Chapter 1: The Boy

Chapter 1: The Boy

Maoshan.

This was a famous Taoist mountain in Jiangsu Province, China, the birthplace of the Shangqing sect of Taoism. Known among Taoists as the “Shangqing sect’s altar,” it bore the reputation as the “First Blessed Land, the Eighth Grotto Heaven.”

Because its mountain contours twisted like the Chinese character “已” (yǐ), it was originally called Jūqū Mountain. Taoists hailed it as “Jūqū’s Jinling realm, a blessed realm for nurturing truth and sacred ground for becoming divinity.”

During the Western Han Dynasty, three brothers from Xianyang, Shaanxi—Mao Ying, Mao Gu, and Mao Zhong—came to Jūqū Mountain to pursue cultivation and do good deeds, benefiting the world. Later generations renamed Jūqū Mountain “Three Mao Mountain” in commemoration of their merits, which was shortened to “Maoshan.”

Through the Tang and Song dynasties, Taoism on Maoshan flourished immensely. Across the front hills and rear ridges, amidst peaks and valleys, numerous Taoist structures—palaces, temples, halls, and pavilions—numbered over three hundred with more than five thousand rooms, housing thousands of Daoist priests. There was the saying: “Three Palaces, Five Temples, Seventy-Two Mao Hermitages.”

However, by the 1980s following that turbulent decade, Maoshan appeared somewhat dilapidated. Even though initial repairs had started in the early ’80s, it was hard to recapture the flourishing incense and activity of its peak era.

Near the foothills bordering Jintan, several small villages encircled the area. The larger ones had no more than about a hundred households; smaller ones might only have over a dozen. Every morning and evening, traces of cooking smoke could be seen rising skyward from various spots around the mountain base.

Children from these villages, upon reaching school age, had to walk five or six li to attend school in the town. Boarding wasn’t common in those times, so they always hurried home after class. Luckily, there were no large predatory beasts around Maoshan, and familiar paths posed little risk.

“Brother Tian, no school tomorrow! Should we celebrate tonight? Wanna sneak into Erlengzi’s cornfield and grab some ears of corn?”

On a small mountain path, three or four half-grown boys—nine or ten years old—slung worn, patched army-green satchels over their shoulders. Their sharp eyes scanned both sides of the path while their ripped-toe-cloth shoes kicked restlessly at small pebbles on the ground.

Mention of food instantly made everyone except the boy walking in the middle perk up eagerly, uncontrollably swallowing saliva.

Although at that time, the “chief architect” had already raised the call for reform and opening up, and massive construction projects were underway in cities along the southeastern coast,

in this remote mountain village, boys of the “half-grown, eat-ya-poor” age mostly spent their free time playing, with food as their favorite topic beyond that.

Walking in the center, Ye Tian responded to the chubby kid’s suggestion, “Corn? Forget it. Come to my place tonight. We’ve got fish, crabs, and eel.”

Family-wise, the Ye family were outsiders and arguably the poorest of the bunch. Yet Ye Tian’s father always found ways to provide nutrition for his son. Without regular meat, fish was a constant on their table.

The mention of fish brought immediate drool to each boy. Uncle Ye’s fish-cooking skills were top-notch. Even his plain-boiled fish soup had an unforgettable taste.

“Brother Tian, did you catch that eel yourself? You’re so good. I can never catch any,” a pudgy boy admired Ye Tian. His barrel-like build at nine was likely the result of stuffing anything edible into his mouth.

Catching eels was a genuine skill. The tool was simple: a bicycle spoke sharpened at one end into a hook and the other end bent into a circle.

Finding an eel burrow, you inserted the hook. If an eel grabbed it, you thrust the hook firmly inside its mouth, twisted it slightly, then quickly pulled it out while grabbing the eel behind its head with the other hand.

Easier said than done. Mastering this required rare skill. Ye Tian earned his spot as the unofficial leader among the village kids not just through unmatched fighting prowess against his age group, but also through an eel-catching technique that bested many adults.

“See how hungry you look? Eels are nothing. Crabs are the real treat this season,” Ye Tian waved a dismissive hand. Situated in Jiangnan’s water country, streams crisscrossed the foothills of Maoshan. People didn’t crave crabs much, though. While fishing and eel-hunting were common ways to supplement the scarce diet there, crabs were mostly ignored.

Ye Tian then puffed his chest, throwing a warning look around his companions. “Nobody tell my dad about making Yu Qingya cry today, alright? Or else…”

“Relax, Brother Tian! We won’t say anything,” the pudgy boy quickly reassured, leaning closer. “Brother Tian, when you placed that mirror by your foot… did you really see under her skirt?”

