Chapter Eighteen: The Daoist Temple

Rather than calling it a temple, it would be more accurate to say it was simply a hermitage, for this so-called temple consisted of nothing more than a single small house, albeit with its own courtyard and gate.

Yang Jiekai approached and examined the place, discovering that the door was unlocked. He called out several times but received no answer, so he pushed open the timeworn, creaking wooden gate, whose hinges protested after years of neglect.

Upon entering, he found himself in a tiny courtyard, no larger than half a basketball court. Yet it was meticulously kept, spotless and orderly. What puzzled Yang Jiekai was the stone table in the center, atop which rested a purple clay teapot. Beside it, a small teacup had already been filled and was still steaming, clearly poured only moments before.

Even from a distance, the fragrance of the tea wafted over, making his throat feel parched.

“Is anyone here?” Yang Jiekai called toward the shut door of the inner room. When there was still no response, he called out again, “Is anyone here? If no one answers, I’ll just have this tea, then!”

Still, there was no sign of life. Throwing caution to the wind, he sat down on the stone stool, lifted the teacup, and took a delicate sip. At once, a gentle warmth slid down his throat and spread through him, filling his mouth with a rare and exotic aroma. Though not much of a connoisseur, Yang Jiekai couldn’t help but exclaim, “Excellent tea!”

He finished the first cup in a few quick sips, then eagerly reached for the teapot to pour himself a second. This time, he abandoned all pretense of patience, and drank it down in one large gulp, barely pausing to let it cool.

“Tea, like life, must be savored slowly to appreciate its flavor. If one gulps it down like you, my friend, then I fear you will never taste its true essence.” Suddenly, a voice—old but full of vigor—rang out from behind him.

“Who’s there?” Yang Jiekai’s face tightened, and he spun around. His hearing was excellent, and even the tiniest noise ten meters away would not escape him—let alone a voice so near—yet he had not sensed this person’s approach. He tensed instinctively.

But when he turned to look, he relaxed at once. The newcomer hardly fit the image of a villain. Clad in a faded and patched Daoist robe and worn cloth shoes, slightly stooped, carrying a bundle of firewood on his back, he looked more like a rustic farmer than anything else.

“Do you like the tea, honored guest?” The old Daoist didn’t even glance at Yang Jiekai as he laid down the firewood in a corner of the yard, then slowly walked over.

“This… is this your home?” Yang Jiekai, still holding the cup, felt awkward. He hastened to explain, “I was just passing by and thought I’d have a look. I called out but nobody answered, and I was thirsty, so I couldn’t resist having some of your tea. But don’t worry, I’ll pay for it. A cup of tea at a teahouse costs ten yuan, so I’ll give you eleven—can’t let you take a loss, sir.”

The old Daoist didn’t have the white hair and immortal bearing of those seen in films; rather, his face looked a bit severe, sallow and thin like a farmer’s. Yet when he smiled, there was a gentle kindness in his expression. He sat down across from Yang Jiekai and chuckled, “No need for alarm, my friend. This tea was prepared for you.”

Yang Jiekai’s brow furrowed. “You knew I was coming?”

The old Daoist ignored his surprise, poured himself a cup of tea, and replied unhurriedly, “It is fate that brings people together. Since Heaven has arranged our meeting today, I won’t let you leave empty-handed.”

He looked at Yang Jiekai and said, “May I ask for your birth date and time, so that I might take a look?”

Yang Jiekai hesitated, then inwardly scoffed. So after all that mysterious pretense, this was just another fortune-teller trying to make a quick buck! He’d seen plenty of such charlatans during his years as a mercenary.

Still, he decided to play along out of boredom. Yang Jiekai had no taboos about such things. He calmly recited the birth date and time his instructor had once told him, adopting an air of earnest reverence.

The old Daoist’s memory seemed poor; though the birth details were simple enough, he still fished out a sheet of yellowed paper and an old pen, writing the information down with great care. As he finished, the kindly smile on his face slowly faded.

Keep acting, then! Yang Jiekai smirked inwardly. He’d bet the old man would soon start spouting dire warnings about great misfortune and then ask for money to ward off disaster. He’d encountered every kind of trickster in his line of work.

After a moment’s study, the Daoist’s brow drew together. He dipped a long, untrimmed fingernail in the tea and began sketching intricate patterns on the stone table. Yang Jiekai silently laughed—this one was dedicated to his craft! A student of Chinese culture, Yang Jiekai recognized the rough outline of a Taiji diagram, though this one was more complex, covered in odd markings and twisted lines.

