The Disciple Knows Their Mistake

Water dripped drop by drop at his feet, spreading a small dark patch on the bluestone slab.

Sharpening the blade.

Master was sharpening the blade.

Shen Hui lowered his head to look at his own hands—the ones that had just set fires yesterday—then raised his gaze to the sky.

The sun was fine, the breeze gentle, and on the old locust tree in the corner of the courtyard, two sparrows perched, chirping merrily.

Everything was fine, except that Master was sharpening the blade.

He set the water ladle down by the trough, turned, and went back inside.

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared blankly for a while, then stood up and paced two circles around the room.

After two circles, he sat back down on the bed.

Shen Hui thought it over and decided he still had to go.

He stood up, straightened his lapels, then his cuffs, smoothed the wrinkles from his Daoist robe, and tightened his belt.

He walked to the door, then turned back and checked his reflection in the chipped clay basin in the corner.

His hair was fairly neat, and there was nothing dirty on his face.

Alright, if he was going to die, he'd die with dignity.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

From the eastern courtyard to Master's meditation room, Shen Hui had walked this path a few times before. It wasn't long, but today it felt especially short—so short that before he could finish mentally preparing himself, he was already standing before that door.

The door was ajar.

Inside, it was utterly silent, not a sound.

Shen Hui pricked up his ears and listened. No sound of sharpening. Could it be that he'd already finished and was just waiting for him to show up?

He swallowed his saliva, raised his hand, and knocked.

"Knock, knock, knock."

"Come in."

Master's voice came from inside, sounding like there was nothing unusual.

Shen Hui pushed the door open.

The old Daoist sat cross-legged on a cushion, a bronze mirror placed on the low table before him.

Neatly lined up beside the bronze mirror were a pair of scissors, a razor, and a small pair of tweezers.

Shen Hui's step faltered on the threshold. For a moment, he didn't know whether to go in or back out.

The old Daoist lifted his head and glanced at him.

That glance was flat, revealing no emotion, but Shen Hui felt that if the old Daoist had scolded him a couple of times, it would have been better. Saying nothing at all was what was truly frightening.

What was even more frightening was Master's face.

On that originally gaunt and dignified face, the left eyebrow was completely gone, and the right one was only half left, as if someone had hacked at it carelessly with scissors.

The beard was even worse.

What had once been a handsome, gray-white, long beard was now tattered and uneven—some parts burned down to stubble, other parts completely bald, exposing the chin beneath.

And of course, the hair wasn't much better.

The topknot was barely held together, but the edges were all singed, like withered grass that had been licked by fire.

One glance was all Shen Hui needed. He didn't dare look again.

He lowered his head, stepped obediently over the threshold, walked up to the old Daoist, bent both knees, and knelt down.

"Disciple Qingxuan pays respects to Master."

The old Daoist said nothing.

Shen Hui knelt, not daring to raise his head, staring only at the cracks between the floor bricks.

In one of those cracks, a thin fissure ran from one end to the other.

Since the old Daoist didn't speak for a while, he started counting the bricks.

One, two, three, four...

The old Daoist still said nothing.

Shen Hui kept counting bricks. When he reached the twentieth, he finally heard a sigh from above.

"Get up."

Shen Hui didn't dare move.

"I said get up, so get up."

Only then did Shen Hui stand, hands at his sides, eyes watching his nose, nose watching his heart, not daring to look sideways.

The old Daoist picked up the bronze mirror, took a look at himself, then set it back down.

He picked up the scissors, then set them down again.

He picked up the razor, then set it down again.

Finally, he picked up that small pair of tweezers, faced the mirror, and carefully plucked out a singed eyebrow.

"Sss—"

The old Daoist sucked in a breath, placed that eyebrow hair on the low table, then raised the tweezers again to pluck out the next one.

Shen Hui looked at that eyebrow hair, and a sudden surge of guilt welled up in his heart.

"Master..." he began.

"Don't speak." The old Daoist didn't turn his head. "Let this old man first trim this half of the brow to even it out, then we'll talk."

Shen Hui closed his mouth and continued standing.

After a long while, the old Daoist finally set down the tweezers, examined himself in the bronze mirror from left to right, and seemed barely satisfied.

He pushed the bronze mirror aside, lifted his head, and looked at Shen Hui.

"Awake?"

"Awake."

"Any discomfort in your body?"

"To answer Master's question, none at all—everything is fine."

The old Daoist nodded, then shifted the topic: "That fire of yours—how did you cultivate it?"

Shen Hui was taken aback at this.

He had expected his master to scold him, even punish him, but instead the old man opened with this.

"Disciple..." He weighed his words. "Yesterday, while washing dishes in the kitchen, somehow I just..."

"Somehow you just?"

The old Daoist raised his remaining half-brow. "This old man has lived over a hundred years, and this is the first time I've seen someone 'somehow just' cultivate such a formidable fire technique."

Shen Hui opened his mouth, truly at a loss for what to say, because he himself hadn't figured this out yet.

The old Daoist stared at him for a long moment, then suddenly sighed.

"Enough, enough."

He waved his hand. "Matters of fate can't be forced, nor explained away. Since you've succeeded, it's your destiny."

He then picked up the bronze mirror again, looked at himself, and added with a hint of grievance:

"It's just this beard and eyebrows... In a hundred years of pure cultivation, this is the first time this old man has ended up so disheveled."

Shen Hui looked up at the old Daoist, suddenly found it a bit amusing, and quickly lowered his head to stifle the laugh, earnestly admitting his fault:

"Disciple knows his wrongs. Please, Master, mete out punishment."

"Punishment?"

The old Daoist set down the bronze mirror.

"What use is punishing you? Will it make my beard grow back?"

Shen Hui dared not reply.

The old Daoist sighed again, this time longer than before.

"Alright, get up."

He waved his hand.

"Thank goodness this old man's Wood-Transplanting Art is still proficient—just a few days and it'll grow back..."

He reached out to touch the uneven stubble, speaking with heartfelt gravity:

"You train well. Next spring, come down the mountain with me. Your master will have someone make you a set of Deluo robes and buy you a pair of Cloud-Li shoes."

Shen Hui was stunned.

"Deluo" robes were the standard ceremonial attire Daoists wore during religious rites, only eligible after the formal initiation ceremony into full priesthood.

Cloud-Li shoes were the most formal footwear for Daoists, typically worn with ritual vestments.

He hadn't expected that after just doing something wrong, not only did the old Daoist not punish him, but he was already considering outfitting him.

Shen Hui looked up at the old Daoist's face, scorched and patchy from his own fire, and his guilt deepened.

"Disciple thanks Master."

He bowed with utmost sincerity.

The old Daoist waved his hand, signaling he could leave.

Shen Hui turned and walked toward the door. As he reached the threshold, he suddenly heard a voice from behind:

"Oh, and—"

He looked back.

The old Daoist was facing the bronze mirror, carefully using small tweezers to arrange the last few surviving long whiskers, not even lifting his head as he said:

"Remember to make a good dinner. This old man wants to taste your cooking and see if it's as good as they say."

Shen Hui was stunned for a moment, then smiled.

"Disciple obeys."

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