“Of course I saw! But… she caught me instantly,” Ye Tian muttered, still annoyed. That girl couldn’t take a joke. She ran crying to the teacher. Because of her, he didn’t get the “Triple-A Student” certificate this year, even with perfect scores!

During his five years in primary school, Ye Tian consistently scored full marks but never brought home a single award certificate. If it wasn’t tying girl’s braids to their chairs, it was throwing firecrackers into the boys’ latrine. Parents were called often.

“Brother Tian… what if… after dinner… we go watch Erlengzi’s wife bathe? Erlengzi is laying nets at the reservoir tonight—I know it!”

The chubby boy’s eyes twinkled mischievously. It wasn’t that these boys matured early; life was just incredibly dull in this backwater hill village. Their boundless energy had to go somewhere.

“Sure. But careful! If you get caught? Don’t snitch on me,” Ye Tian agreed readily. This wasn’t their first peeping expedition, after all. He’d been crawling beneath Erlengzi’s marriage bed since age five, then proudly imitating it for the amused villagers the next day. Naturally, he hadn’t understood the meaning behind those “oooh… aaah…” sounds back then, and honestly, still didn’t fully grasp it now.

As they chatted, they spotted the village ahead and sped towards the entrance. A yellow dog that had been prepared to greet them at the big locust tree at the village gate tucked its tail between its legs and scurried away upon seeing them.

Ye Tian’s village was called Li Village. True to its name, besides Ye Tian and his father, everyone else bore the surname Li. Legend had it during the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom, two brothers fled famine from northern Jiangsu and settled here, founding this place.

Li Village wasn’t large—only 23 houses total. A person could sprint front-to-back in minutes. Whitened slogans from a bygone era—”Fight selfishness and criticize revisionism” and “Carry the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution Through to the End!”—still clung to the stone cottage walls.

“Fatty Dun, Erdàn, go home, tell your folks, then hurry back.” At the village entrance, Ye Tian stopped. His home was right at the gate.

The Ye residence was originally the clan ancestral hall. During “those ten years,” ancestor tablets were smashed by zealous “Little Red Guards” obsessed with “smashing feudal superstitions.” The hall became lodgings for urban youths “sent-down” to the countryside.

With most youths returning to the cities, the vast hall—once housing over ten people—now held only Ye Tian and his father. It felt spacious yet run-down.

“Dad! I’m home! Got perfect scores again this year…”

Striding through the courtyard gate, Ye Tian called out loudly—not in the local dialect he used with friends, but in fluent Northern Mandarin tinged with a Beijing flair.

“You punk, why so loud? Been causing trouble?” As the proverb goes: a father knows his son. Hearing Ye Tian’s voice, the middle-aged man from the yard stood straight chuckling but scolding. He was quite aware of his boy’s knack for mischief, enduring the teacher’s lectures multiple times yearly.

Ye Tian resembled his father about sixty percent. Yet unlike Ye Dongping’s firm face, Ye Tian’s features held a softer look. As a very young child, outsiders visiting the village would compliment how pretty “this little girl” was, spurring Ye Tian—at age five—to climb Maoshan alone, determined to become a “real man” by learning from a master monk. Had Maoshan had a monastery like Shaolin Temple (from the movie he’d seen with the mobile projection team), young Ye Tian might even have shaved his head to become a monk.

“Nah! Here, let me help clean the eels.” Ye Tian hurled his satchel aside and cheerfully picked up a wooden board next to the door. A nail protruded from the top end.

Setting it down, he grabbed an eel from a nearby basin. With practiced ease, he pinned the eel to the board. An unexpected small knife appeared in his right hand. A swift slice opened the eel’s belly.

After rinsing it with water, Ye Tian’s right hand flashed expertly across the board a few times. A quick shake sent pieces of the half-kilo eel tumbling neatly into a waiting enamel basin.

These two, father and son relying solely on each other for so long, obviously weren’t strangers to teamwork. By the time Ye Tian finished preparing the eel, Ye Dongping’s rendered pork fat in the wok was sizzling hot. Tossed with some chopped scallion and chili peppers, in went the sliced eel. The sharp sound and delicious aroma soon filled the courtyard.

Not long after, a large basin of stir-fried eel slices, a red-braised fish (weighing nearly three kilos alone), plus a bowl of fish head soup graced the table. Alongside homegrown greens, this spread was considered lavish by village standards. While only three dishes, the portions were hefty. With the big fish and the eel, there was easily enough for five or six.

“Smells wonderful! Old Ye, I bought some yellow rice wine coming back from town… Let’s have a few cups,” came a hearty voice. Following the laughter, a man about Ye Dongping’s age appeared. Behind him trailed little Fatty Dun and his friends, hunched sheepishly, exchanging looks with Ye Tian.

