Chapter Forty-One: Drinking

Upon reading the note, it was indeed from Daoist Qingyun, sent in the form of a paper crane folded from a talisman. Infused with spiritual power, it could locate its intended recipient within a certain range and deliver the message. At present, Qingyun was in Jiangzhou city, together with Uncle Guanghan. The words between the lines made it clear—he wished Chen Jianchen to come for a meeting, to see if fate might favor him, and whether Uncle Guanghan would accept him into his circle.

Qingyun, without doubt, was a monk with an ancient heart, appreciative of Chen Jianchen’s character, and intent on guiding him into the Daoist path. Yet Qingyun’s own cultivation was insufficient to take disciples, so he looked to his uncle for this purpose.

In earlier days, Chen Jianchen, eager to learn the Dao, would have gone without hesitation. But now, since he had sharpened the Demon-Repelling Brush and obtained the True Chapter of the Three Principles, he knew he had embarked upon a different path, one that would seldom intersect with Daoist teachings.

Conviction must be pure and untainted, if one is to achieve a heart as innocent as a newborn’s.

If one tries to learn everything and anything, it is likely that the teachings will clash, leading to the ruin of all efforts. It’s much like how a Daoist would not kneel before the Buddha, nor would a monk bow to the Three Pure Ones—these are matters of ideological principle. Once principle is lost, the mind fractures, and cultivation can no longer progress.

Either the east wind prevails over the west, or the west wind dominates the east—these two doctrines cannot coexist.

For example, with the True Chapter of the Three Principles, Chen Jianchen neither trusts nor venerates spirits and deities, and so his heart must be free of them. Should he fail, if his mind still harbors such beings, unable to drive them away, inner demons will arise, leading to dire consequences—let alone the possibility of refining righteous energy.

Righteousness is not impartial, nor can it be.

For where there is darkness, there is light; where there is right, there is wrong. In any world, there exists fundamental opposition.

Thus, stance is vital—and its stability even more so.

As one who has come through much, Chen Jianchen’s greatest advantage lies in his ability to hold firm to his stance. His wealth of experience allows him to see through appearances to the essence of things. In his past life, he had read over ten thousand volumes, expanding his vision and knowledge—a fortune in itself.

Yet since Daoist Qingyun had sent the paper crane, out of propriety, Chen Jianchen felt he should go—if only to observe social custom and maintain decorum.

The address Qingyun gave was the City God Temple.

Was it mere coincidence, or was there some deeper reason?

After pondering for a moment, Chen Jianchen set the matter aside and resumed reading his “Travels from the Pavilion of Subtle Observation.”

The next evening, Chen Jianchen again requested leave from the academy supervisor—a man of fifty years, square-faced, with three strands of beard, whose appearance was the very picture of propriety.

He glanced at Chen Jianchen and said, “Liuxian, though you are renowned for your talent and endowed with gifts, the sea of learning has no shores. Never let pride or complacency creep in…”

His words implied that Chen Jianchen’s frequent requests for leave showed a lack of diligence.

Chen Jianchen replied, “Thank you for your guidance, sir. But lately, I’ve been entangled in urgent affairs and must take my leave.”

Seeing that his advice was unheeded, the supervisor grew faintly displeased. “Very well, do as you wish.” He handed over the funds and granted permission.

From the supervisor’s perspective, his words were certainly wise: the imperial examinations were no simple matter. Memorizing the Four Books was but the foundation—every word, every sentence had to be thoroughly understood and studied, which consumed immense time and energy. Many scholars spent their whole lives wrestling with the texts, only to fail to pass the exams because they lacked the skill to truly grasp the meaning.

Leaving the academy, Chen Jianchen inquired about the route and soon arrived at the City God Temple of Jiangzhou.

The City God Temple had always been official, the City God himself bestowed with rank and title, addressed as “Lord.” Thus its status was eminent, its architecture splendid, far beyond ordinary temples.

It was near dusk, and the crowds burning incense and kneeling had dwindled.

At the grand and upright temple gate, Chen Jianchen lifted his gaze and saw a couplet:

Good and evil reap their due in time;
Right and wrong need not be argued early or late.

The plaque overhead read: “No Partiality Here.”

The calligraphy was solemn—each stroke strict and upright, carved three inches deep into the wood, inspiring awe at first glance.

“Are you Mr. Chen Jianchen?” a temple attendant approached, bowing formally.

Chen Jianchen returned the greeting. “I am.”

“Please follow me, sir. Daoist Qingyun is waiting in the side chamber.”

Chen Jianchen followed him, passing through a winding, tranquil corridor, entering a simple, clean room where Daoist Qingyun awaited.

They exchanged polite words before sitting down for tea.

Daoist Qingyun then lowered his voice. “Mr. Chen, my uncle will be here soon… He has a rather eccentric temper, difficult to predict, so please act with discretion.”

Chen Jianchen thanked him. “Thank you for the advice, Daoist.”

A short while later, with a bang, the door was flung open from outside, and a filthy Daoist rushed in, disheveled and flustered.

He immediately shut the door behind him, as if pursued by a dog.

Chen Jianchen recognized him at once—it was the Daoist who had performed the miraculous “pear planting” technique in the street; indeed, Qingyun’s uncle, Daoist Guanghan.

Qingyun quickly stood to greet him. “Greetings, Uncle Guanghan.”

His expression remained calm, as if he hadn’t noticed his uncle’s panic.

Guanghan blinked and suddenly said, “Qingyun, go outside quickly. If you see a woman with a face full of flesh and a waist like a water barrel chasing in, use a spell to lead her away.”

“As you instruct, Uncle.” Qingyun asked nothing further and stepped out.

What on earth was happening?

Chen Jianchen watched from the side, astonished—for he had never met such a Daoist, truly an extraordinary character.

Guanghan sighed, sat down, and lifted the entire teapot, pressing the spout to his lips and guzzling it down.

Finished, he slammed it on the table. “This tea is bland as bird’s water—unsatisfying. Let’s have some wine.” He extended his right middle finger, pointed at the empty teapot, and in an instant, the fragrance of wine filled the air, emanating from the teapot itself. Clearly, it now contained a fine vintage.

“Would you like a cup, sir?” Guanghan asked, glancing at Chen Jianchen.

“Thank you for your generosity, Daoist,” replied Chen Jianchen.

Guanghan chuckled, lifted the teapot, and poured wine into the empty cup before Chen Jianchen. The liquid shimmered, its color clear and elegant, its aroma intoxicating—merely smelling it induced a gentle sense of drunkenness.

Excellent wine! At least fifty years aged.

The two drank cup after cup with relish, yet though the teapot’s capacity could not exceed ten cups, they had already drunk more than ten, but the wine remained plentiful, never diminishing, as if it could never run dry.

Within the humble teapot was inexhaustible, everlasting wine.