Chapter 4: The Woodcutter

The mountain path was rugged, but Su Chen descended much faster than he had ascended.

His goal was clear—to find that woodcutter.

He remembered the woodcutter saying he chopped firewood daily and carried it to the market to trade for money.

Though Lingtai Fangcun Mountain was a divine blessed land, not far from its foot lay a modest town where nearby villagers traded for daily necessities.

Su Chen did not go straight to the town to chance his luck; he chose a slower but more effective method.

He returned to the forest where he had first met the woodcutter.

The woodcutter chopped firewood every day, so he must have his usual paths and fixed cutting zones.

Indeed, after searching half the day through the woods, Su Chen found a patch with numerous fresh axe marks.

A faint pine scent still lingered in the air, and small discarded branches lay scattered on the ground.

He made no noise, merely found a hidden high ground, sat cross-legged, and waited patiently.

As the sun sank westward and its afterglow painted the forest gold and crimson, a familiar figure finally appeared in Su Chen’s sight.

The woodcutter carried a heavy load of firewood on his shoulders, sweat beading on his brow, humming a tuneless little song as he trudged slowly along the path.

His steps were steady and strong, each one firmly planted on solid earth.

Su Chen leapt down from above, landing silently before the woodcutter.

The woodcutter was startled by this sudden appearance, but upon recognizing Su Chen, he exhaled in relief, his face showing surprise.

“You? That young man seeking immortality? Why are you back? Didn’t the immortal master accept you?”

Su Chen’s face bore a touch of melancholy, yet he bowed respectfully: “Forgive me, elder brother. The immortal master said I had no affinity with him and sent me back down the mountain.”

Upon hearing this, the woodcutter’s face softened with sympathy; he sighed: “Ah, immortal affinity is hard to find. Don’t dwell on it, young man. The world has many paths—return home, marry, raise children, live a quiet life. That too can be fortune.”

It was the plainest comfort a common man could offer.

But Su Chen shook his head, his gaze fixed intently on the woodcutter: “Elder brother, I cannot accept this. I traveled ten thousand li just to seek immortal affinity—now to return empty-handed is unbearable. I have a humble request—will you grant it?”

“Oh? Tell me.” The woodcutter was curious.

“I wish to stay here in the mountains for a while.” Su Chen’s tone was earnest. “I still have some silver left—I can support myself.”

“I only seek a place to rest nearby, to listen daily to the Dao’s resonance from this immortal mountain. Perhaps one day, fortune will turn and a new opportunity will arise.”

“I see you’re a straightforward man—could I build a thatched hut near your home? I’ll help with chores—no free meals or lodging.”

He did not ask directly to stay at the woodcutter’s house; he chose a roundabout way to avoid arousing suspicion.

The woodcutter studied Su Chen.

The young man’s clothes were dusty, but his eyes were clear, his manners polite—he did not seem deceitful.

He recalled how this youth had spoken to him with respect, and his fondness for him deepened.

He thought a moment, then smiled: “Why build a thatched hut? My house is shabby, but there’s an empty storage room—clean it up, and you can stay. But I must warn you: we’re poor, and I’ve little to offer.”

“If you take me in, I’m already deeply grateful—how could I complain?”

Su Chen was overjoyed and bowed deeply again.

Thus, Su Chen followed the woodcutter to his home at the mountain’s foot.

It was a humble hut of yellow earth and thatch, surrounded by a bamboo fence where a few clucking hens wandered.

Beneath the eaves, an elderly woman with white hair sat quietly on a small stool, fumbling with something.

“Mother, I’m back,” the woodcutter said, setting down his firewood and hurrying forward.

“You’re back? Were you tired today?” The old woman lifted her head; her eyes were milky white—she had been blind for years.

“Not tired.” The woodcutter smiled, then turned to Su Chen: “Young man, this is my mother.”

He added to his mother: “Mother, this young man came from afar and wishes to stay with us for a while—I’ve agreed.”

Su Chen stepped forward and bowed respectfully: “Greetings, Madam.”