“Master Yu.” Seeing this visitor, Ye Tian instantly stiffened, standing politely to greet his teacher. This man was not only his homeroom teacher, but also Yu Qingya’s father—who knew if he was here to lodge a complaint today?

Yu Haoran eyed Ye Tian’s forced innocent expression and scolded lightly, “Young rascal. Your studies are fine—if only you weren’t so naughty. Need well-rounded development: morality, knowledge, physique, art, labor!”

Looking at this pupil of his gave Yu Haoran mixed feelings. Academically, Ye Tian was undeniably outstanding—not just top of his class in their village school’s fourth-grade but surely counted among the top few county-wide. Yet his focus on play overshadowed potential. Still, teachers favor bright students. Despite stern words, Yu Haoran genuinely liked this clever, high-achieving kid. And after several parent-teacher meetings? He and Ye Dongping had become friends.

Like Ye Dongping, Yu Haoran had also been a sent-down youth, originally from Shanghai. Finding a partner here during his village stay, he’d chosen to remain post-1979 instead of returning, continuously teaching at the primary school since then.

Seeing Yu Haoran’s expression, Ye Dongping smiled knowingly. “Master Yu, has the little troublemaker been at it again? Three days without thrashing, he’s climbing the roof tiles! Just treat him like your own—don’t hold back when he needs a spanking…”

“No such thing, Da! I’m starving, let’s eat!” Ye Tian threw an uneasy glance towards Yu Haoran. But he also knew this once-frequent reporter had eased off considerably since becoming pals with his father. Seemed he’d escape today too.

“Indeed, eat! Come, Old Ye, bottoms up!” Indeed, Yu Haoran made no mention of school-related woes. Once the young boys gathered at the small table, he raised his wine cup cheerfully to clink with Ye Dongping’s.

“This stuff… weak tasting. Nothing like Erguotou—that’s got strength!” Downing his cup in one go, Ye Dongping shook his head slightly, a trace of distant sadness briefly shadowing his eyes.

Setting his wine down, Yu Hao Ran leaned in. “Old Ye, speaking of… There is something I wanted to discuss with you actually…”

While the grownups drank and talked, the boys stayed hardly idle. Chopsticks flew ferociously—grabbing steaming fish chunks first to stuff mouths, burying juicy eel slices within rice beneath bowls, all while sharp little eyes locked onto remaining treasures ahead. They behaved like hungry wolf pups.

“Dad, Master Yu, done!” Within mere minutes, the table was cleared of food. Rubbing his stuffed belly, Ye Tian glanced pointedly back toward the door.

“Little beasts! The way you eat?”

Scanning the sparkling clean bowls, Ye Dongping scolded fondly. He stood: “Go run around outside. Master Yu, I’ll fry up some peanuts. This matter of yours? Take your time explaining.”

…

Though no families in Li Village yet owned a TV, summer nights in the countryside remained quite vibrant. Villagers gathered outside enjoying cool breezes after supper, chatting. Combined with croaking frogs and chirping crickets in the nearby fields, small Li Village held a distinctly lively charm.

“Brother Tian… Give a look!”

Beneath a window belonging to an off-main path home, three small heads pressed against each other, peeping into the room. By moonlight outside the curtainless window, pale naked figures moved faintly inside the darkened room.

Way too young for primal bodily urges to surface fully yet, such viewing remained crucial capital for boasting at school. Hence, whenever these lads knew Erlengzi was gone? This “recreation activity” became irresistible.

“You little rabbit brats! Seeking death?”

Just as the three whispered debates heated up (“Left or right cheek did that mole sit on Erlangzi’s wife’s butt?!”), a thunderous roar exploded at the courtyard gate.

“Crap! Fatty Dun! Said he wouldn’t be back till late! Wish I’d cracked out a divination hexagram…” Ye Tian knew Erlengzi’s infamous temper. Getting caught meant a village-wide proclamation no doubt awaited. Helping carry chickens years ago at his wedding wouldn’t earn any mercy now!

With Erlangzi blocking the gate exit, the youngsters scattered instantly, scrambling over nearby walls barely one meter high. Even pudgy Fatty Dun managed surprisingly swift vaulting!

Scrambling desperately wall-ward himself, a sudden cry of pain erupted behind Ye Tian. He spun: Fatty Dun clutched his own ear, howling dramatically as the furious Erlangzi restrained him!

“That dumbo!”

Grumbling lowly, Ye Tian’s swift flight never ceased. Shoving his right hand hard atop the dirt-walled barrier (nearly matching his own height), he leapt upward neatly, twisting agilely midair before tumbling across safely into freedom.

