Chapter Fifteen: Beholding the True Scripture

In the very heart of the lake, ripples began to spread beneath Jiang Pingchuan’s feet, steadily lifting his body upward. Sensing the changes below him, Jiang Pingchuan gazed straight ahead, a smile playing at his lips. Beneath his feet, the surging lake water transformed into a crystalline water lotus, its petals shimmering with translucent radiance. From the heart of the lotus, water gushed forth, flowing gently along the petals and returning to the Lake of Transcendence, whose waters, once shifting in a myriad of colors, now cleared as the lotus released its purity.

As the mist faded from the lake’s surface, Jiang Pingchuan beheld endless mountains and rivers, their beauty pristine and unspoiled. Some of the water from the lotus’s core wound its way around his feet, enveloping him in a swiftly spinning cocoon of water that emitted a soft hissing sound. Jiang Pingchuan watched as the water from the lotus’s heart washed over his body. He had no sense of how many years might have passed in that place; only moments before, reflected in the lake’s surface, he had seen himself in rags—his toes protruding through worn cloth shoes, his trousers reduced to rough shorts, his long robe tattered into a jacket.

Embarrassed by his own appearance, Jiang Pingchuan suddenly noticed that where the lotus water covered him, his clothing transformed. Silver-white leather boots encased his feet, delicate purple patterns circling them with a faint silvery sheen. He opened his arms wide, letting the lotus water envelop him. His lower body was now clad in silver brocade trousers, his upper body in a long silver robe adorned with pale violet embroidery, and a sash of nine inlaid white jades encircled his waist.

Gazing at his new attire, its silvery glow exuding a dignified and inviolable air, Jiang Pingchuan swung his robe and stepped out of the lotus. As his toe touched the water’s surface, another lotus, just the size of his foot, bloomed instantly to support him. With each step, new lotuses formed beneath him, never fading as he moved, while countless fish leapt from the water to escort him.

Jiang Pingchuan approached the shore, about to step onto land, when he discovered a youth lying hidden in the lakeside grass. He knelt beside the boy, puzzlement on his face, for the youth was none other than himself—yet here he was, crouching beside him. Confused, Jiang Pingchuan reached out and slapped the sleeping youth’s face twice. Suddenly, a powerful force began to draw him inward.

“Ouch!” Jiang Pingchuan sat up from the grass, rubbing his face. The memory of the preceding scene was vivid—had it been a dream? Yet it wasn’t, for he had grown, and his clothes had changed. He was dressed not in the silver-dappled robes, but in plain white silk, white boots lined with ermine, no longer radiant but as ordinary as any silken garment.

He stood, brushed the grass from himself, and glanced around. In the grass nearby, a translucent fish writhed in distress. Jiang Pingchuan gently cupped the fish in his hands and returned it to the water. The fish swam in circles before him, then leapt into his palm. As he caught it, the fish dissolved into a luminous, silvered jade pendant shaped like a fish, a silver ribbon in its mouth. Jiang Pingchuan pulled the ribbon, hanging the pendant at his waist. Bowing deeply to the lake, he turned away, intent on seeking his true self—the Jiang Pingchuan who had fallen asleep in the Scripture Repository was his real body.

He walked through this strange space, searching for the Repository’s location. No matter how far he traveled, he realized this world was not his own, and there was no way out. Abandoning his wandering, Jiang Pingchuan sat cross-legged and began to recite the golden script arrayed in his mind. He did not know its purpose, but sensed it would guide him from this realm.

He recited the golden script carefully, feeling a slight pressure behind his eyes. Rubbing them, he looked up to find the scene transformed. Before him lay the ancient path to Maoshan’s Scripture Repository, lush with verdant grasses of enlightenment. Breathing in the vibrant life along the path, Jiang Pingchuan entered the grand courtyard.

He stood before the towering greenwood tree, whose trunk was still withering, and gently laid his hand upon its bark. The sensation was strangely familiar, as if he and the ancient tree had met long ago.

Circling the tree, he noticed a fragile sapling growing at its roots, glowing with a faint, emerald light. As he crouched to observe, the ground beneath him shifted. His fish-shaped jade pendant brushed the earth, which grew damp. The sapling’s glow deepened, tinged with violet. Jiang Pingchuan stroked the branch and rose, approaching the Repository’s door.

He still recalled, vividly, the events when he and Maoqiu first entered this place—the eerie silence of the Underworld Hall lingered in his mind. Smiling, Jiang Pingchuan shook his head. He had yet to find Maoqiu; but when he awakened from this dream, he would seek the true mysteries hidden within the Repository.

