Chapter Nine: Reunion

The Daoists gathered in Chengyu Courtyard were indeed learned men.

Chen Yu sought out a few with friendly faces and youthful appearances to converse with. Among them was a disciple from a Daoist sect who practiced the secret arts of nourishing the five viscera.

“Hahaha, Daoist Chen flatters me. The secret techniques I study are hardly considered top-tier and contain little mystery. They are merely something our founder chanced upon in the wilds and created—nothing worthy of great acclaim.”

Though he spoke humbly, the two crescent-shaped eyes nearly curved into slits could not conceal his delight.

Chen Yu offered a polite smile in return.

Though there was an element of flattery, he was not being entirely insincere. In their conversation, Chen Yu realized that most of the scriptures the other man referenced were unfamiliar to him. Listening now, the freshness of the teachings sparked inspiration within him, as if new insights were dawning.

If only he could obtain a copy to read for himself—surely he would gain much.

Glancing at the sword-bearing Daoist in green robes, Chen Yu thought to himself, “No wonder he hails from a great sect; his knowledge is extraordinary.”

Beyond the scriptures themselves, the annotations of his elders and the Daoist’s own interpretations left Chen Yu full of admiration—this was the benefit of having a master’s guidance.

Compared to himself, who was entirely self-taught, his own learning was far less systematic.

They talked at length, until the sun climbed to its zenith.

According to Zhengyuan Temple, the current assembly would unfold in three stages: the meditation retreat, the minor offering, and the martial debate.

By the time of Shen hour, the first segment would begin.

“Thank you for your guidance, Daoist Brother,” Chen Yu said. “Should you ever need anything, feel free to seek me at Shiya. The door is always open.”

“You are too kind, Daoist Chen. If I ever visit Shiya, I would love to debate with you again.”

The two clasped fists in farewell and Chen Yu took his leave.

At noon, he exited the courtyard and found a small eatery along the street. The shop was modest, without a signboard, only a flag planted near the roadside.

On one side, the flag read “Fresh Meat Broth”; on the other, “Liu Family Hand-Pulled Noodles.”

“One bowl of noodle soup, please,” Chen Yu called out as he entered.

Steam rose to greet him, and before he could pick a seat, a figure stood up from a nearby table. A familiar voice called out:

“Daoist Chen?”

Surprised, Chen Yu looked up. The man wore a pale blue inner robe, over which hung a robe of dark green and black with flowing sleeves. His sword brows framed eyes bright as stars, full of spirit.

It was none other than Daoist Jiang Qin’an, the esteemed disciple of Haiyun Monastery, who had recently delivered an invitation.

“It has been some time. I trust you are well?”

“All is well, all is well.”

Jiang Qin’an’s complexion was rosy, much improved from the dusty, travel-worn look he’d had in April. His clothes were neat, and the sword at his back shone with a smooth polish, untouched by dust.

Chen Yu took a seat at the vacant spot before his friend, collecting the hem of his robe over his lap.

“I thought we’d only meet during the meditation retreat. Who would have expected to find you here?” Chen Yu smiled as he glanced around. “Where are your fellow disciples?”

“They’ve all gone with my uncle to Zhengyuan Temple to help prepare for the assembly,” Jiang replied.

“Stealing a little leisure, are you?” Chen Yu teased lightly.

“Not at all,” Jiang waved to the shopkeeper, then explained, “I was assigned to notify the various guests. Since it’s nearly noon, I thought to fill my stomach before continuing. It’s pure chance I ran into you.”

He sipped some plain water, sighing with a touch of envy, “Unlike you, who can live a life of leisure and freedom.”

To be honest, Chen Yu thought, you seem to enjoy yourself plenty.

He only shook his head and changed the subject.

“Here you are, sirs—your noodles,” the shopkeeper announced, setting bowls before them.

Chen Yu inspected the bowl: the broth was clear and simple. It was evident the couple running the shop had served many Daoists before, taking care not to add any pungent herbs or scallions, only a few drops of their own coarse sauce.

Lifting his chopsticks, Chen Yu looked up to see the Daoist across from him wolfing down his noodles as if he were savoring delicacies from the mountains, despite it being only plain soup noodles.

Was the food at Haiyun Monastery truly so lacking?

Chen Yu was doubtful. It was possible, however—he recalled the old Daoist once saying that the world was full of oddities, and some ancient sects still abided by strange ascetic rules.

One meal a day, or three vegetarian meals, or perhaps a fortnight without meat.

But he’d never heard of Haiyun Monastery having such rules.

Meanwhile, Jiang, having gulped down several mouthfuls, finally paused and met Chen Yu’s gaze. Even with years of experience, he could not help but chuckle awkwardly.

“My apologies. I’ve been busy with the assembly these past few days, running myself ragged. I only managed some morning exercises today and haven’t eaten a grain of rice since. Besides, the noodle soup here is truly excellent.”

With that, Jiang devoured another mouthful, swallowing the broth as if he could swallow his own tongue.

Could it really be that good? Chen Yu skeptically took a taste, sipping the broth as he had seen Jiang do.

His eyes lit up.

Not bad at all.

As Jiang, nearly finished with his meal, remarked, “This shop has been open for over twenty years. When my master and elders brought me to Pingcheng years ago, they brought me here a few times. Even now, the taste is just as I remember.”

Ignoring the middle-aged Daoist lost in reverie, Chen Yu ate his noodles, considering that once the assembly was over, he might try to buy some noodles from the shopkeeper.

He wondered if they were freshly made or dried in advance. If it was the former, he’d think twice.

As thoughts turned in his mind, his chopsticks didn’t pause. For martial artists like themselves, one bowl of noodles was hardly enough. After filling their bellies, the two made their way to a teahouse.

“With a good friend in town, how could I not play host?” said Jiang Qin’an, who was clearly taking advantage of a slow day, leading Chen Yu to a building that hardly resembled a teahouse.

It was low and square, the courtyard narrow.

Inside, a servant greeted them. The faint sound of strings drifted through the courtyard.

Three or five bamboo stalks stood tall in the yard, with meditation mats laid out beneath them.

The ambiance was elegant, tranquil, and serene.

“Daoist Jiang, this hardly feels like a teahouse,” Chen Yu observed, glancing around. It felt more like the residence of someone devoted to the Dao.

He was not wrong.

Jiang pointed to a small two-story building not far off.

“That’s the teahouse. This is merely the front courtyard arranged by a true adept to settle the wind and water.”

A true adept? Feng Shui?

The words gave Chen Yu pause. He knew that a “true adept” was an honorific for those in Daoism who had achieved profound cultivation and exemplary virtue.

Such people spent their lives immersed in Daoist classics, seeking transcendence and immortality.

As far as he knew, no one in these lands had truly achieved enlightenment. The titles of True Lord and Immortal bestowed upon some were often posthumous honors granted by later generations.

Yet a true adept was still far beyond Chen Yu’s reach—at least in terms of Daoist learning.

Even the old Daoist, for all his martial prowess and scholarly achievement, had never been called a true adept.

He also reflected on Jiang’s mention of wind and water—Feng Shui.

His steps slowed as he pondered.

“A Daoist adept skilled in the mountain talisman arts…”