The Poor Daoist

Qi WuHuo's fingers brushed the strings.

His skill at the qin had only gradually reached an excellent level after he met the Mountain God, Qiong Yu, in his dream.

Then he had weathered decades of ups and downs in that dream, and at the Li family, learned the truth of how a dream could be both a dream and not a dream. His understanding had risen to another level. His music seemed to hold the lifelong reflections of Master WuHuo from the dream, stirring a resonance in people's hearts. The young saw youthful vigor; the old saw life's shifting fortunes. It touched their innermost selves.

Now, even these Ghosts, refined and controlled through the inverse use of the <Spiritual Treasure, Nine Nether Long Night Corpse-Raising and Salvation Mystic Chapter>, were faintly moved.

Their madness seemed to have weakened a little.

But that was all.

Yin energy still swirled through the courtyard, and gusts of cold wind battered the grounds. Even sunlight couldn't penetrate it. The controlled spirits' auras rose and fell erratically. Through his primordial spirit, Qi Wuhuo could just make out the struggle on their faces, but no matter how he played the zither or how wholly he poured himself into it, he couldn't calm their minds.

The courtyard was still awash with dark energy, and gusts of chilling wind swept through it. Even sunlight could not pierce the gloom. The controlled Ghosts' auras surged and ebbed. Through his Primordial Spirit, Qi WuHuo could just make out the struggle on their faces. But no matter how he played, or how wholeheartedly he devoted himself to the qin, he could not calm their hearts.

The youth pressed his lips together and continued to play with meticulous care.

The old man gave a derisive laugh and shook his head.

Before, he had been playing without a thought, yet somehow achieved a mystical effect.

Now he was putting more and more care into it, and it seemed to be doing no good at all.

stroking his beard, the old man said with a smile, "Don't be so tense. A tense person can't even write well. How could you play the qin?"

"The qin is the voice of the heart."

"The heart is one's nature, one's spirit."

"When you play the qin, your Primordial Spirit naturally takes part. That happens of its own accord. If you deliberately set your Primordial Spirit in motion, you lose the subtlety of it."

"WuHuo, pay attention."

"Settle your mind. Let your qi and spirit unite. Let things follow their nature; don't guide them."

"This is what is meant by, 'Faint and everlasting, it seems to exist; use it, and it is never exhausted.'"

"The music, the mystical arts—it's all no more than that."

Qi WuHuo had been thinking that he absolutely had to deliver these Ghosts from suffering, and his body had tensed without him realizing it. The old man spoke gently, and little by little, Qi WuHuo stopped clinging so tightly to the idea. His fingers pressed the strings, and the notes flowed with a touch more grace. His mind, too, gradually grew at ease. Suddenly, he asked, "Old man, do you know how to play the qin?"

"The qin? No."

The old man stroked his beard and smiled. "What I speak of..."

"Is the Dao."

Qi WuHuo smiled and agreed. As he played, he followed the old man's advice. Whenever he made a mistake, the old man casually pointed it out. But his corrections were never about playing a note incorrectly according to the score. Instead, he spoke of whether the music accorded with the heart and the spirit.

Gradually, Qi WuHuo's music ceased to be bound by the score and grew ever more unrestrained.

The old man said he did not know how to play the qin, yet under his guidance, Qi WuHuo found himself playing more smoothly.

Seventy years of a Yellow Millet Dream, three thousand qin scores, ten thousand principles of music.

Now they all converged into one.

Only after seeing a thousand swords could one recognize a sword; only after playing a thousand tunes could one understand music.

Qi WuHuo's expression was gentle and serene.

As the music drifted away, the resentment and madness on the Ghosts' faces gradually faded. The chilling wind slowly died down, and their original appearances emerged once more. Some were young women with delicate features and rope marks around their necks; others were burly young men pierced by blades. One had even lost his head entirely, leaving only a headless body.

Qi WuHuo rested his hand on the strings. The music dwindled and stopped, leaving only a faint echo.

"This is..."

The music had dispelled the resentment clinging to these Ghosts, allowing them to gradually return to their senses.

But the sight of their gruesome injuries made Qi WuHuo lift his eyes slightly.

The old man, who was brewing tea, shook his head. "They all look like souls who died unjustly. Who knows how many of them took that Evil Cultivator's gold, only to be secretly murdered by his sorcery?"

Once her senses returned,

the delicate young girl suddenly stared blankly around her. "I... How did I end up here?"

