Chapter Thirty-Three: One’s Own Path

The remaining five steps of the Illusory Path grew more real with each ascent. Zhang Xiao passed through four trials, finally halting before the last stair. Wan Mozi and Kong Xuan stood ahead, quietly watching him.

Wan Mozi was deeply impressed by Zhang Xiao. Although the Heart-Refining Path had only a hundred-odd steps, each one was more difficult than the last. Especially these final stairs—the illusions within were perilous, fraught with death at every turn. Yet Zhang Xiao had journeyed all the way, breaking through layers of illusion to reach the final trial. Regardless of cultivation, this alone made him stand out among his peers.

“Ha! Fellow Daoist, to have such a disciple is a cause for celebration,” Wan Mozi praised, but Kong Xuan’s expression was grave.

“This boy has indeed passed through many illusions—rare, to be sure—but this last trial, I doubt he can overcome it. It’s no longer just a test of temperament; now, comprehension is what matters most.”

Kong Xuan’s words made Wan Mozi fall silent. Indeed, whether Zhang Xiao could step through the final gate was unpredictable. As the two pondered, Zhang Xiao steadied himself and stepped onto the last stair.

In a mountain village, two children tussled in the dust. One was a sturdy boy, perched atop Zhang Xiao, striking him and shouting, “Zhang Xiao, do you yield?”

Though Zhang Xiao struggled with all his might, he was not as strong; pinned beneath, he couldn’t rise no matter how he fought. Yet he called out stubbornly, “I don’t yield, I won’t yield!”

Seeing the blows become heavier, Zhang Xiao’s face swelled, but he refused to submit. The sturdy boy, still just a child, soon tired. Zhang Xiao seized the chance, flipped the boy onto the ground, and mounted him, raining punches onto his face. With a few strikes, the boy was left battered, his face as bruised as Zhang Xiao’s own.

Dazed and out of strength, the boy finally cried, “Stop! Stop! I yield, Zhang Xiao, I yield!”

Zhang Xiao, seeing his surrender, pointed at his nose and declared, “Li Dog-Egg, remember—from now on, when you see me, you call me Boss. Understood?”

The boy’s real name was Li Yajie, but Zhang Xiao called him Li Dog-Egg. Li Yajie dared not resist, quickly replying, “Yes, yes, Boss, I’ll call you Boss!”

Just as Zhang Xiao was feeling triumphant, his ear suddenly twisted painfully—a deft hand had seized it. “You troublemaker, always fighting! Come home this instant!”

Recognizing his mother’s voice, Zhang Xiao turned to see an angry woman in coarse clothing glaring at him.

His ear hurt so much he grimaced. “Mom, Li Dog-Egg started it!” But his mother ignored his excuses, dragging him home by the ear. No matter how he pleaded, she did not let go.

Time flew by; Zhang Xiao grew from a child to a youth.

“Boss, look! I caught a fish. Let’s have Auntie cook it for us,” Li Dog-Egg called, carrying a large, freshly caught fish from the yard.

Zhang Xiao laughed, “Dog-Egg, take the fish to my mother. Let’s go to the village entrance—I heard an old immortal’s come to town. Let’s see for ourselves.”

“An immortal?” Li Dog-Egg rushed inside to hand over the fish, then ran after Zhang Xiao toward the village entrance. As they walked, Zhang Xiao heard his mother’s shout from behind, “Zhang Xiao, you rascal! Get back soon or I’ll skin you alive!”

Pulling Li Dog-Egg, Zhang Xiao hurried faster. At the village entrance, they saw a Daoist in robes, with white hair and youthful features, holding a whisk. His presence radiated an aura of immortality.

Villagers watched from afar, not daring to approach for fear of offending the immortal. Only the village chief stood behind the Daoist, nervous and respectful.

Li Dog-Egg tugged Zhang Xiao’s sleeve. “Boss, that’s the immortal! My grandfather says immortals ride clouds, live forever, move mountains, and do amazing things.”

Zhang Xiao scoffed, “You fool! If he’s immortal, why is he so old?” His voice carried, finger pointing at the Daoist, earning glares from villagers.

Even the Daoist looked over. Li Dog-Egg, frightened by the attention, tried to pull Zhang Xiao away, but Zhang Xiao stood his ground, unconcerned by the stares.

He strode up to the Daoist. “They say you’re an immortal—what can you do?”

The chief, terrified, bowed to the Daoist. “Immortal, forgive him—he’s just a child, forgive him!”

The Daoist waved his hand, smiling, “No matter. Children speak freely.” Then he turned to Zhang Xiao. “I can fly through the sky and burrow into the earth, move mountains and overturn the seas, turn stone to gold, and subdue monsters.”

As if to prove his words, the ground beneath his feet shone golden, transformed into a patch of gold. The villagers, awestruck, rushed forward; before the chief could stop them, the Daoist waved his whisk, freezing them in place. Only their eyes darted wildly.

