Chapter 27: The Zen of a Simple Cup of Tea

Over the next few days, Xiao Chen was no longer the passive, silent listener he had been. He began to attempt, in his own clumsy way, to understand this brand-new world. He would imitate Jiang Xiuyuan, sitting quietly by the edge of the cliff—not to ruminate on past glories or mourn his current downfall, but simply to "sit." He learned to feel the blowing of the wind, to listen to the shifting of the clouds, to watch the rise and fall of the sun and moon, and to experience the cycle of life and death in every blade of grass and withered tree.

He discovered that when he stopped viewing himself as "Jinghong Sword Xiao Chen," the world took on a completely different appearance in his eyes. Before, mountains were merely mountains, and water was merely water—they were objects for him to conquer and overlook, the backdrop to the world beneath his blade. Now, he felt himself becoming a part of the mountains, a part of the water, a minuscule yet real component of the heavens and earth.

This feeling was wondrous, yet it left him more confused than ever. He had set aside his obsession with "identity," yet he could not grasp a new direction. He was like a traveler wandering at a crossroads, knowing the old path was severed but unable to discern any new one ahead.

That morning, at the first glimmer of dawn, the embers of the clifftop campfire still held a hint of warmth. Jiang Xiuyuan, as was his custom, boiled water in a coarse clay teapot. The mountain spring water bubbled and hissed, and the white steam rose in graceful curls, blending with the morning mist between the cliffs.

Xiao Chen walked over and sat down opposite him in silence. The days of quiet contemplation had brought a touch of color to his once-ashen face, and his eyes, once hollow, now held a deep, searching bewilderment.

Jiang Xiuyuan said nothing. He simply picked up a clay bowl and placed it before Xiao Chen. He lifted the teapot and poured the scalding tea into the bowl. The stream of water rose from low to high, and the bowl was soon full. Yet, Jiang Xiuyuan did not stop; he let the clear, amber tea continue to pour, overflowing the rim and spilling onto the rocks below with a faint "hiss," sending up a cloud of white vapor.

Xiao Chen’s brow furrowed, his eyes filled with confusion. He wanted to speak up to warn the old man, but sensing there must be a deeper meaning to this act, he held his tongue.

Not until nearly half the water in the pot was gone did Jiang Xiuyuan finally stop. He set down the pot, looked at the bewildered Xiao Chen, and asked calmly, "What do you see?"

"The tea is full, it is spilling over," Xiao Chen answered truthfully.

Jiang Xiuyuan nodded, pointing to the steaming bowl, and said slowly, "Your heart is like this cup."

His voice was not loud, but it reached Xiao Chen’s ears with the force of a thunderclap.

"These past few days, although you have sat here, your heart is filled to the brim. Half of it is the glory and splendor of the past century; the other half is the pain and resentment of having lost your cultivation. They are like this bowl of tea—your heart is already so full that there is no room left for anything new."

"If you do not pour out some of this old tea, how can the new tea ever enter?"

*Boom!*

These words struck Xiao Chen’s mind like a bolt of lightning. He stared blankly at the overflowing cup, and in it, he seemed to see his own heart, crowded and choked by the past. It was true. Though he spoke of letting go, he had not stopped for a single moment to stop dwelling on the past and nursing his grievances. His heart had long since lacked even the smallest space.

***

A hollow cup mindset… so that was it! Without emptying, how can one receive the new?

He reached out to pick up the scalding bowl of tea, but the heat forced him to pull his hand back sharply. The searing pain brought him to his senses instantly.

"I cannot let go." Xiao Chen shook his head bitterly, his voice heavy with helplessness. "Old man, I seem to understand the logic, but… I cannot do it. Those memories, those glories, that pain—they are like flesh grown into my very bones. How can one simply let go just by deciding to?"

Jiang Xiuyuan looked at his scalded, reddened fingers, a look of compassionate pity on his face. He did not answer directly, but instead began to tell a story.

