Chapter 81: The Great Crane, Violet Fusion Peak

In front of the tranquil hermitage, a great crane stood upon a massive boulder, balanced on one leg. The bird was of extraordinary size; its crown gleamed crimson, its plumage pure as fresh-fallen snow, while the tips of its wings bore a deep, inky black, lending it an even more ethereal air.

Its golden eyes were bright and keen, its beak as hard as iron. One talon was arched, the other supported its towering frame, and its toes curled like bronze hooks. The creature easily stood eight or nine feet tall, preening its feathers with a stately grace.

“Now this—this is the mount befitting an immortal,” thought Ji Ming—no, Zhang Bao, as he was now known—his heart filled with envy. It seemed he would be using this name for some time, and he hoped it would not prove as ill-omened as the name Wang Lu in his previous life.

“Are you ready? If not, we depart at once,” the old Daoist said, patting Ji Ming and Ling Gu on the head and urging them to hurry with their preparations.

Ji Ming had little to bring—just a few changes of clothes—whereas his younger sister, Ling Gu, had somehow amassed a trove of snacks and sweets. He marveled at how she could have hidden so much in the tiny hermitage.

Seated on the crane's back, Ji Ming and Ling Gu were held securely by the old Daoist, lest they fall. Ji Ming stroked the feathers beneath him; they were sleek and warm to the touch.

At a piercing cry from the crane, it twisted its long neck, inviting Ji Ming to stroke it again.

“Ahem!” The old Daoist, Feihu, coughed sternly, fixing Ji Ming with a grave stare until Ji Ming folded his six-fingered hands and tucked them into his wide sleeves, looking for all the world like a little old man.

“You must remember—always keep your hands inside your sleeves. Never reveal your six-fingered hands in Guhou Isle. If you do—”

Ji Ming interjected, “—then people will quickly associate me with the prophecy of the ‘Great Sixfold Rebellion’.”

The crane soared upward, carrying them beyond the clouds and across the divide between this blessed land and the mortal world. On its back, the old Daoist spoke in earnest tones.

“You are wise beyond your years, so I can tell you much that is meant to warn you. When we arrive at Fire Ruins Cave under Zhirong Peak of Jiheng Mountain in Red Bear Isle, mind your words and deeds. Listen well to the teachings, and above all, do not act lightly or become entangled in worldly emotions.”

“Hmm?” Ji Ming scratched his head, puzzled by the words, which sounded suspiciously like a warning against early romance.

The old Daoist’s next words confirmed it. “For those who walk the path, nothing is more detrimental than losing your vital energy too soon. Many predecessors have suffered and had to start anew because of this. You must take heed.”

Seeing Ji Ming’s blank stare, Feihu laughed heartily, feeling that perhaps it was still too soon for such advice, even for a precocious prodigy.

“Look!” Ling Gu suddenly pointed to a city below the clouds, begging the old Daoist to take them down for a visit.

Feihu, ever indulgent toward Ling Gu, shook his head and turned to Ji Ming. “In that city, who do you think holds the greatest influence?”

“It’s the temple,” Ji Ming replied, beginning to understand the old Daoist’s meaning.

“Correct. The temples, the Buddhas, and Bodhisattvas. In spreading their teachings among the common folk, our Celestial Daoist lineage has long lagged behind the Buddhist outsiders.” The old man’s expression clouded. “Within this region alone, there are more than three hundred temples, all flourishing. Even within my own domain, the trend of temple-building cannot be stemmed.”

The conversation grew deep, and Ji Ming, unsure how to respond, merely followed Ling Gu’s example and gazed about.

The great crane bore its three passengers from noon to dusk before alighting on a sheltered hillside for rest. Ji Ming’s face was numb from the wind.

That night, Ling Gu wet herself again, and her accident chilled Ji Ming awake. He reached down and found his trousers damp and cold from her mishap.

Unable to sleep, Ji Ming donned an outer robe and nimbly climbed to the hilltop, where he gazed at the full moon and once again thought of the persistent figure of Master Suluo.

“So confident… Even the monsters who ruined your grand design could earn your praise. Have you truly achieved such impartiality toward all beings?” Ji Ming’s feelings were complicated; the “Twenty-Four Cycles of Lunar Alchemy” imparted by Suluo remained ever-present in his mind, and he was eager to experiment.

