Chapter 88: The Trick of the Doppelganger Technique

“Country bumpkins will always be country bumpkins—no sense of manners, not even a cup of tea for the master,” Daoist Shouyin remarked in the courtyard to those around him, pointedly referring to Zhang Chi. Dressed in the threadbare garments of a refugee, Zhang Chi indeed looked no different from a rural peasant.

Without responding, Zhang Chi turned and went back inside. Shouyin muttered a few more words, but seeing no one pay him any heed, he grew sullen. “Don’t think I’m some run-of-the-mill Daoist. Once I seize the secret of immortality on this journey, I’ll ascend to the heavens as an immortal, and you’ll all regret the way you look down on me!”

The phrase “secret of immortality” sent a chill through Zhang Chi. In Shanyin City, Daoist Shouyin had suddenly attacked and cornered Sun Tai, all in pursuit of this very secret. Later, Zhang Chi had witnessed Sun Tai weeping bitterly over a corpse, swearing to unravel the mystery of immortality and revive the dead woman. What exactly was this secret? Could it truly grant eternal life, restore the dead to the living?

Zhang Chi pressed his ear to the doorway, hoping to glean more about immortality, but as soon as Shouyin’s last words fell, someone nearby urgently whispered, “Master, you must be careful what you say—walls may have ears.” The man gestured toward the house.

“What’s there to fear? Even if that yokel overhears us, what difference does it make?” Shouyin replied, though he said nothing further about the secret of immortality.

Zhang Chi lingered at the door for a while, but as Shouyin said nothing more of interest, he grew bored. Dao Xuan sidled up and whispered, “Big Brother Zhang, it seems these people are also after the Five Pecks of Rice Sect, but what is that secret of immortality really?”

Zhang Chi simply shook his head, not to deny Dao Xuan’s words, but because he truly did not know. “Who cares? If we don’t know now, we’ll find out eventually.”

Indeed, both Zhang Chi and Dao Xuan intended to search for the Five Pecks of Rice Sect in Zhongzhou, and so was Daoist Shouyin. Their paths would cross again, and Shouyin’s schemes would surely reveal themselves in time.

Shouyin waited in the courtyard for only half an hour before his impatience boiled over, and he shouted into the house, “How much longer must we wait for that old quack to return?”

Neither Zhang Chi nor Dao Xuan paid him any attention inside. Yet Zhang Chi found it odd—he’d encountered Daoist Shouyin several times now, and each time, the man’s temperament seemed utterly changed. This time was more extreme: Shouyin didn’t even recognize him, though Zhang Chi had publicly humiliated him at Jiankang’s Daoist temple. Was Shouyin so magnanimous as to bear no grudge? Somehow Zhang Chi doubted it.

Still, of all his encounters with the Daoist, this was the most exasperating. Not only did people dislike him, even dogs did.

At the words “old quack,” the household’s big white dog, Da Bai, became agitated and barked fiercely at Shouyin, baring its teeth with a menacing glare.

“Oh, I nearly forgot about it,” Shouyin suddenly realized. “I’m starving, and here’s a fine piece of fresh meat right before me. Why haven’t you slaughtered that big white dog and cooked it for me yet?”

The burly men who usually carried Shouyin began moving to seize Da Bai. Yet the dog’s fierce demeanor made them hesitate; though they surrounded it, none dared approach.

So men and dog stood locked in standoff—neither advancing nor retreating—for the time it takes to burn a stick of incense.

“You useless fools! Can’t even catch a dog?” Shouyin snarled from his litter. “If you can’t catch that dog, you’d best go back to your farms!”

The men, poor peasants, paled at the threat of dismissal. What were they most afraid of? Hunger, cold, destitution. In chaotic times, dignity is a luxury for the impoverished, and so they served Shouyin, dreading above all the loss of even this meager livelihood. If they had fields to farm, who would willingly follow a Daoist to bully the weak and fear the strong?

Left with no choice, the men exchanged glances to bolster their courage, then closed in on Da Bai. Yet though they had the dog surrounded, none dared strike first, casting anxious looks at Shouyin. Then the sycophantic voice beside Shouyin rang out, “You useless lot—can’t even kill a dog? I’ll do it myself!”

With that, he grabbed a wooden pole and rushed at Da Bai.

“Stop!” Zhang Chi hadn’t intended to interfere, but he recalled how the doctor had once told him that Da Bai was his only companion. Remembering the doctor’s kindness in treating Dao Xuan, Zhang Chi could not let them kill the dog. He flung open the door and shouted.

The man with the pole turned and cursed, “It’s just a mangy dog. Get back inside, or I’ll beat you to death as well!”

Though Dao Xuan was injured, his martial skills were formidable, and he barely noticed the pain. Young and hot-blooded, he had long since had enough of these bullies. Without another word, he leapt outside, faced the man with the pole, and snapped, “If you don’t stop, I’ll turn you into a dead dog first!”

The man, enraged, swung at Dao Xuan. With a single effortless twist, Dao Xuan snapped the pole in half. The man, shocked by the display of strength, retreated several paces, too embarrassed to advance, too proud to withdraw—when a cough sounded at the gate.

The doctor had returned from gathering herbs and now stood by the door, silent and expressionless, surveying the scene.

Shouyin, seeing the old man with his medicine basket, asked, “Are you the famed doctor everyone calls Divine Healer Li?”

“I wouldn’t dare claim to be divine, but I am a doctor,” the old man replied coldly.

Shouyin beamed. “If people call you a divine healer, then so you are. I fell from my horse in the mountains and broke my leg—since you’re a healer, come treat me. If you can’t, don’t blame me for smashing up your house and exposing you as a fraud!”

The doctor, seeing the man’s arrogance, suddenly asked, “You are not of my Daoist order.”

