Chapter Seventy-Three: The Profound Finger Seeks the Fate of the Nation

The woman in black, dressed for action, was clearly not here with friendly intentions. Zhong Ming watched her retreating form, lost in thought.

“Hurry to the Hall of Benevolence and get help. Let’s rescue Da Chi first, we can deal with that woman later.”

Time was pressing; Zhong Ming had no interest in entangling himself with this mysterious woman. He turned and pressed the old Daoist to action.

To his surprise, Zhang Daozhen only smiled and waved his hand. “No rush, no rush. I just cast a divination for that chubby lad. The omens were auspicious—his fortunes are turning.”

Zhong Ming was taken aback. “What does that mean?”

Zhang Daozhen explained with a smile, “It means that boy may not be in danger at all. I found no signs of calamity in his fate—he’s in no mortal peril.”

At that, Zhong Ming realized he had let his anxiety get the better of him and forgotten that the old Daoist was skilled in divination.

The Dan Ding sect of Dragon Gate Mountain was famed for three arts: alchemy, divination, and formation.

Now understanding, Zhong Ming’s worry turned to anger. He pointed at Zhang Daozhen and snapped, “You old ox-nosed Daoist! If you knew all this, why didn’t you say so earlier? I’ve been running about till my legs nearly gave out, and only now you tell me the result of your divination?”

“Master Zhong, you wrong me,” Zhang Daozhen replied, not losing his smile. “Since meeting you today, I’ve been dragged all over the city. If I hadn’t spotted that formidable woman and done a quick reading on her, I wouldn’t have had the time to say anything!”

Truth be told, Zhang Daozhen did feel aggrieved. He continued, “Besides, a reading isn’t set in stone. I’m good at divination, but all I can tell is that the chubby lad’s life isn’t in danger. I can’t guarantee anything else.”

Yet another ambiguous answer. After all this fuss, Zhong Ming was now told Fei Dacheng wouldn’t die. Should he save the man or not?

For once, Zhong Ming was at a loss, muttering, “Should I save that fool or not?”

“That’s for you to decide,” the Daoist said. “All I can divine is that his life is not at risk. He may just be held captive as some vessel for cultivating immortality—locked away, not killed.”

Among the various paths of cultivation, some practice evil arts that feed on the spirit and vital energy of mortals, using ordinary people as vessels, fattening them up before consuming them, much as one raises pigs for slaughter.

After some hesitation, Zhong Ming asked, “Daoist, can you do another reading for us, to see whether our rescue attempt will be auspicious or disastrous?”

Zhang Daozhen shook his head. “No, I used the daily opening calculation earlier. Only the first reading of any day is accurate. Any further readings, especially about the same person, will be unreliable.”

Divination is a profound art: minor readings are limited in number, major ones sap the practitioner’s vital essence. After all, peering into fate is not to be abused.

Take, for example, the famed Zhang Xiyan of Dragon Gate Mountain. Five hundred years ago, he was a legendary diviner whose reputation brought glory to the mountain. Even the founding emperor of the previous Chen dynasty sought his counsel, personally traveling to the mountain and laying siege to it for a month in hopes of a reading.

Zhang Xiyan evaded the emperor for twenty-nine days under the pretense of seclusion. The emperor, persistent, waited on the mountain with his troops.

With nowhere left to hide, Zhang Xiyan finally emerged and performed a reading for the emperor on a ten-zhang-high platform, invoking the heavens with his sword gesture, and cried out, “Today, I, Zhang Xiyan, trade what remains of my life for a single question: What is the fate of the Great Chen?”

The mountain was rocked by gales, and legend holds the waterfall flowed backward that day, water shooting into the sky. When the storm subsided, the platform collapsed, and Zhang Xiyan fell to his death, his Daoist robe stained in blood spelling out: “The Great Chen shall prosper for four hundred and eighty years; its fall ordained by Heaven.”

This unparalleled reading remains a legend. It proved uncannily accurate: in the dynasty’s 480th year, Emperor Wu ascended the throne and, through reckless use of national resources, began the decline that led to Chen’s downfall in just over a decade.

As for “its fall ordained by Heaven,” generations of later rulers obsessed over natural disasters, allocating a huge portion of the treasury to disaster relief, believing Heaven’s wrath to mean calamities.

But even Zhang Xiyan could not have foreseen that “Heaven” here meant: “The sky will rend for over a month, and the Immortal Palace will descend.”

Divination can penetrate fate, but fate itself is mutable, shifting with the actions of men and the tides of fortune.

Zhang Daozhen never approved of relying on divination before every act; if one becomes dependent, even a single misreading among a hundred could prove fatal.

Especially after the sky was rent, the world’s destiny became chaotic, and Zhang Daozhen’s skills could no longer predict great events reliably. He could not, for instance, divine Yu Tu’s fate.

As the saying goes: “Great power brings great responsibility.” In the realm of divination, this holds true—those as powerful as Yu Tu are entwined with the world’s fate, beyond the reach of ordinary diviners.

In the end, the decision lay with Zhong Ming. Zhang Daozhen simply listened, waiting for his answer.