If the master were to see him use that secret art to refine the Bone Heart Pearl into a magical treasure, Ji Ming wondered what expression would cross his face.

On the hill, he let the cool night wind fill his chest and mimicked the crane’s gentle unfolding of wings, guiding the spiritual energy he had accumulated from the blessed land’s streams into his lower abdomen.

A faint stirring began within—a sign of the “Living Zi Hour” in the lesser circulation, when yang energy surges and seeks to break forth.

Ji Ming exhaled slowly, his reason prevailing over temptation. He dared not risk practicing the Crane Controlling Art here lest Feihu discover him; he would have no way to explain.

He wondered when the old Daoist would teach him the “Divine Art.” Would it be another secret technique from Mount Taiping? Hopefully not just the Crane Controlling Art again.

And what of his belongings? He remembered hiding them in the clam carriage, leaving only a scroll behind lest the golden macaque resist accepting his possessions once more. The rest mattered little, but the eighteen breeding packets of essence must not go to waste; his macaque friend must remember to pair the blood-jade centipede.

The next morning, Ji Ming woke under his quilt to find Ling Gu’s cheeks rosy and her clothes changed. The great crane arrived, carrying a bamboo basket in its talons filled with porridge, steamed buns, fish, and more.

Ji Ming took a sip of the bean porridge and, finding it sweetened with malt, wrinkled his brow before giving the bowl to Ling Gu.

“Thank you, Brother Bao!” Ling Gu chirped.

Ji Ming was sincere. “Don’t be too moved. I just don’t like sweet porridge. Nothing beats the original flavor.”

“Well said—true to nature,” the old Daoist chimed in approvingly, playing the straight man to Ji Ming.

Ling Gu pouted and gulped down the porridge. After eating their fill, they set out again. The journey was long—seemingly even longer than their trip to Liling. They flew on and on, stopping to rest a few times; even the hair hanging over Ji Ming’s forehead felt as if it had been blown straight up.

On the crane’s back, the old Daoist flicked his horsetail whisk, sweeping away the clouds ahead with invisible force, revealing rolling mountain ranges below. “Beyond the surging valley ahead lies the main pass from Guhou Isle to Red Bear Isle, home to many sects and wanderers. Once we cross, we’ll be within the bounds of Jiheng Mountain.”

“Let’s go!”

Perhaps sensing they were nearly there, the old Daoist urged the crane onward; in a flash, they passed over the border, greeted by a cluster of peaks arranged as if bowing in reverence.

The mountains encircled one another like ministers paying homage, and the object of worship was the tallest of all—Zirong Peak.

By this hour, dusk had fallen; the sun hung low, and streaks of white mist stretched between the peaks. Looking closer, one could see it was a sea of clouds blanketing the forests, leaving only the sharpest summits exposed.

Only the summit of Zirong Peak was veiled in purple haze, like the drooping branches of an ancient willow, from which hung thousands of strands of violet energy.

“What sort of master dwells atop such a mountain?” Ji Ming could not help but ask.

“Of the three heavens, the central heaven is the purest, and its Daoist tradition is called the ‘Great Pure Yang.’ Only one disciple in each generation receives its true transmission. Thereafter, those who learn from the Central Heaven’s ways are not counted among the true heirs, nor are they granted the name of its disciples. Thus, those who study its methods rarely seek power or rivalry, but are lauded for their purity and virtue.

The master here is one of those who received the Central Heaven’s teaching. You must observe every courtesy and not bring dishonor to my guidance.”

“We will, we will!” Ling Gu gazed up at the purple-shrouded peak with anticipation. “Grandfather, we’ll master the Daoist arts and help you restore the glory of Crane Pavilion.”

“I’m getting old—when even children know my heart’s desire…” the old man sighed.

With a clarion cry, the crane circled the peak, struggling against the growing pressure that made Ji Ming feel as if he might fall at any moment.

“Feihuzi of Taiping Mountain comes to pay respects! May the Mountain God under the Sovereign’s seat grant us entry,” Feihu cried.

From the crown of his head, a talisman appeared—half real, half illusion—as if a shaft of heavenly light had descended, inscribed with celestial diagrams and symbols.

The drooping “willow branches” parted layer by layer. The crane let out a jubilant cry and flew into a hidden fold of the mountain.