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The northern mountains stretched endlessly, their slopes dotted with delicate peach blossoms. Gentle streams murmured through the valleys, while soft mountain mists lingered in the air, adding a touch of ethereal moisture to the serene landscape.
As Fei Qian and Jia Qu were each lost in their own thoughts, a guard suddenly hurried up from the foot of the mountain with a report. Two Daoist priests had been detained. Both claimed to be orthodox practitioners of the Zhengyi tradition, merely passing through on their travels.
Zhengyi Daoists?
Fei Qian and Jia Qu exchanged a quick glance. If these men were truly wandering monks, why would they deliberately approach a mountain already occupied by armed soldiers? Daoist robes offered no real protection; a blade would cut through flesh just as easily as it would anyone else's.
By this era in the Han dynasty, ever since Emperor Wu had elevated Confucianism as the state doctrine, Daoism had gradually declined. It no longer held any special privileges or advantages at court or in society.
In truth, Daoism's fall from prominence wasn't because its teachings were inherently inferior. From the very beginning, its philosophy emphasized quietude and non-action, advocating governance through wu wei—effortless rule without interference. After the harsh legalist policies of the Qin dynasty, this approach had found genuine appeal among a war-weary population. It aligned with the people's deep longing for peace and simplicity. Yet as society recovered and prosperity returned, human and material resources began to grow. In such times, continued insistence on pure non-action could seem overly idealistic and detached from practical realities.
The two men turned and descended the mountain path. At a ruined Daoist temple halfway down the slope, where only broken walls and crumbling foundations remained, they found the two self-proclaimed Zhengyi disciples. Despite being closely watched by vigilant personal guards, the priests showed no signs of panic or fear.
One was tall and slender, appearing to be in his forties or fifties, with streaks of gray already visible in his beard. He wore a traditional Daoist crown, giving him a somewhat immortal, otherworldly air. The other was noticeably shorter—around five foot three—and slim, with a short beard that suggested he was younger. Both wore long robes made of fine dark cloth. When the mountain breeze caught the fabric, it billowed gently, lending them an elegant, floating grace.
"Greetings to you both, esteemed masters," Fei Qian said, cupping his hands in a polite salute. "May I ask where you have come from and where you are heading?" As he spoke, a strange thought suddenly crossed his mind: if these two suddenly announced they had come from the Great Tang in the East and were heading to the Western Paradise, should he immediately order them executed, just to avoid any risk of them calling out for their senior brother or a certain monkey?
Fortunately, that was not the case.
The taller, older priest replied, "This humble Daoist is known as Renji Zi. I hail from Shu and have been wandering the four directions. Meeting noble personages such as yourselves here today is truly a great fortune." He brought his left hand over his right in a formal Daoist greeting.
The shorter priest followed suit. "This humble one is Deyuan Zi, traveling together with my master."
Fei Qian was somewhat surprised. These men had come all the way from Sichuan. In this era, there were no flying iron machines or ground-spanning iron centipedes to carry travelers. They had walked the entire distance on foot—an impressive feat of endurance.
Judging by their generation names, one belonged to the "Ren" generation and the other to the "De" generation. These were relatively high ranks within the Zhengyi lineage. Most practitioners these days had only reached the "Quan" or "Zhen" generations.
"Since you are traveling the world, what brings you to this particular mountain?" Fei Qian inquired.
Renji Zi let out a soft sigh. He turned his head to look at the ruined temple foundations nearby. "Twenty years ago, this poor Daoist once visited a temple on this very spot. How times have changed. the vicissitudes of life are truly unpredictable."
So that was the reason.
As men who lived beyond the ordinary world, wandering freely across the land and representing an authentic lineage of Daoism in these declining times, Fei Qian found himself genuinely interested. He ordered water to be brought, then had a clear space swept in front of the old temple. Using fallen peach petals as a simple offering, the four men sat down cross-legged on the ground and began to converse.
