Chapter 11: The Living Dead Tomb, Heir of Zhenwu

Two days ago, when Po Jie first saw Zhang Fan, he noticed his qi was chaotic, his thoughts scattered, his mind like wild fluff swirling in a storm—just like most ordinary people, burdened with too much pressure, deeply trapped in suffering.

In just two days, he had already tamed the mind-monkey, bound the will-horse, suppressed the conscious spirit, glimpsed the nascent soul, even undergone the transformation of dragon and snake, and attained the Daoist cultivation level of Qi Gong.

“How is this possible?” Po Jie’s expression turned startled and doubtful as he scanned Zhang Fan up and down. “Sir, who is your master?”

“Master? I don’t have a master… I just practiced by searching online and got scammed for over eight hundred yuan…” Zhang Fan mumbled, but in his mind appeared Jiang Lai’s figure.

Strictly speaking, he truly had no master guiding him, but because of Jiang Lai, he had swallowed part of the great snake’s lunar essence, saving him considerable effort.

“Self-taught!?” Po Jie’s suspicion deepened, his emotions intensifying.

“Brother, your conscious spirit is agitated.”

Beside him, Wu You and Wu Wei sensed the change in Po Jie’s expression and exchanged a glance.

“In just two days, he skipped the Initial Movement and attained Qi Gong? How is this possible?” Po Jie’s eyes widened, fixed unblinkingly on Zhang Fan.

He had heard his sect elders say that holding to oneness is the way of the world; if one holds to oneness and seeks inwardly, one attains the natural Dao.

The Buddhist path speaks of inherent completeness; Confucianism says, “My nature is self-sufficient, needing nothing external.”

Some, through inner observation and solitary practice, advance with astonishing speed.

In the Ming Dynasty, a great Confucian scholar attained enlightenment at Longchang, becoming a sage in a single step, entering the realm of Pure Yang and Ultimate Extremity overnight, his fame echoing for centuries.

In Po Jie’s eyes, if Zhang Fan truly was self-taught, though he could not compare to that great scholar, he was still a naturally gifted disciple, ripe for Daoist cultivation.

“Sir, tonight there is a great event at Zhenwu Mountain—you should not have come here. I’ll have someone escort you out.”

Po Jie steadied his spirit before speaking.

Tonight was the Jade Tablet Transmission ceremony—he knew its weight well.

“Someone wants to kill me…” Zhang Fan quickly spoke, recounting his recent encounter.

“Insects? Could it be the Gan family of Diannan?” Po Jie pondered, then said: “Wu You, Wu Wei, take some people and investigate outside…”

“But him…” Fat Daoist Wu Wei couldn’t help glancing at Zhang Fan.

“No need to worry—he’s no ordinary person; no need to be overly alarmed.” Po Jie waved his hand.

Tonight’s Jade Tablet Transmission was no ordinary affair, for the Ancestor had left a verse: “Zhenwu’s transmission has reached seventy-three, through the common man the heir shall rise.”

Zhenwu Mountain had now reached its seventy-third generation; the elders suspected the Zhenwu lineage would end because of a single ordinary man.

Thus, everyone at Zhenwu Mountain was extra vigilant toward any ordinary person entering the mountain.

“That makes sense.” Wu You and Wu Wei exchanged another glance and relaxed.

We’re not afraid of your cultivation—only afraid you’re an ordinary person.

“We’re going now.”

Saying this, the fat and thin Daoists hurried toward the front courtyard.

“Come with me.”

Po Jie gave Zhang Fan a long look, then turned and led him toward the side hall.

Dang… dang… dang… At that moment, an ancient, resonant bell rang from the main hall of Qingwei Palace; incense smoke curled upward, and flames flickered, illuminating the space.

“Still a ritual this late?” Zhang Fan couldn’t help asking.

Po Jie walked ahead but gave no answer.

“Hm!?”

Suddenly, Zhang Fan’s brow twitched—he saw shadowy figures seated in the temple’s corner, bathed in dim light, their bodies encased in thick stone shells, as if accumulated dust and earth had hardened over years; their facial muscles had withered, moisture drained, skin shriveled like paper husks… from afar, they looked like dried sausages.

