For Daoists, the art of reading qi was not some profoundly lofty method. So long as one stepped through the gate of the Great Dao, one could cultivate Daoist eyes.
Yet such a method was easy to learn and hard to master. Reading qi face-to-face was one thing, but the greater the distance, the blurrier it became. This pavilion stood at least a hundred li from that stretch of forest. Under such circumstances, to accurately distinguish every kind of fate amid that tangled mass of qi required an attainment rare even in the present age.
Of course, the art of reading qi was not invincible.
Only when a Daoist stood apart from worldly affairs, merely observing qi without involving himself, could he see clearly. Once he stepped into the game himself, it became a case of "only because one stands within this mountain"—he could no longer see with precision.
Throughout the ages, more than one court had sought to use the Daoists' miraculous arts to find hidden dragons in advance and strangle them in the cradle.
Yet no matter how they killed, they could never kill them all. Indeed, because they mistook one for another, the more they killed, the more hidden dragons seemed to emerge.
As early as the era of the Twenty-Three Dynasties, there had been such an old tale. In those days, at the end of a dynasty, the reigning emperor wished to locate the hidden dragon and kill him, thereby prolonging the great lineage.
At the time, one household had been identified as harboring a hidden dragon, and their entire family was exterminated. Who would have thought that they had an illegitimate son living elsewhere, who escaped the calamity of blades and soldiers?
Thirty years later, dragons and snakes rose from the land across the realm.