"Let me tell you a Zen story," he said leisurely. "There was a young monk who was distressed all day long. He ran to the old master in the temple and asked, 'Master, I have too many attachments and worries in my heart. How can I "let go" of them?'"

"The old master listened but said nothing. He simply told the young monk to go to the meditation hall and fetch something. The young monk went in and saw a piece of charcoal burning bright red in a brazier in the center of the room. The master told him to bring it here."

"The young monk dared not disobey, so he steeled himself and reached out to take the charcoal from the brazier. How scalding it was! The moment he touched it, his palm was burned, the skin tearing, and a smell of charred flesh filled the air. He let out a cry of pain and, without a second thought, flung the charcoal to the ground."

Jiang Xiuyuan stopped there, his eyes fixed intently on Xiao Chen.

Xiao Chen was stunned. He felt as if he were that young monk, and the pain and attachments in his heart were that burning piece of charcoal.

Jiang Xiuyuan continued slowly, "After the young monk threw the charcoal away, he ran to the master, complaining that he still hadn't learned how to let go. The master laughed and asked him in return, 'Did you not just let go?'"

"Pain is the piece of charcoal in your hand. When you feel it is too hot to bear, you do not need anyone to teach you; you will let go naturally. The reason you still feel pain, the reason you feel you cannot let go, is simply because you do not yet feel it is hot enough. You are still clutching it tightly, refusing to loosen your grip."

"Still clutching it tightly, refusing to loosen your grip…"

These words were like a sharp dagger, mercilessly cutting through Xiao Chen’s final pretense. He had always thought himself a victim of his pain, but only now did he realize that he was the one inflicting it. It was he himself who was clutching that piece of charcoal called "the past," allowing it to riddle his heart with holes, all while wallowing in self-pity and refusing to release it.

It was not that he couldn't let go; it was that he… didn't want to. Because once he let go, the once-dazzling "Jinghong Sword Xiao Chen" would truly vanish forever. He was afraid—afraid that after letting go, he would be left with nothing.

Jiang Xiuyuan seemed to see through his fear and continued to guide him. "Young man, you are mistaken about one thing. You have lost your soul-bound flying sword, 'Jinghong,' and you have lost the cultivation you were so proud of. But you have not lost your 'Sword Heart.' You have simply, for a long time, confused your sword and your cultivation with your Sword Heart."

***

"The Sword Heart is not the sword…" Xiao Chen whispered these words, the bewilderment in his eyes gradually replaced by a glimmer of insight.

He looked up, his gaze no longer fixed on a single point, but sweeping slowly over everything around him. He looked at the ordinary, somewhat coarse teacup in his hand; it could hold water, or it could be used as a weapon. Its "utility" depended on the heart of the one holding it. He looked at the ordinary campfire before him; it could bring warmth, or it could burn everything to ash. Its "nature" depended on the intent of the one feeding the wood.

He looked again at the distant mountains and trees. The majesty of the mountains was a "blunt sword"; the persistence of the water was a "yielding sword"; the formlessness of the wind was a "swift sword"; the tenacity of the grass was a "sword of life force"…

In this moment, Xiao Chen felt for the first time that all things in heaven and earth could be a sword. Yet, for the past hundred years, he had stared only at that single blade in his hand called "Jinghong," confining his entire world within those three feet of steel.

How pathetic, how laughable!

He slowly reached out, without hesitation, and picked up the bowl of now-tepid tea. Then, tilting the rim, he poured every last drop onto the ground.

Having done this, he placed the empty bowl back on the rock and turned to Jiang Xiuyuan, offering a genuine smile—though still pale, it was incomparably light.

"Old man, please grant me some new tea."

Seeing this, a satisfied smile spread across Jiang Xiuyuan's face. He knew that this young man had finally poured out the old tea in his heart with his own two hands.

The dawn of enlightenment had arrived.