Chapter Twenty-One: Recitation of the "Huangting"

Mist veiled the endless mountains, clouds drifting lightly, while radiance bloomed across the sky, auspicious signs appearing everywhere.

Kunlun Mountain, the Mother of All Peaks.

It was said that in ancient times, a being of great power once stood upon the summit of Buzhou Mountain. With supreme abilities, he surveyed the veins of spiritual energy that coursed through heaven and earth, and discovered that fully half of the world’s spiritual meridians originated from Kunlun. Thus, the title “Mother of All Peaks” was bestowed.

Within Kunlun, the aura of vitality was so dense that many plants and wild beasts, by some twist of fate, suddenly awakened to intelligence. Instinctively, they absorbed the essence of sun and moon, inhaling and exhaling the primal energies of the world. These were but acquired spirits; though they had awakened, their practice was crude and simple, focusing on refining their inner elixir with the essence of heaven and earth. Their supernatural abilities were merely instinctive, far inferior to those beings who had emerged alongside the very evolution of heaven and earth. Those born together with the world were known as Great Immortals or Supreme Adepts, also called Innate Spirits.

Thus, those who awakened later would seek to become disciples of these mighty adepts, or at the very least, gather at the mountains where these beings resided. Over time, centers of power emerged.

Occasionally, a Supreme Adept would open a forum to expound the Way, attracting countless minor spirits and creatures from the mountains. Among them, some, after listening, would perform the rites of discipleship to the speaker, and upon descending the mountain, consider themselves disciples of such-and-such a peak.

With the birth of heaven and earth, with the arising of sentient beings, there inevitably followed conflict and strife. Chaos was thus sown. Those who originally spoke out of goodwill found themselves entangled: since some creatures claimed themselves disciples and made enemies in the wider world, their foes would trace them back to the mountain, bringing trouble and senseless disputes. From then on, the Supreme Adepts ceased to preach openly, passing on their teachings only to their own kin. Even if someone sincerely sought apprenticeship, only after testing their character would they impart the Dao and its arts.

Back then, Kong Xuan gave Nan Luo a single jade slip containing his insights into the Great Way. Now, in Nan Luo’s hands, was a book—neither paper nor wood, nor metal, iron, silk, nor leather. This was a volume forged by the Celestial Master of Profound Mystery from Chishan copper, tempered in a furnace for forty-nine days and nights, with words inscribed upon it by divine will. When the book was completed, its brilliance soared straight into the heavens, drawing the mountain’s cultivators who practiced breathing clouds and mist to come and see. Yet they only gazed at the Taiji Palace from afar; not one dared approach.

Clearly, they had all tasted hardship at the hands of the Celestial Master. Otherwise, how could the Taiji Palace, which sat atop the source of spiritual veins spanning a thousand miles, remain so tranquil?

The book’s cover was a pale green, upon which two ancient characters, “Huangting,” were inscribed, seeming to contain boundless mysteries of the Dao. Nan Luo sat beside a blossoming plum near the cliff edge before Taiji Palace, chanting the scripture aloud.

These characters could not be read with the eyes, but had to be perceived with the mind’s spirit; only then could one truly see and understand them. Reciting them was no simple matter of speaking aloud, but required one to stir all the power within, uniting heart and soul, plunging all thoughts into the reading in order to articulate what was seen. This was a form of cultivation, deepening one’s understanding of the Dao.

Nan Luo did not know that what he recited were not mere words, but arcane tones of heaven and earth—sometimes like tinkling streams, sometimes like a tiger’s roar through the mountains, sometimes resounding like thunder shaking the skies. All the myriad mystical sounds of creation were uttered by Nan Luo in his chanting.

This practice not only increased his spiritual power and cultivation, but also honed the secret incantations used in the casting of spells. One day, if Nan Luo attained true mastery, his words would become law; a single shout could bring thunder crashing down from the nine heavens.

In essence, the Huangting was both the foundation of all arts and the root of the Way: in the beginning, it was for practicing magic; at the intermediate level, it revealed the principles of the Dao; at its height, Dao and law became one, and words moved the heavens.

A plum tree was about to bloom; a little green serpent curled in a crevice. The sun had just risen, enshrouding Nan Luo, who was chanting the Huangting Sutra, in golden light. Clad in blue Daoist robes, hair bound in a topknot, spotless and pure, he held the pale golden pages that shimmered with mysterious luster in the sunlight.

It had been a year since Nan Luo was taken as a nominal disciple. At that time, the Celestial Master of Profound Mystery handed him the Huangting, saying, “This is no ordinary book, but the language of heaven and earth. Recite it each day, and in time you will commune with the world itself.”

With such a book, Nan Luo was naturally overjoyed. Yet what pleased him most was that the Celestial Master had also imparted to him a systematic method of cultivation—the Treatise on the Response of Supreme Purity. It was divided into three levels, the first being the Chapter on Refining Essence into Qi.

Nan Luo had cultivated for a year and still had not succeeded in refining qi. At first, he questioned the Celestial Master, saying that he had previously entered the path of qi refinement and could already practice. Why, then, after awakening, could he no longer do so?

The Celestial Master’s explanation made things clear: a trace of the blood of the ancestor-shaman had been fused into Nan Luo, making his body powerful and his essence overly vigorous. The qi produced by his old cultivation methods had long since been scattered by the Golden Roc. The subsequent practices, whether those learned from the priests or in the prison of the Azure Python Cliff, were too crude for his current body.

Kong Xuan had once told Nan Luo that cultivation was, in essence, to draw upon the energy of heaven and earth for one’s own use, tempering the body with cosmic force to attain eternal life. But such theories were too vague and lacked concrete methods; no matter how much Nan Luo understood in theory, it was useless.

Yet within the Treatise on the Response of Supreme Purity were precise instructions, not like the methods on Azure Python Cliff, where, in order to cultivate suitable attendants, spirit guides were sealed in jade slips and external pressure forced the prisoners to practice desperately to enter the path of qi refinement.

Since learning the treatise, every night Nan Luo sat beside the plum tree on the cliff to practice qi refinement. For reasons unknown, he did not enjoy meditating indoors, but preferred to sit outside, regardless of wind or rain.

There were no auspicious clouds coiling above, nor golden lotuses springing from the ground—Nan Luo had not yet reached such a realm. The Daoist language he recited did not yet possess the essential spirit. Yet below the cliff, many birds and beasts gathered quietly to listen to the mystical tones of the Way.

Finishing a page, Nan Luo returned his mind to the present. Gazing at the untransformed birds and beasts below, he saw in them both the Great Spirit of the Ram and his former self—hearts yearning for the Way, yet finding no door through which to enter.

Ever since the day the Celestial Master accepted them as disciples, Goldhorn and Silverhorn followed Nan Luo everywhere. Unless summoned by the Celestial Master, they spared no thought for tending the furnace or practicing. It was as if some inexhaustible secret about Nan Luo drew them in.

“Master says that you’re only bringing karma upon yourself for the future by doing this,” Goldhorn said loudly, appearing beside Nan Luo with Silverhorn, at some point.

“Karma? I don’t know about that. I only know that they are pitiable. If you haven’t experienced it yourself, you can never understand how precious a chance to learn truly is. Perhaps some among them, upon hearing me chant even once, will be enlightened, devote themselves to cultivation, and transcend the cycle of rebirth,” Nan Luo replied quietly, his eyes distant, his expression faint.

Goldhorn rubbed the little golden horn on his brow, head tilted in thought. Even after Nan Luo turned and walked away, he still could not make sense of Nan Luo’s words.