Zhang Xiao marveled at the Daoist’s power. The Daoist smiled, “Do you still doubt I am an immortal?”

Now Zhang Xiao could not but believe. Yet, recalling the promise of immortality, he glanced at the Daoist’s white hair, which no smooth skin could hide.

He asked, “But aren’t immortals supposed to live forever? Why can’t you?”

The Daoist laughed, “Why pursue immortality? Life and death, rebirth and decay are the way of Heaven. Why go against Heaven?”

Though clever, Zhang Xiao was stumped by the question, unable to answer. The Daoist smiled, “Since you wish for immortality, I will teach you a method.” With a tap to Zhang Xiao’s forehead, he imparted a cultivation technique.

After transmitting the method, the Daoist conjured a white cloud and soared into the sky, vanishing from sight. Villagers fell to their knees, crying, “Immortal!”

Three years passed. Zhang Xiao practiced the method daily and finally achieved the art of immortality. Joyful, he went to tell his mother, only to find her hair much whiter. He wished to pass the technique to her, but though he could cultivate, he could not teach it. Despite countless attempts, his words failed to convey the practice. At first, Zhang Xiao thought it was his lack of education.

He went to study at the academy for years, his knowledge and reputation growing, but still he could not explain the method. Two more years passed. This year, his mother died. Zhang Xiao stood before her grave, cursing his own stupidity. If immortality was a way against Heaven, how could it be expressed in mortal words?

His hope died. Years slipped by; his friends aged and faded, while he remained young. Zhang Xiao grew melancholy.

Ten years more, his wife aged, and childhood friend Li Dog-Egg passed away. Suddenly, Zhang Xiao understood why the Daoist had not sought immortality. Watching his loved ones grow old and die, fear gripped him—fear of everything around him, for all things decayed except himself, untouched by time.

Thinking of the Daoist, Zhang Xiao set out to find him, visiting famous mountains and ancient sites. After ten years, he finally found the Daoist’s temple, but the Daoist’s disciple told him the master had ascended to immortality. The news struck Zhang Xiao like thunder.

A young Daoist saw Zhang Xiao and asked, “Are you Zhang Xiao?” He was surprised. “How do you know me?”

The Daoist smiled, “Not I, but my master foresaw you would come seeking him. He left a letter for you. Wait here.” The young Daoist went into the temple and soon returned, handing Zhang Xiao a letter.

Zhang Xiao opened it and read:

“All things are subject to cycles—birth, aging, sickness, death. A lifetime of splendor is but passing clouds. Seek freedom and joy. Deep love is to grow old hand-in-hand. This is the way of Heaven. To go against Heaven, though immortal, cannot bring lasting happiness. Better to live joyfully with others than suffer alone.”

Moved by the words, Zhang Xiao fell into reflection. The young Daoist then produced a pill. “My master said, if you understand, take this pill. It will release you from immortality, but you will grow old. Are you ready?”

Zhang Xiao took the pill, silent, pondering how, despite his youth, friends had left him, and even his wife could not grow old with him. Such a life was too sorrowful. He was about to swallow the pill, but suddenly a shock ran through him. What if he could teach others the immortal method? Then all could be immortal, and he would not be alone. But why couldn’t he transmit it?

He turned to the young Daoist. “May I ask—is the method of immortality your master’s creation?”

The Daoist grew impatient. “Of course. My master’s skill rivals creation itself—naturally, he invented it.”

Then Zhang Xiao understood. Looking at the pill, he laughed aloud. “Ha! After all these years, I finally see the truth.”

The young Daoist was puzzled. “What have you realized?”

Zhang Xiao gazed at him, speaking coldly: “This immortality is not my own Dao, so I cannot pass it on. No matter how learned I become, I cannot express its cultivation, for it is not mine. In truth, I am not immortal—I am merely trapped in another’s Dao.”

The Daoist’s expression froze, then he sneered, “So what? It seems you won’t take the pill.”

Zhang Xiao shook his head. “If I don’t, I remain in another’s Dao. How can I walk my own path? Even if defying Heaven, I must forge my own Dao—only then can it be truly mine.”

“Humph! If you take the pill, you’ll grow old and die soon. How will you cultivate your Dao then?” the Daoist snarled.

Zhang Xiao merely smiled, swallowed the pill, and aged rapidly. Looking at his withered hands, he laughed. “Ha! Even if I am dying, I am at last walking my own path, defying Heaven with my own Dao. Such is my calling!”

The young Daoist flew into a rage, brandishing a dagger and lunging at Zhang Xiao. But Zhang Xiao remained unmoved. As the blade neared his heart, the world suddenly shifted—the young Daoist transformed into the old master who had taught him immortality. The old Daoist gazed at Zhang Xiao. “You have passed the trial.”

With that, the old Daoist dissolved into a breeze and vanished. Zhang Xiao’s mind trembled; the scenery changed swiftly. When he opened his eyes again, Wan Mozi and Kong Xuan sat before him. Wan Mozi shook his head, sighing, “I never expected you would pass.”