Zhong Ming hesitated, glancing from the direction where the woman in black had gone outside the city to where the Hall of Benevolence stood within. After a moment’s indecision, he turned toward the city.

“Da Chi’s life is important. We should go to the Hall of Benevolence first. Once we’re sure he’s safe, we can decide what to do next.”

After all, the woman had been sent by Zhong Ming to “shop” in the Suiyun Mountains—there was no rush on that front.

“Very well,” Zhang Daozhen agreed, and the two set off for the Hall of Benevolence, now at a much slower pace than before.

The Hall was not far from the broken city wall, in the southern part of town. On the street stood an unremarkable pharmacy, fragrant with the scent of herbs even from afar.

Its signboard, worn by a century of wind and rain, looked rather forlorn. As far as Zhong Ming knew, the Hall of Benevolence had existed in the borderlands for ages, its founding lost to time.

Backed by the millennia-old organization Shi, its longevity came as no surprise.

Generations of locals had come and gone, but the old physician in the Hall was always the same. Some said he had presided over the Hall since youth, and even elders nearing their sixties had taken his prescriptions.

The old physician’s surname was Meng, and all the border folk called him Master Meng.

At first, Zhong Ming thought him only a skilled doctor, but after learning that Shi stood behind the Hall, he regarded Master Meng with new respect. Meng Tian founded Shi, and the Hall’s old master also bore the surname Meng—hardly a coincidence.

In the years of famine, few could afford medicine. Zhong Ming himself hadn’t set foot in the Hall for ages; the last time was the day before his mother died.

With no money left, he could only kneel outside the Hall, knocking his head on the ground, begging Master Meng for a life-saving prescription.

Master Meng sat coldly inside, never rising, and told him to leave.

It was then that Zhong Ming learned pity alone could not buy medicine. Furious, he cursed, “The Hall of Benevolence has never lived up to its name! This isn’t a place to save lives—it’s a den of thieves, greedier than any brothel madam!”

“Well said! The Hall of Benevolence does not save the useless. Now begone!”

The centenarian doctor did not grow angry, only barked at Zhong Ming to leave.

Biting back tears and hatred, Zhong Ming swore to see the Hall shut down one day.

Yet no sooner had he arrived home than a young apprentice from the Hall delivered medicine and a straw mat.

The apprentice whispered, “My master said your tears outside drew a crowd. If he’d helped you on the spot, people would be kneeling at our door every day, and we could not go on. But he took pity on you—so here is medicine and a mat.”

Master Meng had long known Zhong Ming’s mother’s illness was terminal, beyond cure. Yet even so, he sent medicine. As for the mat, it was for burial.

Zhong Ming wept, bowing his thanks to the apprentice.

There is no shortage of good people in the world—they may seem harsh, but act with a kindness greater than those who offer only empty comfort.

Zhong Ming, always grateful for kindness, composed himself, straightened his robe, and entered the shop. He knelt. “Master Meng, Zhong Ming pays his respects.”

The Hall’s interior was simple: a counter and cabinets took up most of the space, with just a table, a stool, and a chair at the front.

The old physician lounged in a rocking chair. Though nearly a hundred, his skin was not wrinkled or withered; his hair and beard were long and white, but his complexion was ruddy and full of life. He looked strong enough to last decades more.

He waved his palm-leaf fan slowly, rocking, and at Zhong Ming’s greeting, only opened his eyes briefly before closing them again.

There was also a young apprentice, Meng Teng, about Zhong Ming’s age. They had once been acquaintances when Zhong Ming came frequently for his mother’s medicine. Meng Teng had grown into a sturdy young man, with the gentle air of a healer and a smile that put people at ease.

Seeing Zhong Ming kneel, Meng Teng hurried to help him up. “Mr. Zhong, what are you doing?”

Zhong Ming gently pushed his hand aside, his tone earnest. “Years ago, I spoke out of turn and tarnished Master Meng’s reputation. I must apologize before anything else—and moreover, you once helped me when I needed it most. I owe you this bow.”

Zhang Daozhen listened, not knowing the full story, but could guess most of it. The old Daoist thought, “This boy is grateful and loyal, both to friends and benefactors. There’s no need to worry about borrowing his life for Nianchen’s sake; the time will come soon.”

Meanwhile, Meng Teng, unable to lift Zhong Ming, looked helplessly to his master.

Only then did Master Meng lift his teapot and sip, coughing lightly. “Old age brings forgetfulness. I remember none of that. Get up.”

He had already forgiven Zhong Ming, or perhaps never cared at all.

“Thank you, Master Meng, for letting bygones be bygones.” Zhong Ming rose and entered the hall.

Meng Teng smiled warmly. “Mr. Zhong, what brings you here today—do you need medicine?”

Zhong Ming waved it off. “No, I’m not here for that.” He walked to Master Meng, took out the life-buying coin, and set it spinning on the table.

“Master Meng, would you take a look—do you recognize this?”

For once, the old physician’s eyes snapped open. With a flick of his finger, a green aura lifted the coin into his palm. He studied its carvings for a long time.

“Teng’er, close the door.”

