they are human that they dare not cross.
The young man with the wooden sword looked up towards the horizon and asked, "If that child truly exists, then... where is he?"
By now, the sun had already sunk halfway below the ground, and darkness was enveloping the surroundings from all directions. The temperature on the desolate plain plummeted rapidly, and a palpable sense of foreboding began to shroud the entire world.
"As night falls and darkness spreads everywhere, where can you possibly search?" replied the young man clad in animal skins.
He broke the silence that had persisted, his voice possessing a deep and rugged quality that belied his young age. It resonated like the churning of a river and the grating of a rusty blade against solid stone.
After uttering those words, he departed, leaving in a peculiar manner, unique to him.
Several bursts of flames suddenly erupted from the young man's sturdy and muscular bare legs, engulfing the lower half of his body in a fiery red glow. The howling wind caused the scattered stones on the ground to roll rapidly. Then, as if an invisible force had seized his neck, his body was lifted high into the sky, soaring dozens of yards above, only to come crashing down with a thunderous impact. And then, just like a stone propelled without rhyme or reason, he bounced up again, moving towards the distance with an extraordinary mix of clumsiness and incredible speed.
"I only know his surname is Tang, but I don't know his full name," he said.
The enigmatic figure vanished into the distance, leaving behind a trail of mystery and uncertainty.
The young man with the wooden sword pondered for a moment and said, "If we were to encounter him in a different time and place, only one of us would surely survive. If his disciple is already this formidable, then how powerful must his master be? I've heard that his master has been cultivating the Twenty-Three Year Cicada for years. I wonder if, after breaking through, he will carry a heavy shell on his back."
Silence enveloped the group, and no one responded. The young man turned around, perplexed, to see the young monk with closed eyes, his eyelids trembling rapidly. It seemed that he was contemplating a perplexing question. In fact, ever since the youth in the animal skin spoke about the darkness, the young monk had been trapped in this strange state of mind.
The young monk, sensing the gaze upon him, slowly opened his eyes, revealing a grin. The initial determination and calmness in his smile had transformed into an unexpected sense of compassion. His lips were torn and bloody, as if his tongue had been chewed into a pulp.
The young man with the wooden sword furrowed his brow in confusion.
The young monk solemnly removed the prayer beads from his wrist and hung them around his neck. He then took a deliberate step forward and began to depart. His footsteps were heavy yet steady, appearing to move slowly but in an instant, his figure blurred and was about to vanish in the distance.
Under the tree, there was no one else left. All the emotions on the face of the young man with the wooden sword faded away, leaving only absolute calmness or rather, absolute indifference. He gazed towards the north, where the shadow kept jumping and crashing down like a stone in the dust, and uttered in a low voice, "Evil spirit."
He looked at the silhouette of the young monk walking silently with his head lowered towards the west and said, "Heretic."
"Inconsequential," came the reply.
Evil spirits and heretics, both inconsequential.
After uttering those words, the thin wooden sword carried on the young man's back vibrated inexplicably, emitting a buzzing sound. With a swift movement, it soared into the air, transforming into a streak of light. It slashed through the small tree on the barren plain, dividing it into fifty-three thousand three hundred and thirty-three pieces, reducing everything—branches and trunk—to powder that scattered over the forgotten and lifeless ants.
"A mute speaks, sprinkle some salt on the bread."
The young man sang a song as he walked towards the east, and the slender wooden sword floated quietly several meters behind him.
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In the first year of the Tang Tianqi era, a phenomenon occurred in the barren plain that defied reason. Disciples from various sects gathered here, traversing the world, yet unable to comprehend its meaning.
Since that day, the successor of the Suspended Monastery, Qi Nianxiu, observed a vow of silence, never speaking again. The descendant of the Mo Sect with the Tang surname vanished into the vast desert, leaving no trace. Ye Su, the successor of the Knowledge-Keeping Temple, broke through the gates of death and traveled through various countries. Each of them gained their own insights.
However, little did they know that on the day when darkness was about to descend, just beyond the fearsome chasm they dared not step across, near a small pond in the direction of the capital, there sat a scholar—an impoverished scholar wearing worn-out shoes and a tattered coat.
This scholar seemed oblivious to the power and severity represented by the chasm. In his left hand, he held a book, while in his right hand, he held a wooden ladle. When idle, he read the book; when tired, he rested a little; when thirsty, he scooped water into the ladle and drank. Covered in dust, his face showed contentment.
Only after the departure of the three individuals in the distance, and as the shallow black chasm on the barren plain gradually filled with windblown sand, did the scholar stand up. He brushed off the dust from his body, tied the wooden ladle around his waist, carefully hid the book inside his coat, and finally cast a glance towards the direction of the capital before leaving.
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In the bustling city of Chang'an, there was a long alleyway. On the eastern side stood the residence of the prominent official, known as the Minister of Communications, while on the western side resided the renowned General Xuanwei. Although they may not have held the highest positions of power, their authority was deeply respected. Normally, the alleyway exuded a tranquil atmosphere, but today it was anything but serene.
