I settled on Fangcun Mountain.
Days passed slowly. Sun rose east, set west, with long stretches between. In that time, I sat on the platform watching clouds. Clouds came from west, went east, fell at the cliff. More surged up, fell again. Coming and going.
Master called it cultivation.
I thought it was idling. But I didn't say so. He wouldn't respond anyway. He sat beside me, teapot before him, sipping cup after cup. Slowly—one cup half an hour. Cooled, he refilled, sipped again. Coming and going.
Third day, I couldn't hold back.
"Master, when do we start the Seventy-Two Transformations?"
"No rush."
"Then when do we start knowing myself?"
"No rush either."
"Then what's the rush?"
He lifted the cup, sipped. Hot tea, thin white vapor drifted and vanished.
"Nothing is rushed."
He set the cup down, turned to me. Sunlight carved deep wrinkles like knife cuts. But his eyes lived—black, deep, like stones in deep water.
"When you came from Flower-Fruit Mountain, were you in a hurry?"
"Yes."
"Hurried for what?"
"To find a Master."
"You found one."
"Yes."
"Then what's left to hurry for?"
I opened my mouth. No words came. He waited, then lifted the cup again.
"Your hands—still hurt?"
I looked down. Wrappings gone. Scabs hard, brown like bark. Nails grown a little—thin, white, translucent.
"No pain."
"Feet?"
"No."
"Knees?"
"No."
He set the cup down, stood, stepped close. Looked down at my knees long.
"Scabbed over?"
"Yes."
"Itchy?"
I paused.
"Yes."
"Itchy is good. Itchy means growing."
He turned toward the house. Three steps, stopped.
"Tomorrow we begin. But not the Seventy-Two."
"Then what?"
"Standing."
"Standing?"
"Yes. Stand here. Think nothing. Stand until it stops itching."
He entered. Door open, inside dark.
I stood. Wind rose cool from the cliff. Clouds still fell. I stood.
Day one: soles hurt. Not scabs—heart of the foot. Weight crushed flesh flat, bones ground stone. Pain until afternoon—then numb. Feet became stakes driven into ground, holding up a monkey.
Day two: calves hurt. Muscles taut like overstretched rope. Knees locked—bend and collapse. Teeth clenched, jaws ached. Sun crossed sky, shadow swung front to back. Legs became pillars propping a monkey.
Day three: waist hurt. Spine rigid rod, no bend, no twist. Standing, it tilted. Straightened, tilted again. Afternoon, no tilt—stiff. Waist became trunk supporting a monkey.
Day four: I counted clouds. One, two… hundred, forgot, restarted. Scratched lines on pant leg—one per hundred. Seven lines, clouds gone. Sky blue, empty.
I stood, watched blue sky.
Day five: gray bird landed on shoulder. Small, claws hooked cloth, sharp sting. Head tilted, black round eyes like beans.
"What are you standing here for?" Voice sharp, needle on metal.
"Cultivating."
"Cultivating what?"
"Don't know."
"Don't know and still stand?"
"Master told me to."
Bird tilted head, watched, flew off. Two wingbeats, gone. Shoulder left four-point claw mark—one front, three back.
Day six: no pain. Not gone—forgotten. Feet, legs, waist not mine. Who was I? I was standing. Wind left to right. Clouds west to east. Coming and going.
Day seven: at sunrise, something clicked.
Not big realization—small one. Knees no longer itched. Under scab, new skin pink, tender, no itch.
I looked down. Scab still there. But I knew.
"Master."
"Hm."
From inside. Muffled, through walls.
"No itch."
"Come in."
I entered. Dark—eyes adjusted. Master on mat, no tea. Eyes closed, breath slow, belly rising falling.
"Sit."
I sat before him. Ground cool, hard.
He opened eyes.
"Stood how many days?"
"Seven."
"Itched how many?"
"Three."
"Three days and healed."
"Yes."
"Faster than I thought."
From sleeve, he drew thin green jade slip, translucent. Placed in my palm—cool, smooth.
"This is the Taiqing Dao Scripture—our sect's foundation method."
"Read and cultivate?"
