Chapter 100: Insight

The middle-aged man in coarse clothes was Lu Fang, his appearance altered by the Conceal-Heaven-and-Earth transcendental power—he now looked utterly ordinary, like someone you’d find by the dozen on any street.

His face was dotted with freckles, his skin rough, resembling a laborer from the lower classes.

Lu Fang had come here in this unfamiliar guise to test the Heavenly Mechanic’s method of resisting the Dao of Heaven.

He had made himself look worn-down and destitute.

It could cause the Dao of Heaven to ignore you for a certain period.

For this, Lu Fang had specifically asked Wang Fu, who confirmed it was indeed possible—but whether it actually worked was open to interpretation.

If the Dao of Heaven imposed restrictions.

Even if Lu Fang absorbed all two thousand ten-thousand Dao stones, he still couldn’t reach the Sixth Rank; thus, he couldn’t enter the Buddhist Realm’s trial grounds, so he decided to try this method.

After walking a while, he reached a wonton stall, ordered a large bowl, barely ate enough to fill his stomach, and called it lunch.

The stall was small, run by a middle-aged couple; when busy, an old woman and a little girl would come to help.

The family seemed simple and humble—a large bowl of wontons sold for only five copper coins, with generous portions; those who sat to eat were mostly laborers from nearby.

Each wore little, devoured wontons quickly, spoke loudly, yet were friendly to others.

Lu Fang didn’t know why, but he couldn’t help observing everything around him.

Sometimes he wondered: was the Heavenly Mechanic truly resisting the Dao of Heaven by playing the part of a wretch—or was there another hidden truth?

He truly regretted not humbly seeking guidance when he first met the Heavenly Mechanic.

“Wang the Scholar is here!”

A man called out loudly.

A scholar in a long cotton robe walked over; clearly, everyone here knew him and greeted him warmly.

“Wang the Scholar, you haven’t come to read us the Da Zhou Gazette these past two days—we’ve lost our appetite.”

The man grinned.

Lu Fang looked at the Wang scholar; from his attire, this man clearly came from a family of some means.

Yet he mingled freely with a group of laborers—it felt strange.

The stall’s middle-aged owner chuckled as he came over to refill tea:

“Wang the Scholar is a kind man. He knows we laborers can’t read, so he comes here every day at this time to read us the elegant stories from the Da Zhou Gazette. If you’d like to listen, come at this hour every day.”

Lu Fang smiled and nodded, a thought stirring in his mind.

Previously, he had only intended to dramatize elegant stories to raise his fame.

Now, having witnessed this, he was even more determined to do so—because not everyone in Da Zhou could read; many couldn’t even recognize a single character.

If he dramatized them, even those who couldn’t read could understand the stories. It might lack literary grace, but he felt he must do it.

Wang the Scholar bowed, pulled out today’s newly bought Da Zhou Gazette, and smiled:

“I didn’t come these past two days because Lord Wen Guan’s Three Kingdoms wasn’t finished—I promise, as soon as new elegant text appears, I’ll come read it.”

A bucktoothed man said: “Wang the Scholar, what do you get out of this? Hanging around with us roughnecks?”

Wang the Scholar smiled:

“Put it nicely—I’m Wang Xun, a scholar, but I’ve no future left. All I can do is read elegant stories for you all.”

“As long as you don’t mind me.”

“If one day, listening to my readings grants you literary aura or transcendental power, then I’ll be the one who’s truly proud.”

The middle-aged stall owner said: “Young Master Wang, can we really gain literary aura and transcendental power just by listening? We’ve only heard you gain it by reading.”

Wang the Scholar smiled gently: “I believe it’s possible—who knows unless you try?” With that, he picked up the Da Zhou Gazette and continued:

“No more idle talk—Lord Wen Guan’s fourth book is still elegant text: its title is ‘The Smiling, Proud Wanderer’—”

“The breeze warmed the willows, the flowers intoxicated the air—it was the lush spring season in the southern lands. In the western gate street of Fuzhou Prefecture, Fujian Province, the cobblestone road stretched straight, leading to the western gate.”

“Before a grand mansion stood two stone platforms, each holding a flagpole over two zhang tall, their tops fluttering with green banners. On the right banner, golden silk embroidered a fierce, snarling lion, its stance mighty; as the wind billowed the flag, the lion seemed alive.

Above the lion’s head, two black silk bats spread their wings in flight. On the left banner were embroidered four black characters: ‘Fuwei Escort Agency,’ their strokes sharp and powerful, like iron hooks and steel claws.”

As he read this far,

Wang Xun looked down at his palm in stunned disbelief.

“What’s wrong? Keep reading, Wang the Scholar!” someone urged.

“Hahahaha…” Wang Xun threw his head back and laughed, shouting with all his strength: “I’ve read Lord Wen Guan’s elegant text—and I’ve gained literary aura!”

Lu Fang smiled, rose, and left. It was strange—seeing Wang Xun willingly read elegant text to the illiterate, then actually gaining literary aura, stirred something in him: a quiet sense of comfort and fulfillment…

Could the Heavenly Mechanic’s method of resisting the Dao of Heaven not be about playing the wretch, but about perceiving the myriad facets of mortal life and cultivating one’s inner state?

Or perhaps both.

Lu Fang didn’t know—but he had decided: if he had no other business, he would wander and observe.

Why did his master Xu Han Yi, the strongest half-sage, roam the world?

His senior brother Su Li became a half-sage through constant travel.

Though Lu Fang wasn’t yet certain of the reason, he only needed to imitate—after all, besides writing elegant text, he had plenty of time.

…

Wanfeng Street.

The pavilion’s elegant chamber.

A melodious guqin melody rose.

Wang Huachu sat beneath the sunlight, playing the ancient guqin before her; her entire demeanor shifted from frail scholar to ethereal immortal. When the piece ended, listeners were left yearning for more.

Tong Wanner laughed: “Sister Wang, you play the guqin so beautifully.”

Zhong Xin smiled: “When Master Fang comes, Sister Wang, play him a tune—he’ll be utterly impressed.”

Wang Huachu sighed: “Zhong sister, you’re teasing me again. I still don’t know what Master Fang does—or what he wants from us. I heard from Huan’er that several more men and women have moved into the mansion, along with an old woman.”

“Who cares what he does?” Zhong Xin shook her head. “I only pray we keep this life as it is.”

Huan’er hurried over, breathless: “Miss, Master Fang is here—he’s almost arrived.”

Almost before the words left her mouth,

Lu Fang, disguised as the freckled middle-aged man, strode toward the pavilion’s elegant chamber, He Zixuan following behind him.

“Master Fang, you’ve finally come! Have you read what I wrote? My writing isn’t good—please be lenient.”

Zhong Xin stepped out of the room, lifting her long skirt, smiling to greet Lu Fang.