"Mother... Where's my mother?"

She looked around in panic and cried out anxiously,

"That kindhearted Daoist clearly gave me three taels of gold. My mother's illness could be treated now, so why am I here?"

"I have to find someone to treat my mother!"

"Where's my gold?"

"Where's the gold?!"

She frantically searched herself, her expression distraught. Her already pale, translucent face grew anxious, and tears welled in her eyes.

!!!

Qi WuHuo's hand grew suddenly heavy where it pressed on the strings.

From those few short sentences, he already understood why this girl had ended up among the Ghosts commanded by Tantai Xuan.

"He put a spell of delusion on the gold... and made her take her own life?"

The girl's soul looked around and fixed her gaze on Qi WuHuo, the only person she could see. She bit her lower lip and asked,

"Young sir, do you... do you know where my money is?"

"Please, I'm begging you."

"That money was to save my mother's life. Please, can you give it back to me?"

In her desperation, she seemed to have lost control of her words. She suddenly dropped to her knees.

Qi WuHuo rose and stepped aside, reaching out to help her up.

But his palm passed right through the hand of the girl, who was only a few years older than him.

Qi WuHuo paused, then asked,

"That Daoist... gave you gold?"

The girl bit her lower lip.

"I spent one night with him."

The blue-robed youth closed his eyes, then bent down and activated his Primordial Spirit, helping the girl to her feet.

His hand was warm and clean.

The girl felt a rare warmth from it.

But in the end, he stepped back and let his hands fall to his sides. He looked at her with compassion and gentleness, but still said,

"But you're already dead..."

!!!

Those words seemed to hold some wondrous power. The girl froze. Memories forgotten amid the pain of being tempered by the mystical arts rose up once more. She staggered backward several steps, her face twisted with agony. Her body swayed, and she collapsed to the ground, covering her face as she wept.

"Mother..."

"My mother's illness..."

Qi WuHuo pressed his lips together and looked around at the "people" whose memories were gradually returning. Some had taken a job escorting a shipment for the Daoist and been tainted by his sinister aura. Some were breakfast vendors who had seen the Daoist in his shabby robe, destitute and alone, and given him three steamed buns and a bowl of water. There were physicians, farmers...

Qi WuHuo listened to their stories.

The old man watched the youth calmly from behind, his eyes gentle.

He did not step in to help right away.

He wanted to see how the youth would handle this.

[Witness life and death.]

"Young sir, you can see us. Could you help us... Is there really no way?"

"That's right, that's right. You have such power."

"Could you help us? Please, just take pity on us!"

"My wife and children are still waiting for me at home..."

Qi WuHuo fell silent, clasped his hands, and declined.

"I don't have that kind of mystical power. I can't do what you ask..."

The wronged souls were crestfallen.

The youth thought for a moment, then turned and went into the house. He brought out paper and a brush, and said gently, "But if any of you have an unfinished wish, or a message you'd like me to deliver to your family, please tell me... I don't have great power, but I can at least pass along a message."

The escort fell silent for a moment, then smiled freely and clasped his hands like a man of the jianghu.

"Then please tell my wife that I have some silver saved beneath a brick in the wall. I hid it because I worried our good-for-nothing son would spend it too freely. I'd planned that once he was married, she and I would return to our hometown in the countryside, buy a little house with a vegetable garden, raise some chickens and ducks, and grow old together. It seems we won't be able to do that now."

The vendor who had pushed a cart selling breakfast sighed.

"I don't have anything to say. Just tell my son not to be greedy for petty gains."

"Only by doing honest business can he keep his family fed with this trade."

At last, the young girl bowed again and again, choking on her words.

"If you ever go to Central Province Prefecture City, young sir, please visit Shuili Village, under the prefecture's jurisdiction..."

"Tell my mother her daughter was unfilial... and can't see her again."

The youth sat beside the stone table where he had played the qin and began to write.

Their words filled an entire sheet of paper.

So a person's life and death amounted to just a line of writing, a single ink mark.

Qi WuHuo rose and clasped his hands, saying softly,

"Your wishes, I..."

He seemed to feel that saying "I" was not solemn enough, that it would not earn these people's trust.

The old man seemed to cough.

The blue-robed youth fell silent for a moment, then clasped his hands and answered softly,

"Your wishes..."

"This poor Daoist accepts them."

P.S. "Faint and everlasting, it seems to exist; use it, and it is never exhausted" — Classic of the Way and Virtue, Chapter Six.