Chapter 102: Identity, the Dharma-hearing Monk

Upon the crane’s back, Ji Ming and the old Daoist did not converse as most master and disciple pairs do, endlessly exchanging words and thoughts. Quite the opposite, Ling Gu was eager to share, sitting beside the old Daoist, chattering about the wonders within the cave, recounting how her brother had endured rigorous cultivation and why he was called the Golden Youth.

Her pride in her brother stirred an unbidden warmth in Ji Ming’s heart.

Ji Ming gazed toward the direction the great crane flew and, feigning ignorance, asked, “We’re not heading to the Grand Altar on Taiping Mountain, but to the Lan Yin Branch Altar instead?”

“Exactly,” the old Daoist replied, flicking the duster in his hand. “On Taiping Mountain, the pure energy converges, and the place is crowded with many eyes and distractions. It is certainly the focus of Su Luozi’s attention. Moreover, the Crane Pavilion will hold the Daoist examination there, which will surely have its informants. Thus, both locations pose dangers for you.”

“I’ve heard that Lan Yin Branch isn’t exactly peaceful.”

The old Daoist nodded, explaining the current situation in that region.

“There was an understanding—though not a formal agreement, more like an unspoken consensus during the great sect duels. Thus, no true sages from the third realm have intervened in the Guancai Cave. Consequently, there have been intermittent skirmishes there for over a decade. During these years, a disciple known as the Red-Intent Gentleman from Panhu Mountain in the Li Ling range has emerged as a formidable force on the Guancai Cave battlefield, repeatedly achieving victories and breaking through the long-established defenses of Taiping Mountain.”

Guancai Cave serves as the foremost barrier against the heretical sects of Panhu Mountain within Li Ling. Should it fall, countless heretical cultivators would infiltrate Lan Yin Branch.

Seeing the sharp gleam in Ji Ming’s eyes, the old Daoist knew his precocious disciple had deduced much from these words.

Ji Ming looked down at his sleeve and said, “So now Lan Yin Branch is a chaotic mix of dragons and snakes, making it the perfect place for me to hide, like a drop of water blending into a river.”

The old Daoist nodded again, withholding that this chaos was partly his doing. Were it not for his covert machinations—supplying scattered cultivators taking the Daoist exam in Lan Yin Branch with alchemical pills that stirred their wild natures and revealed their demonic forms—his disciple might not have blended in so perfectly.

Yet such cunning schemes lacked the dignity of a true master; better left unspoken.

“I have already made inquiries. This time, the Lan Yin Branch Daoist examination is overseen by Su Luozi’s favored disciple, the ‘Dharma-hearing Monk.’ He is still a novice, barely entering the Qi Refinement stage. I have dispatched your senior brother Xuan Jing to ensure your safe passage through the exam.”

The old Daoist gazed toward the distant horizon. “Once you become a Daoist citizen and enter the Daoist registry as a disciple of Taiping Mountain and a member of the righteous path, Su Luozi will dare not openly move against you—unless he loses his mind. When you reach the second Qi Refinement stage and take the Daoist novice exam on Taiping Mountain, Su Luozi might attempt to act in secret, but he will have to weigh many pros and cons.”

Revealing his plans to his disciple, the old Daoist regained the confidence of a master, producing a painted mask and a scroll. “I have prepared a concealed identity for you. This scroll contains your past, and this mask will cover your face, allowing you to change your appearance.”

“And what about me?” Ling Gu asked.

“You shall come with me to the Crane Pavilion,” the old Daoist said, patting her head.

Ji Ming held the scroll and mask, looking at Ling Gu. “I see you dearly love the Fire Ruins Cave, and may have affinities with the master there. So, for now, you won’t participate in the exam at the Crane Pavilion.”

The old Daoist remained silent, only fixing his gaze on his strong-willed disciple. To him, a seasoned and sharp master, it was clear what Ji Ming meant—he feared Ling Gu might be used as bait, placed in the open to attract the malice of the Four Sorrowful Clouds Temple.