When he finished, the old Daoist looked up abruptly. For an instant, his murky eyes flashed with startling clarity as he fixed his gaze on Yang Jiekai.

An inexplicable chill ran down Yang Jiekai’s back. Under that piercing scrutiny, he felt a primal fear, as if a weaker creature had come under the gaze of a deadly predator. Not even in the face of guns or venomous beasts had he ever known such dread.

He forced himself to remain calm, matching the Daoist’s gaze, every muscle and nerve taut, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

After a long moment, the old man’s eyes softened again. Yang Jiekai exhaled heavily, realizing his back was drenched in cold sweat.

“You should go, young man. Out of respect for our fateful meeting, I’ll give you four words to remember: keep kindness in your heart. No matter what happens, do not forget them, or disaster will surely follow.” With that, the Daoist rose and, his bearing reverting to that of an ordinary farmer, turned and walked toward the inner room.

“Master, please give me some guidance!” By now, Yang Jiekai no longer believed the old man was a mere con artist. He knew well the secrets that haunted his own life and called out in earnest.

The old Daoist paused, then replied without looking back, “Heaven’s will cannot be revealed. Only the one who tied the knot can untie it. If you are interested, go to the Sutra Library at Anhai Temple—you may find what you seek there.” With that, he ignored Yang Jiekai’s attempts to speak further, entered the inner room, and shut the door with a creak.

Yang Jiekai stood there in a daze, then sighed deeply. He pulled out a hundred-yuan note and placed it on the stone table, calling out, “Master, I’ve left money here for the fortune-telling and the tea. I’m going now, but I’ll come back to see you again.” With another sigh, he made his way out of the courtyard.

Inside the hermitage, there was only a battered table, a single chair, and a small bed, all scrupulously neat. In the center stood an object veiled with a piece of blue cloth, its outline suggesting a long wooden box.

The old Daoist knelt respectfully on a cushion before the box, performed three solemn bows, then gently lifted the cloth, which looked as though it had not been moved in many years. With both hands, he reverently cradled the vermillion box. Under the weak lamplight, its surface shimmered with a faint greenish glow.

He sighed heavily, caressing the box as he murmured, “Qingyun Sword, let us hope I never have need to draw you again in this life…”

After leaving the hermitage, Yang Jiekai’s mind was tangled, thoughts swirling in confusion. Though everything had just happened, it felt as if he’d awoken from a dream. Only one thing remained clear in his memory: the words “Sutra Library.”

“Brother-in-law! Weren’t you waiting for us at the foot of the mountain? What, you missed my sister after just a few minutes apart?” Han Wei teased as she saw Yang Jiekai striding by, just after she had finished paying respects to a Buddha statue.

“This is a place of Buddhist purity. Watch your tongue!” Han Ning, her older sister, frowned and gently rebuked her.

“Be quiet!” Yang Jiekai, surprisingly stern, snapped as he hurried away.

Han Wei opened her mouth in protest, glancing from Yang Jiekai’s receding figure to her sister, who turned away with a huff. Clinging to Aunt Wang, she pouted, “Aunt Wang, do you see how my sister and brother-in-law gang up on me already…”

Anhai Temple was truly immense—not only vast, but with winding paths and countless branching corridors, every building separated by high red walls. Even Yang Jiekai, with his keen sense of direction, nearly lost his way. After asking a young monk for directions, he finally found the Sutra Library.

Unlike the mysterious archives described in martial arts stories, this library was open, with rows of shelves stacked high with ancient texts and scriptures, each cubby labeled with price tags more befitting a bookstore than a temple.

Yang Jiekai wandered through the aisles, finding nothing but Buddhist texts—scripture after scripture, all related to the Buddha, none seeming to offer what he sought. He regretted not questioning the old Daoist more closely.

Noticing Yang Jiekai’s anxious and furtive manner as he paced the shelves, a young monk in charge of the library approached him.

“Amitabha. May I ask what kind of book you are searching for?” the monk inquired politely, palms pressed together.

Yang Jiekai frowned, unsure how to answer—he didn’t even know exactly what he was looking for.

Seeing his hesitation, the young monk thought for a moment and then smiled. “These are all Buddhist classics. You may browse freely, friend.”

“Are these the only books here?” Yang Jiekai pressed.

The monk paused, then said, “There are a few more ancient texts in the library, but the shelves are too small to display them all.”

Yang Jiekai’s eyes lit up. “Please, show me!”