Chapter 40: In Turbulent Times, Daoists Descend the Mountains to Aid the World; In Prosperous Ages, They Retreat Deep into the Hills

To Fang Xu, who had perused all of Jin Yong’s masterpieces in his previous life, the most memorable among the Seven Masters of Quanzhen was undoubtedly Qiu Chuji. Yet, according to his own timeline, Qiu Chuji was clearly a man of the Southern Song; how could he appear at the dawn of the Great Qin? Fang Xu, however, did not dwell on it deeply. At the moment, what preoccupied him most was whether he could successfully develop explosives.

“Ahem, may I call you Chuji?” Fang Xu asked with a smile, turning to the young Daoist beside him. The little Daoist nodded in response.

“Is there anything you need from me?” Qiu Chuji inquired, a hint of a smile at his lips, as he gazed at Fang Xu. Without hesitation, Fang Xu revealed his purpose for coming.

“Then I’m afraid I must disappoint you. The abbot is currently not at the temple—in fact, it’s only me here now,” Qiu Chuji replied with a wry smile after hearing Fang Xu’s reason for visiting.

“Oh? Why is that? Where has the abbot gone, if not here?” Fang Xu asked, clearly puzzled as to why the abbot would leave his own temple.

“You may not know, but the abbot has taken my fellow disciples and gone beyond the frontier to resist the barbarian invasion,” Qiu Chuji answered evenly, though Fang Xu could not help but notice how the boy’s hand unconsciously tightened around his broom.

Just then, one of Fang Xu’s guards leaned in and murmured softly in his ear. On hearing this, Fang Xu’s eyes filled with admiration.

Although the Quanzhen Temple before him appeared dilapidated—utterly incomparable to the grand temples elsewhere—and the incense smoke within was little more than a wisp, Fang Xu understood why. Who would choose to offer incense at such a remote and deserted shrine? It was no wonder that the temple’s fortunes had waned.

More importantly, there was now only the young Qiu Chuji left to tend the place. Each day, he carried water up the mountain, tended the fields, and swept the fallen leaves at the temple gate. With such bleakness and solitude, how could the place inspire any reverence?

As for the abbot and the other disciples, just as Qiu Chuji had said, at the founding of Great Qin, the northern barbarians were a constant threat.

When the state was still unsettled, Qin Suwen could only heed the advice of Meng Tian and Elder Zhang, recruiting volunteers from among the people to defend against the incursions from the steppes. Yet when it became clear that this meant fighting those inhuman barbarians, many abandoned the cause, declaring that only a lunatic would go.

But within the Quanzhen Temple, the abbot, upon hearing the news, resolutely left Qiu Chuji behind and led his disciples down the mountain. Qiu Chuji, though young, knew well enough of the barbarians’ ferocity from the rumors that circulated among the townsfolk. To him, they were savage brutes who lived by desperate means, and he could not help but worry.

He asked his abbot and fellow disciples when they would return. After all, he knew he was unfit to take over as abbot; more than that, Quanzhen Temple was his home, its abbot like a father, his fellow disciples like kin.

When he asked, the abbot and the others only smiled in silence. At Qiu Chuji’s persistent questioning, the abbot finally replied, “If the land finds peace, we will surely return unharmed.”

Qiu Chuji understood the deeper meaning and pressed further: “And if peace does not come? Will you never return? What if you never come back?”

The abbot only smiled and said, “Then let us not return.”

No matter how Qiu Chuji pleaded, the abbot and the disciples paid him no mind. To them, this was simply their duty.

So each day, Qiu Chuji fetched water, split wood, swept the courtyard—waiting for the return of his abbot and brothers.

Yet Fang Xu knew all too well: the barbarians had repeatedly harassed the borders of Qin, and the abbot and disciples of Quanzhen were likely lost.

It occurred to Fang Xu: “In troubled times, Daoists descend from the mountains to save the world; in times of peace, they retreat into the depths of the mountains.” This spoke to the burning patriotism within Daoist hearts. Fang Xu’s view of the desolate Quanzhen Temple shifted. In his eyes, it now deserved respect—how many could match the abbot’s spirit of selfless service?

“Chuji, I am sure your abbot and brothers will return safely—I promise,” Fang Xu said, smiling as he patted Qiu Chuji’s shoulder.

Yet, for some reason, despite Fang Xu’s smile, the gravity in his words startled Qiu Chuji, who still had no inkling of Fang Xu’s true identity.

“Thank you for your concern, but I’m afraid I can’t be of much help,” Qiu Chuji replied, nodding awkwardly as he scratched his head, remembering Fang Xu’s original purpose for visiting.

“It’s no trouble. Even if I didn’t find the abbot, meeting you is just as good!” Fang Xu replied cheerfully.

Qiu Chuji was taken aback, momentarily at a loss for words.

“Ah? Is there anything I can do to help?” he blurted out, flustered, making Fang Xu chuckle despite himself.

“There is something important. Tell me, does your temple possess the art of alchemy?” Fang Xu inquired, somewhat worried—the boy was young, surely no more than seven or eight, and perhaps not even fully literate. Could he possibly understand the mysteries of alchemy?