Inside the Minister's residence, there was a joyous occasion taking place. Midwives hurried in and out, attending to their duties. However, a discerning eye could detect a hint of underlying emotions in the faces of the inhabitants. Despite the apparent joy, not a single person dared to let out a genuine laughter. The servants scurrying past the corner of the walls, carrying water basins, occasionally caught snippets of external sounds that filled them with fear.
As for the renowned General Xuanwei, Lin Guangyuan, his once esteemed reputation for bravery had been tarnished. Having offended the Empire's foremost valiant general, Xiahou, he was no longer considered courageous. Accused of conspiring with an enemy nation, he underwent months of interrogation under the personal scrutiny of the Prince himself. Finally, a verdict had been reached.
The outcome was unequivocal, and the punishment, all too simple—extermination of the entire household. This decree meant that the responsibilities of his actions would be extended to his family, who would all be subject to collective execution.
The doors of the Minister's residence remained tightly shut, and the steward anxiously peered through the crack, his gaze fixed on the closed doors of the General's mansion across the street. He could hear the sounds of heavy objects cleaving through flesh, the rolling thuds of severed heads, and his body involuntarily trembled.
Having lived in the same alley for many years, the steward was acquainted with everyone from the General's household, from the butler to the gatekeepers. As he listened to the horrifying noises, he imagined countless sharp cleavers slicing through the familiar necks of those he knew. He visualized their faces, familiar and dear, rolling incessantly on the cobblestone, eventually piling up at the doorstep, forming a small mountain...
Fresh blood oozed from beneath the gates of the General's mansion, its dark hue mixed with a viscous texture akin to glutinous rice paste infused with cinnabar. Intermingled within were strands of meat fibers resembling purple yam residue. The pale-faced steward fixated on the scene, unable to control his emotions any longer. Leaning against the door, he doubled over and began to retch.
Suddenly, the sound of urgent horse hooves echoed from outside, accompanied by shouts and the rough thuds of someone being struck. Faintly, amidst the curses, it could be discerned that someone had escaped from the General's mansion. A household guard from the Prince's residence, riding on horseback, bellowed, "Not a single one should be spared!"
In a certain corner of the Minister's residence, within the garden, there were several marks and bloodstains on the wall.
"Young master, listen to me. You cannot go out. Let Xiao Chu go, let him go..."
Not far from there, inside a nearby woodshed, a steward from the General's mansion, covered in blood, gazed at two boys, aged four or five, in front of him. His cracked lips quivered slightly, his voice hoarse and harsh, filled with wrinkles and mud. His face was a canvas of despair and struggle, persisting until old tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, tarnished by desolation.
It didn't take the Imperial Guards who had breached the Minister's residence much time to locate the woodshed. Upon seeing the lifeless bodies of the young and the old inside, they conducted their inspection and the sergeant, still trembling with fear, loudly reported, "Not a single one left alive. They're all dead."
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The simplest interpretation of the phrase "transcendent beings beyond the world" is that extraordinary individuals reside outside the mundane world. Those who are secluded from the world are more likely to possess exceptional qualities, and within their seclusion lies certain hidden truths. They fear what ordinary people cannot comprehend, and they find joy in what ordinary people cannot understand.
As a result, the mundane world remains oblivious to what transpires outside its realm, and those outside do not concern themselves with the joys and sorrows or the new beginnings and farewells unfolding in the mundane world. They care not for the butcher who shortchanges the weight on his scale or the wine lover whose cellar has been invaded by mice. They do not pay attention to the demise of a valiant general in the court or the birth of a daughter to a certain civil official.
The sorrows and joys of these two worlds never intertwine.
If they were to intertwine, it would be the realm of sages and virtuous beings.
On the outskirts of the capital city of Chang'an, there is a tall mountain. Half of its peaks are hidden in the clouds. Between the cliffs and precipices on the western side of the mountain's rear, a figure is slowly ascending. This man's silhouette is remarkably tall, dressed in a single garment with a black cloak over it. He carries a food container in his hand.
Swaying against the wind, he reaches a spot outside a mountain cave and sits down. Opening the food container, he takes out a pair of chopsticks and picks up a slice of ginger, carefully chewing it. He then takes two pieces of lamb meat and eats them, letting out a satisfied sigh of appreciation.
As the sun sets over the imperial city of Chang'an, it gradually becomes engulfed by the darkness of the night, with distant dark clouds of accumulated rain approaching. The tall man gazes at a certain spot in the city and sighs, saying, "I seem to see the past you." Then, he looks up at the sky, raises his chopsticks towards it, and remarks, "As for you, what good does it do to soar high?"
Clearly, these two sentences are directed at different individuals. After a brief moment of silence, the tall man empties his cup of rice wine in one gulp, holds up the empty bowl, and offers a solemn tribute to the surroundings of the city, saying, "The wind rises, the rain falls, and night approaches."
As he mentions the wind rising, a gust of wind blows in from beyond the mountains, rustling his robes and causing the trees between the rocks to sway violently. When he utters the words "the rain falls," dark clouds above the city suddenly darken, and countless raindrops converge into a pillar, pouring down relentlessly from the twilight sky. By the time he finishes speaking, the night has completely taken over half of the celestial dome, as dark as the eyes of the god of the underworld.
The tall man places the wine bowl down heavily and mutters in frustration, "Damn, it's so damn dark."