"Read, maybe cultivate. Not read, definitely cannot."
He pressed my palm. Finger pad warm, rough.
"Read first. Finish, then talk."
I closed eyes. Slip to forehead, cool. Then something flowed in—fine, dense, like root hairs. Grew from jade, pierced skin, followed veins down—chest, stomach, dantian.
Dantian empty. Dry well.
Roots climbed walls, searched cracks. Walls smooth, seamless.
They stopped. Retracted. Stomach to chest to forehead, out.
Opened eyes. Slip still in palm, green cool.
"Finished reading?" Master asked.
"Yes."
"Remembered?"
"Yes."
"Recite."
Closed eyes.
"The Taiqing is the beginning of heaven and earth, origin of all things. Dao births one, one births two, two births three, three births the myriad…"
From start to end, word perfect. Each character carved clear in mind, like stone inscription.
Finished, opened eyes. Master watched, unmoving.
"Remembered?"
"Yes."
"Cultivated?"
"No."
"Why?"
I opened mouth.
"Dantian empty."
"Empty is right." He took slip, sleeved it. "Not empty—full."
"Full?"
"Full, nothing more fits. Empty, can hold."
He rose, walked to door. Sun stretched shadow long, to my feet.
"Your dantian isn't dry well. It's field. Field empty, can plant. Plant what, grows what."
Back to me.
"You sprang from stone. Stone doesn't plant. But you live."
He walked out.
I sat, watched shadow shrink from feet, to threshold, out door.
Closed eyes.
Dantian empty. Like field—no seed, no sprout. But soil loose, soft—plantable.
Hand on belly. Skin warm, palm warm. Beneath flesh, dantian empty.
But sound came.
Not heartbeat, not breath—something else. Distant, light—like seed pushing soil. Push, pause. Push, pause.
Listened long.
Sun from door warmed feet. Instep to sole to calf.
Dantian sound continued. Push, pause.
Push.
Pause.
That night, threshold-sitting, watching stars.
Stars many, bright. Not Flower-Fruit crowded porridge. Here sparse—each far, each shining alone.
"System."
[Here.]
"When did you arrive?"
[Host birth.]
"Stone cracking?"
[Yes.]
"Before?"
[System nonexistent.]
"Where were you?"
[Nonexistent place.]
"Nonexistent place where?"
Panel flickered.
[System doesn't know.]
Leaned on frame—wood hard against back.
"System, are you alive?"
[System is program.]
"Program alive?"
[No.]
"Will you die?"
[Host dies, system dies.]
"I die, where do you go?"
[Nonexistent place.]
Looked up. One star brighter—no flicker, steady.
"That star—what's it called?"
[System doesn't know.]
"You know nothing."
[System learning.]
"Learned what?"
Panel bright long. Long.
[System learned—]
Stopped.
[—to wait.]
"Wait for what?"
Panel dimmed.
I sat threshold, watched bright star. Still shining.
Morning, Master on platform, hands behind back, watching clouds.
I approached, stood beside.
"Master."
"Hm."
"Dantian still empty."
"Yes."
"When full?"
He turned. Sun behind, face shadowed, eyes bright.
"What do you plant in your field?"
"Don't know."
"Then go find out."
From sleeve, tossed small gourd—hand-sized, yellow smooth, lid tight.
"Go back mountain. Find spot, sit. When gourd full, return."
"Gourd holds what?"
"Air."
He turned, left.
I stood platform, looked at gourd. Small, light—light as empty. Unscrewed lid, peered. Empty. Nothing.
Walked to back mountain.
Back mountain small. One tree, one clearing.
Tree huge—top unseen. Trunk four-five men around, bark gray cracked like tortoise shell. Leaves green dense—no fruit.
Looked up. Leaves blocked sky, only slits of blue.
Wind came. Leaves rang—not rustle, ding-ding. Tiny bells, wind stirring all.
Sat, back to trunk. Bark rough, hard, cool against spine.
Gourd before me, lid off. Wind entered, exited. Didn't hold. Wind unholdable.
Closed eyes.
Dantian empty. Field empty. Plant what? Unknown.