“Sigh… Maybe head to the master’s place…” Once safely outside Erlangzi’s yard, Ye Tian bypassed going home. Instead, he raced towards the hill slope beyond village backends. Getting pounded by Dad on vacation’s very first night? Unappealing. Hiding atop Maoshan a few days sounded wise—return home once Dad’s temper cooled.

Deep towering forests shrouding Maoshan scarcely daunted Ye Tian; he’d ventured boldly alone since age five. Once he’d wound up mistakenly atop a different peak. Fortune sent him toward a decaying, unkempt Taoist temple, wherein resided an aging priest claiming surname “Li”… Who smoothly conned the tiny boy into kowtowing to become his disciple.

Ye Tian never did learn Old Taoist Priest’s true age. But among the elder’s tales: when Marshal Chen Yi led guerrilla troops across these hills? He’d allegedly addressed him, “Uncle,” without pause.

Back then, little Ye Tian had no clue “Minister Chen” meant. Only school enlightenments later revealed fame substantial enough to fuel regular cheeky mockery: “Old man tells wild pigs!” The priest simply chuckled, silently watching on.

Though definitely eccentric—incessantly forcing Ye Tian into memorizing tongue-twisting classics like the Mayi Xiangfa or Shuijing Ji—possess true martial mastery proved he did! Merely learning foundational “Qi-Guiding Technique” rendered him peerlessly unstoppable during playground brawls.

Li Village to hilltop temple roughly took an hour. Half journeying sky suddenly unleashed torrents! Upon finally darting inside the temple doorway? Ye Tian resembled a soaked rat caught drowning.

“Master! Master! I arrived!” Ye Tian burst through sheeting rain curtains into the structure.

Quite modest—besides the entrance-side main hall, temple consisted merely two tiny side rooms. Long neglected repair made its front gate wretchedly dilapidated; last autumn Old Taoist Priest chopped its planks entirely for campfire fuel, saving Ye Tian from now familiar door-knocking routine.

“Master! Anybody home?”

Circling both front hall and rear quarters once proved entirely futile—no aged priest anywhere! Scratching damp hair puzzledly, Ye Tian returned inside the main hall, automatically clasping hands bowing low beneath the single enshrined statue therein.

Unique against main Maoshan temples typically worshiping Sanqing deities en masse? This shrine held lone clay sculpture of a priest draped in coarse robe.

The figure upon the altar wore rough hemp, bound hair coiled beneath a knot atop head. Its left hand rested low near chest level, while the right stretched sky-high… Supporting fist-sized compass carved from clay! A distinctly peculiar pose overall.

According to Priest Li? This modeled ancestral founder of their “Hemp Robe Lineage,” revered sincerely as heritage guardian—a sacred figure foregoing mundane burnt offerings.

“Storm’s brutal! Hope that old coot stayed indoors?” Suddenly!

A thunderous crack violently shook the entire temple hall! Heart leaping fearfully towards exterior gloom immediately afterward? Unbidden worry for his teacher stabbed fiercely upwards.

“Huh? What sound?”

Precisely as Ye Tian squinted rain-lashed scenes outside? Weird rasping grate behind tore attention urgently around!

There! Frozen horror caught… The clay Ancestral Master statue leaning! Tilting… Then accelerating towards him collapsing!

Respects paid properly moments ago—”No disrespect! Swear! Ancestral Master!” Instantly Ye Tian stumbled backward avoiding its crushing mass.

Being relatively short saved him—the falling statue’s head crashed mere inches past him!

Relief remained premature! Skull-exploding agony erupted blindingly atop his head almost instantly! That elevated statue’s rigid clay hand had smashed squarely atop his temple!

Though mere hardened silt? Momentum proved terrifyingly potent! Blood gushed fiercely immediately downward beneath the heavy blow—dimness swamped Ye Tian’s consciousness: faintness sucked him under completely…

Finally—the two-meter clay idol landed violently shattered everywhere scattered debris littered floor expansively! Whether that long-perished founding sage ever foresaw his own effigy meeting such calamitous fate millennia later remained wholly doubtful.

Scalp vessels ranked thickest density across any human body-surface. Even tiny scratches could bleed unstoppably! Ye Tian’s small lifeless form sprawled unmoving upon hard stone. Blood pooled frighteningly fast around him, staining wide patches red sickeningly bright.

Outside—the rainstorm crescendoed monstrously! Lightning cracked heavens wilder! Shuddering precariously throughout its flimsy structure, the crumbling ancient temple seemed poised to collapse utterly any moment amidst such fury.