The phrasing was deliberate: “my Daoist order,” not merely “a Daoist.” Clearly, the doctor himself was Daoist.

Shouyin heard the implication. “So you’re a Daoist too?”

“I am; you are not.” The doctor’s words were sharp. “Wearing a Daoist cap and robe does not make you one of us. If you claim to be, you are unworthy.”

At this, Shouyin flew into a rage and signaled to his men, who advanced menacingly. “Will you treat me or not?”

“I will not!” the doctor replied firmly.

“Beat him—beat him until he agrees!”

At the order, the thugs surged forward, but the elderly doctor showed not a trace of fear. Yet he had no martial skill; a single shove sent him sprawling.

Zhang Chi, filled with admiration for the old man who gave free care to the poor and never charged a coin, could not bear to see him suffer. He signaled to Dao Xuan, who was already itching to intervene. Without hesitation, Dao Xuan rushed forward as the thugs advanced on the doctor, and with swift, punishing blows dropped each of them to the ground.

“Whoever dares move, I’ll cripple him first!” Dao Xuan shouted.

At this, even Shouyin was cowed. He had not expected to encounter such a formidable fighter in a tiny village. Against men like him, only greater force could prevail.

Seeing this, Shouyin gave up his bravado and began to weep. “Divine Healer Li—no, Grandpa Healer! They say a healer’s heart is like a parent’s. I’m on an urgent mission, but my broken legs are holding me back. Please, have pity and heal me!”

His tears came with astonishing speed, like a performer switching masks in a Sichuan opera. Zhang Chi nearly laughed. The old doctor, moved by pity, relented. “I will not treat you. If you go a few miles ahead, you’ll reach Chengshan Ferry, and beyond the river is Juzhang City, where you’ll find plenty of physicians. Go have your leg treated there.”

True to his word, the doctor refused to help, and even after Shouyin pleaded for a long while, he did not yield. Helpless, Shouyin’s men carried him away, following the directions toward Chengshan Ferry.

“Are you truly a Daoist?” Zhang Chi asked once Shouyin was gone.

The doctor nodded silently. Dao Xuan, curious, said, “I thought all Daoists were villains. How is it that you are such a good man? Strange indeed.”

As a Buddhist monk, Dao Xuan had long harbored enmity toward Daoists, and his recent experiences only reinforced his disdain.

“Nonsense!” the doctor rebuked. “Those you speak of are but black sheep. For centuries, our Daoist order has served the people, aiding the suffering. Only such men are worthy of the name Daoist! As for Shouyin, I know his name—he claims descent from Ge Hong, patriarch of the Dan Ding sect, but he’s nothing but a charlatan.”

“So you know him?” Zhang Chi asked, surprised. “But he seemed not to recognize you.”

“I know Daoist Shouyin, but not the man you saw.”

“Isn’t he Daoist Shouyin?”

“There are many branches of Daoism. Ge Hong was a master of the Dan Ding sect, skilled in all arts—alchemy, talismans, and more—a true genius. But he had no descendants. Shouyin merely trades on Ge Hong’s reputation. Each Daoist sect is famous for certain skills: the Tianshi sect for talismans, the Tianji sect for divination and mysterious formations, and the Dan Ding sect, most of all, for the art of the double.”

At these words, Zhang Chi finally understood the distinctions between Daoist branches. No wonder, during battle with the Northern Army, the old Daoist Zhan Taiqi of the Tianji sect had been able to deploy the formidable Jiangshan Formation; their sect genuinely mastered those arts.

The doctor continued, “But after Ge Hong died, the art of the double was lost. If Shouyin claims to be his heir, how could he not know it? So he simply found several men who resembled him and sent them out in his stead, pretending at mastery. It’s a trick that might fool the ignorant, but never a true Daoist.”

Realization dawned on Zhang Chi. No wonder Shouyin’s personality had seemed so different each time—they were not the same man at all.

In ancient times, when people were simple, such a ruse could easily deceive the common folk.

“You’re not a Daoist—why am I telling you all this?” the doctor sighed. “Let your friend come inside. I’ve gathered herbs for his wounds; once I apply them, he’ll be fine.”

The doctor led Dao Xuan inside to tend his injuries, while Zhang Chi noticed Bai Xue, his white horse, standing in the courtyard. Though Dao Xuan would recover, Bai Xue still had an arrowhead lodged in its flesh—it must be in terrible pain. Zhang Chi’s heart ached as he approached the horse and murmured, “You are truly a steed without equal, yet you’ve suffered so much with me.”

As he stroked Bai Xue’s mane, the horse seemed to understand, lowering its head to nuzzle Zhang Chi’s chest affectionately. Zhang Chi, filled with both gratitude and love, said softly, “Without you, I’d have died a hundred times these past days. Once this is over and I find Santong and the others, we’ll head straight into Shu.”

He thought of the cold, ethereal, and otherworldly Emei—“Emei lies in Shu. There, you’ll see your former master again, and I shall see the one I love once more.”

Bai Xue neighed loudly, as if longing for Emei too, its cry tinged with yearning. Zhang Chi smiled.

Turning, he saw the old doctor had finished tending Dao Xuan and now stood behind him.

“Enough. I have no kin left in this world—only Da Bai has been my companion all these years. Today, you saved Da Bai’s life. I’ll make an exception and treat your white horse’s wound.”

Zhang Chi was overjoyed and thanked him profusely. The old doctor, seeing Zhang Chi’s deep affection for Bai Xue, seemed thoughtful. After a moment, he said, “I once had three rules: I do not treat villains, I do not treat the gentry, I do not treat beasts. But today, I realize that some men are worse than animals, and some animals possess more loyalty than men. Perhaps I should change my three rules to two.”