He set aside his fan and looked at Zhong Ming. “At last, my organization’s last life-buying coin has come to me. Boy, do you know—I’ve waited nineteen years for your father’s coin!”

Nineteen years ago, Xu Qiandao, under the alias Zhong Feng, had arrived in the border town with Zhong Ming’s mother.

Zhong Ming was stunned: Master Meng knew the coin came from his father—so his father had procured it openly from Shi.

Meng Teng, understanding the gravity of the matter, quickly sealed up the shop with wooden boards, then lit an oil lamp on the table. He stood behind Master Meng, his expression now grave.

The lamplight flickered, casting their faces into shadow.

Holding up the coin, Master Meng asked, “Zhong Ming, whose life do you wish to buy with this coin?”

Master Meng’s tone was solemn, his black robe adding to the gravity, making Zhong Ming nervous.

This was no trivial matter—this was the business of buying lives!

“I wish to buy the life of Fei Dacheng from my village.”

Master Meng stared in astonishment. “You don’t wish to save your own life, nor that of some high official or legendary hero. You’d use this coin for a country bumpkin? Are you sure?”

Meng Teng echoed, “Mr. Zhong, do you realize how precious this coin is? It can only be used once—don’t waste it!”

“I know, but Da Chi’s life is no easy thing to save either.”

With a sigh, Zhong Ming explained the situation.

After hearing the tale, Master Meng pushed the coin back to Zhong Ming. “If you wish to save that country lad today, I’m afraid Shi cannot help.”

Zhong Ming frowned. “Why not?”

Master Meng explained, “This city stands on the border. We have no experts stationed here capable of contending with immortals. To summon such aid would take at least three days, possibly as long as a week.”

Zhong Ming had thought Shi omnipotent, but now realized even they had limits.

“So what should we do?” Zhong Ming was at a loss.

At that moment, Zhang Daozhen spoke. “Your network is vast. Why not simply investigate the boy’s whereabouts?”

He turned to Zhong Ming. “I’ve seen a favorable omen for him—his life is not threatened. Your worry is just uncertainty; let them find out what they can.”

That made sense. Zhong Ming pushed the coin back. “Master Meng, let’s use it for information instead.”

Even then, Master Meng did not take the coin. After a moment’s thought, he said, “Information alone is not worth your father’s coin. It’s because of our connection that you find yourself in this bind. Since we cannot rescue him today, we’ll find out what we can for free. Keep your coin for when you truly need it.”

Such generosity! Zhong Ming was inwardly delighted, though he protested, “Isn’t that too generous?”

“It’s nothing. For us, gathering information from the immortals’ residence is a simple matter.”

With that, Master Meng waved Meng Teng off.

Meng Teng went behind the counter, lifted a wooden plank, and revealed a staircase. He slipped into the secret passage with practiced ease.

Master Meng closed his eyes to rest. “Zhong Ming, wait a while—a message will come within the hour.”

Zhong Ming clutched the coin, overjoyed. Today he had made quite a deal—he’d kept the coin and gotten information for free.

He also realized Shi truly had power—not as feeble as he had feared.

The residence of the disciples of White Jade Capital was strictly guarded—ordinary servants couldn’t enter. Only the very best were selected from the border town to serve these immortals.

Sensing his thoughts, Zhang Daozhen murmured, “Never doubt Shi’s reach. Their spies are everywhere there are people.”

“Master Zhang, your reputation for insight is well deserved!” Master Meng said from his chair, bowing without rising. Though seemingly respectful, there was a hint of challenge.

Zhang Daozhen, not one to be outdone, returned the bow. “I’ve long heard of Second Master Meng. It’s an honor to meet a man of such noble spirit.”

At this, Master Meng paused, studying Zhang Daozhen closely.

The old Daoist merely grinned, his yellowed teeth showing, childlike innocence in his smile.

Master Meng stood and bowed again. “Meng Chong greets Master Zhang Daozhen!”

“Haha, we’re both over a hundred years old—I may be older by a few years, but there’s little between us. Second Master Meng is too modest.”

Two old foxes with a combined age of over two hundred—each showing respect now that they recognized each other’s strength. Zhong Ming found it all a bit much.

He thought to himself: Hmph! These two old ghosts only show their cards when they see the other’s power. Weren’t they just dismissive of each other?

Age makes children of us all.

After their exchange of pleasantries, the two conversed like old friends. Master Meng had Zhong Ming sit; the Daoist took the rocking chair, and the three chatted amiably.

After a bit, Zhang Daozhen changed the subject: “Second Master, I’ve heard that Xu Qiandao obtained this life-buying coin from Shi. In just a few years, he rose to seventh on the Heavenly Heroes ranking—a mysterious figure, indeed. Does Shi know more of his background?”

Meng Chong laughed, glancing at Zhong Ming. “Boy, do you wish to know about your father’s past?”

Zhong Ming, ever attentive, bowed at once. “I do, Master Meng! Please tell me!”

He had always dreamed of learning the truth behind his father’s formidable skills.

His heart surged—with a father ranked seventh among the Heavenly Heroes, wouldn’t Zhong Ming’s fortunes soar if they met again? If Xu Qiandao were here in town, even Yu Tu would have to show respect!