Chapter Six: The Lineages and Sects of the Dao (Part Two)

Thunk!

The sharp hatchet came down, splitting open a large gash in the emerald bamboo stalk. Chen Yu gripped the blade steadily and brought it down again at the same height on the opposite side. With two matching cuts, the hollow interior of the bamboo was revealed. He gave the stalk a gentle push, and with a cracking sound, the entire length snapped and toppled over, the leaves rustling in a chorus before piling up on the ground.

He stepped forward, picked up a section from the middle, held it up to his eyes for scrutiny, measured it, then shook his head with a sigh and set it back down.

Behind him, there lay a number of similarly felled speckled bamboos, perhaps a dozen in all, varying in height and girth, but evidently none met his satisfaction.

Chen Yu rolled up his sleeves and resumed the selection process.

In truth, his standards were not especially high, but standing on the ground made it difficult to see the upper portions hidden by leaves and branches. Time and again, he found himself favoring the lower sections of several stalks, only to discover a flaw further up—either a twist, a slant, or excessive thickness.

Fortunately, the mountain provided bamboo in abundance; there was no need for worry.

Cuckoo—
Cuckoo—

The sun was climbing toward its zenith, and midday approached. The birds’ calls grew ever more vibrant and varied, echoing through the forested slopes.

Suddenly, a cluster of grass shook, and a smooth bamboo stalk came flying out, landing with a thud. Chen Yu emerged, brushing fallen leaves from his clothes as he plucked them off, eyes lowered.

The bamboo was a fresh green, its branches and twigs already shorn away, leaving a surface that was coarse to the touch, with a faint, bristly feel. Having tested the grip a moment ago, he found it satisfactory enough, and with several more steps in the process ahead, he was sure the finished product would do nicely.

Catching a small fish in the mountains should pose no trouble.

Qingtai Mountain was ringed by rivers on three sides, but the Yunhe Monastery stood closer to the western edge, near the foothills of the Baiqi Range, where the land was hilly and lakes and rivers were scarce.

There was no shortage of cold pools and hidden springs in the mountains, and brooks abounded, but such places could not nurture large fish. The pool that Chen Yu originally had in mind was nestled deep in the forest, encircled by boulders—a natural, shaded basin.

Someone had claimed there was a great catch to be had there, but Chen Yu knew better than to take such boasts at face value.

Fishing, after all, was about the act itself, not the fish.

Returning to the present, Chen Yu, having finished with the bamboo, did not immediately head back to the monastery. Instead, he shouldered his prize and descended the slope, leaving the stalk at the trailhead, then tightened the basket on his back and set off along another path.

His errands this morning were by no means limited to cutting bamboo.

Traversing the narrow trail, towering rocks loomed on either side. Chen Yu’s hatchet flashed now and then, slashing through thorny underbrush that blocked his way.

The mountain shrubs grew at an astonishing pace. It had been barely half a month since his last visit to this path—then, too, he’d broken many a stem, but in just ten days’ time, the foliage had returned, thicker than ever.

He pressed onward, following the faint track deeper into Qingtai Mountain’s heart.

Soon, the stony ground gave way to gentler terrain. He continued for another half-hour, until hills rooted with ancient trees came into view, lush and verdant.

This time, however, he did not plunge straight into the forest. Instead, he skirted its edge, all the while recalling his bearings, until he came to a shallow depression.

Ahead, a deep pit lay half-concealed in the grass, yellow earth freshly turned, the broken roots and stems of plants exposed.

A few steps further brought him to the lip of a steep cliff, twenty-odd yards down. On the lowest outcrop lay a fallen trunk, now blanketed with moss and wild grass. The bark had split, and against the rock face there seemed to be a dark hollow—perhaps the den of some small creature.

Chen Yu gave it only a cursory glance before turning away. He approached the edge, careful to keep half a step from the brink—one careless move and he’d tumble down.

The soil here was loose to begin with, which was why it had collapsed in last month’s heavy rain, taking that great tree with it.

Now, only a gaping pit remained.

Bending down, he peered along the cliff, searching intently until something caught his eye—a flash of excitement shone in his gaze.

There, wedged in a crevice, grew a jagged clump of fern.

Most striking of all were the tangerine-hued fruits nestled amid its leaves.

“Just as I thought—ripe at last.”

Chen Yu’s keen eyes spotted the faint red flecks on the fruit.

Without delay, he stretched out on the ground and reached for the plant, grasping it firmly and pulling up both leaves and roots.

He stood and examined it closely, discovering more than one fruit among the foliage—though only a few were golden orange, the rest were still unripe or already rotting.

Still, Chen Yu was satisfied. A month and a half ago, he had stumbled upon this very plant—the silver-tangerine herb—while wandering here, and the fruits were still tiny then. He’d decided to wait, and now, as he’d hoped, they were mature.

He carefully sorted through the leaves and counted four ripe fruits. By his recollection, that would be enough to make a box of White Cloud Powder, perhaps even more if he gathered enough ingredients.

White Cloud Powder was a recipe he had uncovered while studying his predecessor’s memories. It was not a famous elixir, for Yunhe Monastery adhered to the principles of Pure Illumination, belonging to the Jingming school, without the tradition of the Alchemical sect.

Among the four great Daoist lineages—Alchemy, Exorcism, Talismanic, and Pure Illumination—only the Alchemical school specialized in refining lead and mercury; the others seldom ventured into such arts.

But Alchemy was not widely practiced among the Daoists of the Liang Dynasty. The renowned Zhengyang Monastery followed the path of Exorcism, with some overlap with Pure Illumination. Only in recent decades had Zhenwu Mountain established a secondary branch, Lingdan Peak, devoted to Alchemy, though its main tradition remained Exorcism.

In this flourishing era of Daoism, every region boasted its own variation.

In summary, the Daoist world could be classified into three categories.

First, by lineage—such as Zhengyang Monastery and Zhenwu Mountain, the most illustrious schools in the land.

Second, by doctrine—four great traditions: True One, Clear Microcosm, Qianyang, and Taiping. Though Zhengyang and Zhenwu both practiced Exorcism, their guiding philosophies differed.

Third, by method—the four great schools already mentioned. While Daoism emphasized cultivation of character, it also pursued freedom, tranquility, and longevity. Yet, as far as Chen Yu knew, no one had truly succeeded in these pursuits. The few who boasted of great achievements or even ascension in broad daylight were, he suspected, either charlatans or deluded.

For now, nearly all these realms of cultivation existed only as fantasies in the minds of Daoists, confined to books and theory.

At least, that was the impression Chen Yu received from reading works like The Record of Ten Lives in Pure Illumination—full of mystical rambling but vague when it came to specifics, always hedging and leaving the rest for the reader to “comprehend for themselves.”

It was as if imagination outpaced reality.

Nevertheless, whatever grand illusions these Daoist masters entertained, their core ideas remained sound—especially on matters of mental clarity and moral education. In these, their teachings were worthy of respect.

That, too, was why Chen Yu relished poring over Daoist texts—profound yet entertaining, who could resist such a combination?

...

He tucked the silver-tangerine herb into the pouch at his waist—his basket was reserved for other finds.

Once everything was stowed, Chen Yu dipped into the thick forest nearby.

He had hardly taken a step when, at the base of a tree, he spotted a gray-capped, snowy white mushroom shaped like an umbrella.

A smile spread across his face. Excellent—barely begun, and already a harvest.