With that, he pushed the door open. Inside, the great hall was empty, save for a youth meditating on a mat, lost in contemplation of eight ancient characters: “Repository of Scriptures, Cultivate Heart, Comprehend the Way.” Jiang Pingchuan placed a hand on the youth’s shoulder, and that familiar suction returned. Before he vanished, he glimpsed the boy’s eyelids fluttering.

He opened his eyes, still seated on the mat, stretching and rubbing his head. The dream had been too bizarre. Other than a faint pressure in his head, Jiang Pingchuan felt profoundly changed. Looking down at himself, he realized it was all real—he had grown, and wore the white robe from his dream, not the Daoist garb in which he’d entered.

He stood and felt the wind against his now-mature body, gazing at the eight spinning characters before him. As he waved his hand, the characters vanished, replaced by rows of shelves packed with ancient books—the long-desired scriptures, the collected tomes of Maoshan since its founding.

He approached the first shelf, took down a book, and opened it. As his eyes fell upon the first line of script, the book began to fade, the writing vanishing. In a panic, he flipped through the chapters, but the characters disappeared faster than he could turn the pages. When the last page turned blank, the ancient book crumbled into dust in his hands.

Kneeling, Jiang Pingchuan stared at the scattered fragments. He struck the remaining shelves with his palm, unleashing a gale that toppled them, scattering thousands of volumes, all dissolving into powder upon the floor.

He rose, bewildered, surveying the chaotic hall. Why could he not read these scriptures? What difference was there between this ruin and the previous emptiness?

Seated at the hall’s center, he closed his eyes in meditation. He could not tell how long he had dreamed, only that the migratory birds outside had sung ten times. Opening his eyes again, the Repository was barren—even the powder was gone.

He remembered the ten calls of the birds—that meant ten years had passed since he entered. Yan Qingxia had once said, “Comprehend one Dao in ten years; open one gate with one Dao.” By now, he should have been able to leave, but the doors of the Repository remained tightly shut. He had not yet earned the right to depart.

Sitting in confusion, Jiang Pingchuan reflected on his fifteen years of cultivation, yet he had not even touched the threshold of the first stage. He thought of his ancestor, his grandfather, his elder brother, Maoqiu, and his little Hua. Little Hua had reached the age of marriage, while he was trapped here, with no escape above or below. He sighed—now the hall was even lonelier than when he’d arrived, the eight characters gone.

As he stared at the empty chamber, a faint wind stirred before his eyes. At first, he thought he was imagining it, but then he silently recited the sigil he had seen beneath the wisteria tree before entering. A violet light flickered in his vision.

He saw that the wind was not wind at all, but a transparent ancient book spinning in the air. Reaching out, the book drifted softly into his hands, lighter than a feather.

On the first page, the words “Ten Thousand Methods” were inscribed in Sanskrit. Joy surged in Jiang Pingchuan’s heart—this was the compendium of all Daoist arts collected in the Repository. He had been mistaken—everyone had. It was not thousands of tomes, but a single book: “Ten Thousand Methods,” containing the myriad arts of Maoshan in one volume.

He opened the book and read the first line: “Obtain the myriad methods, cultivate the myriad paths; refine the body, refine the heart, cross the body, cross the self, cross all living beings. Defy the myriad methods, refine myriad phenomena; slay the body, slay the heart, exterminate immortals, exterminate demons, exterminate all spirits. Comply with the myriad methods, follow Heaven, follow Earth, follow the heart, follow the myriad beings.”

On the first page, he saw a text suffused with both righteous and murderous energy—righteousness to calm chaos and dominate all spirits, murderous intent to slay gods and demons and reign over the heavens.

Jiang Pingchuan sensed the immense power and depth of “Ten Thousand Methods.” Its effect depended on the cultivator’s heart: one who harbored murderous thoughts would use it for slaughter; one with a benevolent heart would follow its natural course.

Yet he was perplexed. Without absolute power, how could one bring peace to the world? But with such power, must one not fall into endless killing? Suddenly, the book in his hands felt unbearably heavy. He feared he might not be able to maintain his heart’s clarity in the face of its temptations, for even on the first page, the allure of “Ten Thousand Methods” was overwhelming.

He tried to turn to the last page, but found the book contained only two. He could not understand why he was forbidden to look ahead.

As he pondered, the script on the first page began to shift, revealing a new passage: “Cultivate the myriad methods; in compliance, Heaven’s shelter is gained and all spirits offer obeisance. In defiance, Heaven’s rejection is met and endless perdition ensues.”

As Jiang Pingchuan read, his eyes began to ache. He felt an unseen will pressing down, threatening to crush him—for simply wishing to preview the book’s final page, Heaven itself had taken notice, ready to erase him.

At that moment, Jiang Pingchuan felt a sudden hatred for the sky above his head.