“Brother… Brother Po Jie… what are those?” Zhang Fan stared, his skin crawling, instinctively quickening his pace.

“Living dead.”

“Living dead?” Zhang Fan was confused.

“Those who cultivate immortality, trapped their whole lives by the conscious spirit—unless they reach Pure Yang and Ultimate Extremity, purging all yin impurities from the spirit, they cannot truly return to oneness, never giving rise to a single thought… Otherwise, even in sleep, thoughts swarm, dreams arise, fantasies run wild…” Po Jie said calmly.

Zhang Fan pondered: whether Daoist, Buddhist, or Confucian, all emphasized entering stillness and quietude; only when stillness reached utter emptiness and not a single thought arose could true cultivation begin.

Yet as long as one is human, one is bound by the conscious spirit, trapped in the seven emotions, swept away by the six desires—even the position of Tian Shi would stir emotion, feel anger, suffer grief, cling to attachments…

“Only the dead can truly extinguish all thoughts… but if one is dead, what is there left to cultivate? What Dao is there to refine?” Po Jie said gravely.

“Those are all former elders of Zhenwu Mountain… The Living Dead is an extremely unique Daoist cultivation method—alive yet not alive, dead yet not dead, extinguishing all thoughts; if one can die and be reborn, one advances further, glimpsing the Pure Yang and Ultimate Extremity.”

In fact, the Buddhist path also has a similar method, called withered meditation—withering and flourishing, one attains the wondrous principle.

“You’ve read wuxia novels, right? Wang Chongyang defeated all under heaven—he had a tomb beneath Zhongnan Mountain called the Living Dead Tomb…”

“Wang Chongyang was a master of alchemy…”

“The three characters ‘Living Dead’ encapsulate the secret of Daoist cultivation—if one can pass from life to death and return to oneness, the Dao becomes complete…”

At this, Po Jie sighed: “Unfortunately, throughout history, those who succeeded through this method number no more than a handful.”

“So few succeed? Then why do they still…” Zhang Fan didn’t finish—he thought it was no different from suicide.

“The path of cultivation is long. We, the seekers, must have the resolve of moths flying into fire—heart turned toward light, death without regret—only then…”

“The heavens’ qi is vast; my Dao flourishes evermore.”

As he spoke, Po Jie halted and bowed deeply to the rows of withered figures, his eyes filled with reverence.

“Moths flying into fire… is this cultivation?” Zhang Fan murmured softly, lost in thought.

Cultivating immortality, cultivating immortality—how many sought immortality since ancient times? How many ever attained it!?

“Heavenly spirit, earthly spirit, lose five more jin, manifest your power…”

At that moment, a clear, melodious voice rang from a distant tower.

“Sister Wei Sheng, though you are a Gao Gong, you cannot chant secret spells so recklessly—the Ancestors will be angered.”

At the same time, a weary voice followed.

“She’s here again.”

Po Jie turned toward the sound, rubbing his temples as if his head would split.

“Brother Po Jie, today is my great day—why did you bring a… person inside?”

At that moment, a gust of wind howled; Zhang Fan’s gaze sharpened—he realized the clear voice came from behind him.

He instinctively looked up at the distant tower, then turned—and saw a bright young girl standing atop the railing behind him, looking down at him.

Her almond eyes sparkled, her pupils like cut water; her figure tall and graceful, her long hair tied in a ponytail, her Daoist robe fluttering in the wind, radiating bold elegance.

“Dragon-snake transformation… and she’s sensed lunar essence being absorbed…”

The girl smiled faintly, her bright eyes glinting with mischief like a fox’s; she leaned forward, her delicate nose twitching, and one sentence made Zhang Fan’s face pale.

“Lunar essence?”

Po Jie pondered, gave Zhang Fan a deep look, then said: “Sister, tonight is the Jade Tablet Transmission—you should be in Zhenwu Hall…”

As he spoke, Po Jie turned to Zhang Fan and gestured casually.

“She is…”

“Xia Weisheng!”

The girl, called Sister, stood with hands on hips, elegant and bold upon the railing, speaking clearly.

Po Jie paused slightly, then added:

“She is the heir of this generation of Zhenwu Mountain.”

(End of Chapter)