Wind blew. Leaves rang. Ding-ding.
Sun east to west. Shadow left to right. Wind blew, leaves rang.
Opened eyes. Gourd empty.
Capped it, stood. Knees numb, limped.
Reached platform—Master drinking tea.
"Full?"
"No."
"Tomorrow again."
He sipped.
I stood, watched his cup. Tea yellow, cup white, tiny chip on rim.
"Master."
"Hm."
"What do you plant in your field?"
Cup paused.
"Tea."
"How long?"
"Eight hundred years."
"Still not full?"
Sipped. Hot tea, thin vapor.
"Full. Then empty. Empty, replant."
Set cup down, looked at me.
"Coming and going."
I stood, met his eyes. Black deep, stones in deep water. Stones self-glowing.
Turned, walked back mountain.
Second day, sat under tree again.
Gourd before, lid off. Wind in out.
Didn't watch it. Watched tree. Trunk thick, bark rough. One crack—from root upward, unseen. Deep crack, yellow wet wood inside. Sap seeped, drop by drop, slow.
Finger dipped, tasted tip.
Astringent. Bitter. Like tea.
But faint sweet—like distant laughter.
Leaned on trunk, closed eyes.
Dantian empty. Field empty. But soil loose, soft. Plantable.
Wind came. Leaves rang. Ding-ding.
Listened long. Forgot monkey, disciple, stone.
Then another sound. Not wind, not leaves. From inside tree—distant, muffled, like underground water flowing.
Opened eyes. Gourd empty. Didn't care. Capped, set by root.
"Next time." To tree.
Leaves rustled—not ding-ding, sha-sha. Like laughing.
Back to platform. Master gone. Teapot cold.
Stood cliff edge, watched clouds. Falling, surging, falling.
Dantian empty. But empty not nothing. Empty is—
Thought long.
Empty is yet to come.
Third day. Fourth. Fifth.
Every day went. Sat under tree, gourd open. Wind in out. Unholdable.
Sixth day—no opening gourd.
Placed on knees, hands on top. Wood warm from palm.
Closed eyes.
Dantian empty. Field empty—no seed, no sprout. But loose, soft. Plantable.
Wind came. Leaves rang. Ding-ding.
Then heard. Not wind, leaves—tree inside. Distant, light—like roots growing in soil. Extend, pause. Extend, pause.
Searching what?
Water.
Dantian empty—like field without water. But loose, soft. Roots can enter.
Relaxed hands. Dantian opened.
Roots entered.
Fine, light—like spider silk. Crawled walls, searched bottom, stopped. Pierced in. No pain. Itch—like new flesh under broken nail.
Dantian not empty. Something there—not seed, not sprout—roots.
Someone else's roots.
Opened eyes. Gourd warm on knees. Tree overhead, top unseen.
Stood, set gourd by root.
"For you."
Leaves rang. Ding-ding.
Back to platform. Master drinking tea.
"Where's the gourd?"
"Gave to tree."
"What does tree want gourd for?"
"Roots too deep. Can't reach water."
Master paused cup. Looked at me—long.
Then laughed. First time. Whole face moved—wrinkles bunched, eyes slits, beard trembled.
"Come."
Set cup, stood center platform.
"Kneel."
Knelt. Stone cool hard.
He stood before, looked down.
"Sun Wukong."
"Here."
"Your field planted not your own."
"I know."
"Afraid?"
"Afraid what?"
"Afraid what grows isn't yours."
Thought.
"Grow first, then see."
He watched. Sun behind, face dark. But eyes visible—black deep, self-glowing stones.
"Seventy-Two Transformations—tomorrow."
Turned, left.
I knelt stone—knees ground pain. Didn't rise. Watched back disappear inside.
Lowered head, looked belly. Beneath skin flesh—dantian. Someone else's roots anchored, waiting.
Waiting water.
Waiting growth.
Waiting unknown.
Hand on belly. Palm warm. Beneath skin flesh—felt them move. Light, slow—like heartbeat.
"Grow," I said.
Wind rose—cool from cliff. Clouds fell.
Coming and going.