Chapter 13: The Pure Yang Stele and Lu Zu

Qingwei Palace, Chongyang Hall.

According to ancient lore, the Chongyang Patriarch once secluded himself in Zhenwu Mountain, where he cultivated for ten years within this temple and ultimately transformed into a rainbow and departed.

This hall differs from typical Ming-Qing Daoist architecture; it follows Song-Yuan style, its ancient wooden door long weathered, riddled with cracks, and when gently pushed, dust scattered across the floor.

“Because of Zhang Fan’s karmic trial?”

Zhang Fan followed Master Pojie, having heard the full story, and could not help but wear an unusual expression.

“Master, since this is so serious, why not seal the mountain gate? Wouldn’t that save a lot of trouble?” Zhang Fan could not help voicing his question.

When it comes to the transmission of the Dharma lineage, how can they keep the mountain gate wide open, with so many tourists coming and going every day? How could nothing happen?

“Do you know how much the annual tourism revenue contributes to the local GDP?” Master Pojie did not turn back, firing a soul-stirring question.

“This…” Zhang Fan froze for a moment.

“Fifty billion yuan per year in tourism income—do you really think we should just shut the gates?”

“This…” Zhang Fan had no reply.

“Will the government agree?”

“This…”

Zhang Fan smirked and couldn’t help saying, “Even Daoists care about economic returns.”

“Daoists are transcendent, not dead—how can anything be done without money?” Master Pojie turned back, exasperated: “Not to mention, even installing Wi-Fi on the mountain costs money…”

“… ”

“Besides, the Patriarch himself said: everywhere in the human world is cultivation—equanimity is cultivation, eating, dressing, living, traveling are cultivation—even a forty-nine-yuan foot massage is cultivation…”

“It has nothing to do with money.”

“Master, where do you get a foot massage for 498?” Zhang Fan could not help asking.

“You really know how to focus on the key point.” Master Pojie shot him a sharp glance, then switched on his flashlight and led Zhang Fan upstairs.

The second floor of Chongyang Hall was empty, surrounded entirely by stone steles and calligraphic paintings, ancient and weathered, their lineage unknown for how long.

“This is…”

“Eight hundred autumns since I attained the Dao, never have I used my sword to take a life. The Jade Emperor has not sent a heavenly decree—yet I still trade black gold among the mortal stream.”

Zhang Fan walked up to a stone stele, studying its strange, twisted characters; when he saw the signature, there was only one name: Lu Yan.

“The stele here enshrines the Chongyang Patriarch’s calligraphy…” Master Pojie bowed respectfully.

“Did the Chongyang Patriarch truly cultivate here?” Zhang Fan could not help asking curiously.

“Then… isn’t that wooden sword on the cliff of Nanxuan Palace just a prop?”

“Blasphemy…” Master Pojie’s grip on the flashlight nearly slipped; he glared fiercely and quickly bowed again: “Patriarch, forgive me… Patriarch, forgive me…”

“That is the Chongyang Dharma Sword—don’t speak carelessly.”

“I was just asking…”

Zhang Fan smirked, silently cursing Li Yishan, then turned to examine the steles on the wall.

“These characters are strange—they look like flickering flames.”

Zhang Fan could not help saying; each character’s stroke ended upward, as if flames were rising.

“You have some innate insight…”

Master Pojie’s eyes lit up: “In his youth, the Chongyang Patriarch studied alchemy under the Fire Dragon Daoist and mastered the essence of true fire…”

“Moreover, Daoist true fire is no less formidable than thunder arts—and equally difficult to cultivate…”

“Thus, the Chongyang Patriarch’s steles naturally contain profound subtleties, concealing the mystery of true fire,” Master Pojie said solemnly.

“Daoist true fire? What is that?” Zhang Fan asked humbly. “Daoist cultivation hinges on four essential principles: [seed, gather, nourish, refine]…”

“Gathering herbs is for refining and nourishing the Nascent Soul…”

“To refine herbs, you need true fire. To put it simply…” Master Pojie paused, then continued.