The tall elder's secular name was Ge Yi, courtesy name Boji. He came from Jurong in Danyang. Twenty years earlier he had traveled into Sichuan, spending three years cultivating at Dragon Tiger Mountain. Now advanced in years and feeling the pull of homesickness, he had decided to wander his way back to his native land.
The younger, shorter priest was named Yun Yi in the secular world, courtesy name Zhiyuan. He was originally from the region of Yun. Four years ago, for reasons unknown, he had been found severely injured at the foot of Dragon Tiger Mountain, barely clinging to life. Ge Yi had rescued him. Unfortunately, the young man had lost all his memories. A travel permit found on him had confirmed his identity. Now, accompanying his master home, he also hoped the journey might help him recover some fragments of his past.
Fei Qian narrowed his eyes slightly. On the surface he remained calm and composed, but inside his heart was racing.
Ge Yi was likely a member of the well-known Ge clan of southern Daoists. That was understandable. But this Yun Yi.
The circumstances he described sounded exactly like the classic trope used by travelers from another world—those who crossed over through time or dimensions.
If there were ever a law mandating the immediate elimination of all amnesiacs, most such travelers would probably be wiped out before they could even begin their stories.
Yet such a policy was impossible.
Fei Qian pondered the matter silently for a while before ultimately abandoning any thought of eliminating a potential unknown threat. Although Daoism was in decline, it still held considerable influence among the common people. Not long ago, Zhang Jiao had used Daoist teachings as a cover for his rebellion. Slaughtering these two priests without cause or evidence would earn Fei Qian a terrible reputation.
Killing the innocent along with the guilty was not a path he wished to follow. Setting aside any murderous intentions, he engaged the two Daoists in genuine conversation.
To his surprise, Ge Yi held quite insightful views on Daoist philosophy.
"The Daoist path speaks of non-action, yet also says there is nothing that cannot be done," Ge Yi explained. "These appear contradictory but are in fact one and the same. It absorbs the strengths of Confucianism and Mohism, gathers the essentials of the School of Names and Legalism. It moves with the times, adapts to changing circumstances, establishes customs and conducts affairs in ways appropriate to every situation. Without fixed momentum or permanent form, it can fully understand the true nature of all things. By neither leading nor following the myriad things, it becomes master of them all."
According to Ge Yi, the Daoism of the current Han era was actually a grand synthesis. It had incorporated elements from Confucian and Mohist thought of the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods, along with key concepts from the School of Names and Legalism. It represented the culmination of many earlier traditions.
Was it truly so profound?
Daoism discussed filial piety and emphasized benevolence and virtue—points that overlapped significantly with Confucianism. The concepts of resonance between Heaven and humanity, or the unity of Heaven and man, appeared in many Daoist classics. The Taiping Jing, for example, not only spoke of Heaven-human unity but also outlined an ethical framework centered on "Heaven, Earth, Sovereign, Father, and Teacher."
Fei Qian found himself somewhat stunned. He had always assumed these ideas originated with Dong Zhongshu.
Could it be that Dong Zhongshu's theory of Heaven-human resonance was actually built upon Daoist foundations?
And the principle of "Heaven, Earth, Sovereign, Father, Teacher"—wasn't that the very same secular ethical norm later elevated by Confucians into "Heaven, Earth, Sovereign, Parents, and Teacher"?
Listening to Ge Yi's explanations, more and more questions swirled through Fei Qian's mind. In this Han dynasty era, how exactly had Confucianism achieved its dominant position? What were the true origins of the foundations that would support its supremacy in later ages?
What was the current state of Daoism, Legalism, Mohism, and the School of Names?
The glorious Spring and Autumn and Warring States era—when a hundred schools of thought bloomed and contended—had that vibrant intellectual landscape truly withered away almost completely after merely one Qin dynasty?
Fei Qian's mind felt like water being steadily heated. Questions bubbled up from the depths of his consciousness like rising steam, one after another, refusing to settle.