The old woman listened to his voice, then smiled warmly: “Good, good. More young people make the house livelier. Come inside and rest.”

In the days that followed, Su Chen settled into the woodcutter’s home.

He cleaned the storage room thoroughly, rose before dawn to fill the courtyard water vat, then joined the woodcutter on the mountain.

He no longer spoke of immortality or the Dao—merely silently helped chop firewood.

The woodcutter, seeing this soft-handed noble youth labor without complaint, grew even fonder of him.

Su Chen’s goal, of course, was that phrase: “The abandoned axe carries mysterious sound.”

Soon, he found in the corner of the woodshed an old axe, its blade chipped and dull enough to serve as a hammer.

The handle, worn smooth by years of grip, bore faint dried black stains.

This must be the “abandoned axe.”

He did not dare touch it yet; instead, each day as he chopped wood with the woodcutter, he carefully observed every motion.

The woodcutter’s method was simple, direct—no flashy techniques.

Raise the axe, strike down—day after day, year after year.

Yet to Su Chen, once the top martial artist of Jiang State, he saw something extraordinary in it.

Each swing of the axe used just the right amount of force—not an ounce more, not a grain less.

His breathing, his heartbeat, seemed to form a unique, harmonious rhythm with each stroke.

“Watching chess, the handle rots; chopping wood, the axe rings…”

That mysterious verse often echoed in Su Chen’s mind.

One day, unable to contain himself, Su Chen asked during a break: “Elder brother, I notice you always strike the wood at the most effortless point—is there a secret?”

The woodcutter wiped his brow and grinned: “No secret—just practice. Wood, like people, has its grain and temper. See how the grain runs? Follow it, and it yields easily. Fight against it, and it resists—you’ll exhaust yourself trying to split it.”

Follow the grain?

Su Chen’s heart stirred—he felt he had grasped something.

That night, back home, he entered the woodshed and picked up the forgotten old axe.

The axe felt extremely heavy—far heavier than he’d imagined.

When his hand closed around the smooth handle, a strange sensation surged within him.

He could almost feel the countless nights and days the woodcutter had gripped it, striking wood with unwavering focus and simplicity.

He closed his eyes, recalling the woodcutter’s words and his swinging motions.

Follow the grain…

All things have their “principle.”

Wood has its principle, stone has its principle, water has its principle.

Then what of cultivation? Does the Dao of Heaven and Earth also have its principle?

Could he, with this ordinary man’s axe, attain his own “principle”?

Su Chen took the axe into the courtyard.

He did not chop wood—instead, imitating the woodcutter, he slowly raised the axe and brought it down.

No target—only empty swings.

Once, twice, a hundred times…

His movements grew from stiff to fluid; gradually, he forgot he was swinging an axe, forgot everything around him.

His world held only this simple up-and-down motion.

He did not activate the worldly martial arts he had trained for eight years—what moved his body now was pure flesh, bone, and sinew.

When he swung the axe countless times, his spirit fully immersed itself.

He “saw” the wind flowing through the air, the grass crawling on the ground, even heard the heartbeat of the old hen in the corner.

The entire world seemed to become a vast tapestry woven of countless textures.

And the axe in his hand? It was the brush that could follow the grain and cut through the tapestry!

“The Dao is in the mundane…” Su Chen murmured.

He finally understood: the Patriarch Bodhi had taught the woodcutter not some profound immortal art, but the most basic, fundamental cultivation method.

This axe did not chop firewood—it chopped the heart!

It was the supreme method to sever distractions, illuminate the mind, and see one’s true nature!

Su Chen opened his eyes—unprecedented brilliance blazed within them.

He raised the dull axe and struck a hard wooden post in the courtyard.

A dull “thud.”

The solid post split cleanly down the middle, its cut smooth as a mirror.

Su Chen looked at his hands—a faint yet exquisitely pure warmth was rising from his limbs and bones, slowly gathering into his dantian.

This energy was not the martial qi he had cultivated for eight years—it was something more primordial, more pure.

Had Su Chen had a master to guide him, he would have known he had just successfully entered the first realm of cultivation—Qi Refining.