“Thermal energy is the source of life; when a person dies, the last breath remains—the final yang qi. After death, body temperature drops because yang qi dissipates…”

“Daoist cultivation means refining away all yin impurities to achieve pure yang. Before that, yang qi is scattered among the Three Treasures—jing, qi, and shen—invisible and intangible to ordinary people…”

“Only the Nascent Soul can perceive and manipulate it…”

“The Nascent Soul is the true seed we plant, which activates the yang qi within the Three Treasures and ignites it—that is true fire.”

“This is the core secret of internal alchemy, which is why the Daoist scriptures say: [The sages transmit the medicine but not the fire; the fire’s timing is rarely known]…”

“Each cultivator’s realm and physical condition differ, so the amount of yang qi they can manipulate differs—and thus the timing of their true fire ignition naturally varies… this cannot be transmitted…”

“Therefore, in Daoism, fire arts are as difficult to cultivate as thunder arts,” Master Pojie explained clearly.

“So many subtleties.”

Zhang Fan could not help marveling—cultivation truly was as vast as the ocean; even the concept of [true fire] involved so many principles.

No wonder online discussions always say: vital arts must be transmitted by a master—you can’t just lock yourself in a room and practice blindly.

Although many Daoist classics and cultivation methods are available online, the Daoist lineage contains many secret phrases and coded terms—if you lack a master’s guidance, even a hair’s breadth of error leads to a thousand-mile deviation.

Mistake the practice, and you might suffer physical ailments—from infertility to severe cases of demonic possession, becoming insane or foolish.

“The Chongyang Patriarch was a master of alchemy, deeply skilled in fire arts…” Master Pojie continued.

Daoist fire arts, like thunder arts, encompass countless forms, with distinctions between techniques and higher methods.

Legends say some powerful fire arts can even use human desires and thoughts as fuel.

“When a person is angry, they say, ‘I’m burning’—because emotional agitation is also a kind of fire; Traditional Chinese Medicine calls it [auxiliary fire], but Daoists regard it as false fire… because it is formless…”

“Yet this false fire can influence behavior; if fed into true fire, the person, the fire, and the thought—these three elements unite into one, producing an extremely mysterious fire within Daoism…”

“Threefold True Fire!” Master Pojie whispered.

“Threefold True Fire!?” Zhang Fan’s eyes lit up—he had seen it in countless novels and films.

“How do you cultivate it?”

“Cultivate it?” Master Pojie smiled faintly: “Threefold True Fire is a Daoist divine power…”

“Divine power—something that connects with the divine—is not cultivated; it is innate, bestowed by heaven, unattainable through practice.”

Master Pojie shook his head: Daoist divine powers have no cultivation methods; their origins are unfathomable, regarded by outsiders as heavenly gifts, attainable only by rare individuals who awaken to them at a critical moment.

For example, Chu Chaoran attained his Daoist divine power at age thirty.

“Stay here,” Master Pojie warned. “Don’t leave until the Jade Register Transmission Ceremony ends.”

“Don’t worry—I’m not the troublemaking type.”

Zhang Fan nodded solemnly, watched Master Pojie leave, then studied the Chongyang steles on the wall; each character danced in his mind like flickering flames. When tired, he sat in meditation…

At this point, Zhang Fan had grown deeply fond of the sensation after meditation: mind free of distractions, utterly empty and serene.

Especially after entering meditation, he felt as if floating in the air, observing every movement of his own body.

But this time was different: after entering meditation, he “saw” himself seated in Chongyang Hall, as if a cluster of flame surrounded his body.

“Is this a distraction? Too long staring at the steles? Sigh—I still lack cultivation,” Zhang Fan sighed deeply; the thought arose, and he immediately awakened from meditation.

At the same moment, nine hundred meters away, at Nanxuan Palace, on the cliff’s edge.

The Chongyang Dharma Sword, standing upright for over six hundred years, trembled gently at last, emitting a sword hum like a dragon’s cry.

(End of Chapter)