Though fond of Ling Gu and considering her like family, the old Daoist would not accept her as a disciple. Her aptitude did not meet the standards. As head of the Crane Pavilion and a local leader, disciples are the greatest representation and the root of legacy; personal feelings cannot cloud judgment.

If he could not allow it here, how could the master permit it?

The old Daoist smiled faintly, sparing his long-absent beloved disciple’s pride.

Ling Gu quietly shifted to sit beside Ji Ming, silent, watching her brother’s profile in the wind, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace.

Unfolding the scroll, the first line of text made Ji Ming’s eyelids twitch.

“Poison-Handed Child Shi Long, resident of Xi Hua Village in Lan Yin Branch, encountered the licentious monk ‘Empty Joy Old Buddha’ in his youth, serving him day and night and receiving a secret method of cultivating the Dao by supplementing yang with yin through the ingestion of human breast milk.”

Ji Ming frowned deeply. “This vile child’s identity on me is probably no more stable than my original one!”

“Read on,” said the old Daoist. “Below are the results of my interrogation—every word a secret of his life you must memorize.”

With reluctance, Ji Ming continued reading.

The scroll detailed the Poison-Handed Child’s life: after gaining the incomplete secret method from the Old Buddha as his favored boy, he terrorized the countryside for some time. After the Old Buddha’s death, losing his protector, he was soon hunted and wandered through the mountains.

During this period, he accidentally consumed Snake Aunt Grass, damaging his physical body and freezing his appearance at thirteen or fourteen years old.

Suffering from lingering poison, he sought a shaman in Panhu Mountain of Lan Yin Branch to detoxify him.

Though the shaman agreed, he merely used the boy’s residual poison to refine the Five Immortals’ elixir. For Panhu disciples, a rare poison is a rare medicine.

Later, with the outbreak of conflict at Guancai Cave, the shaman, summoned to battle, left an opening for the boy to steal some of his possessions and escape.

In the following years, disguised as a beggar in towns, his pitiful appearance and clever tongue earned him much alms, ensuring food and drink.

He later used the stolen goods and the Old Buddha’s oral treasure-refining technique to forge a “Charming Woman’s Enchanting Banner,” which he wielded to impose his will, committing several serious crimes.

In recent years, growing restless, he sought to gain formal status with Lan Yin Branch’s opening of the door to scattered Daoists, hoping to secure an official identity.

The scroll also contained many details—his associates, crimes, and the tarnishing of many women’s purity.

Coincidentally, these crimes occurred in the years following the Guancai Cave conflict, when Lan Yin Branch was regarded by Crane Pavilion and Four Sorrowful Clouds Temple as ripe for the taking; these offenses were well recorded by the Earth Bureau.

Thus, the old Daoist personally forged this Poison-Handed Child’s profile, extracting half a lifetime of secrets.

In this brief scroll, one could read the entirety of a life.

Ji Ming silently absorbed the knowledge, fingering the painted mask. “Can a scattered Daoist really become a Daoist citizen?”

“Good question,” the old Daoist laughed.

Ji Ming had asked the core question: could these scattered folk who join the sect as apprentices truly become Daoist citizens of Taiping Mountain?

“It’s difficult,” the old Daoist smiled. “For a scattered Daoist to enter the sect is like a bandit accepting amnesty. One must pass through a trial by fire and blade to forge true gold.”

Ji Ming’s heart shuddered. It seemed these scattered Daoists would live no peaceful days ahead and would likely be sent to the most perilous places.

When Ji Ming placed the mask upon his face, a new visage appeared—harsh and cruel, blending the innocence of a child with the cunning of an adult, unforgettable at a glance.

“Once you wear this mask, you must never drink alcohol or touch raw meat; otherwise, it will be broken.”

With that, the old Daoist produced a banner—a long ebony pole topped with a multi-legged suspended banner.

Painted on the banner was a naked sorceress in full lotus pose, beneath which hung four or five silk strips densely inscribed with heretical Buddhist sutras.

“With this banner, no one will doubt your identity. Once you pass the exam and your true spirit is recorded in the Daoist registry, you may remove this false face.”

“Very well,” Ji Ming took the Enchanting Banner, touching his new face. “I am now the Poison-Handed Child Shi Long.”