On the day of the Beginning of Autumn, the cool breeze arrived. Five days later, the white dew descended; another five days, and the cold cicadas began to chirp.
Ten days after the Beginning of Autumn the following year, Mo Qingbei returned to the Sword Pavilion.
He had sent very few letters that year. Hua Bucheng had received news of him only fitfully, knowing only that he had resigned from office to wander the length and breadth of the land. Once, a white crane had returned plucked bare of its feathers; the accompanying letter claimed he had been short on funds and had traded the feathers for wine.
When this man was an official, he spoke grandly of the ways of wealth. Resigning was not the same as having one's estate confiscated, yet heaven only knew where he had spent his fortune.
"Donated it for disaster relief," Mo Qingbei said, sitting in the pavilion and drinking wine with a sighing shake of his head. "North China is suffering a great drought. The fields are strewn with the starved; the people have no way to live."
Outside the pavilion, Hua Bucheng practiced his swordplay, his wide sleeves fluttering like wings. He finished a set of techniques and looked at Mo Qingbei. "And where is your sword?"
"At the pawnshop." Mo Qingbei swirled his wine flask. "In my current state, I am unfit to hold a blade."
Hua Bucheng fell silent for a moment, then sheathed his sword. "I had intended to ask if you would consider returning to Penglai." He sat down beside him and poured a cup of tea. "Now, it seems that is impossible."
Mo Qingbei smiled. "Talking to you is always effortless."
Hua Bucheng drank his tea slowly. Finally, he set the cup down and spoke deliberately. "You must think this through. A Bodhisattva knows neither grief nor joy, and an immortal does not save the world. Cultivation is for the sake of transcending the material realm. Now that the world is in chaos, once you enter it too deeply, you may never find your way out. At best, you will waste a hundred years; at worst, your cultivation will be utterly destroyed. Moreover, you can no longer even lift a sword."
Mo Qingbei tilted his head back to gulp his wine, still maintaining his usual air of careless nonchalance. Hua Bucheng knew he was listening; he waited patiently for him to finish drinking, waiting for his rebuttal.
Having known each other for a century, Hua Bucheng knew he could not sway the other’s decision, but he needed a reason. And since Mo Qingbei had dared to blatantly pawn his sword, he likely had the confidence to justify it.
Mo Qingbei finished his wine, wiped his mouth, and said, "For a hundred years, I have waited for you to ask me one question, but you never did."
Hua Bucheng understood. "You mean why you were expelled from the sect back then?"
Mo Qingbei tossed the wine flask aside. "Exactly."
The night Mo Qingbei entered the Library of Scriptures, he didn't pick any rare or secret manuals. Instead, he selected a copy of *Records of the Jiangnan Pleasure Boats* from the shelf, lit a lamp, and drank wine in leisurely comfort.
Since ancient times, every disciple who entered the pavilion did so with rapt focus, not daring to slacken for a moment. Mo Qingbei was the first to ever drink wine in the Library of Scriptures.
Eventually, his Master could no longer bear the sight. He dragged his overly comfortable disciple up from the floor and asked why he had chosen that particular book.
Mo Qingbei was already three parts drunk then. In a lapse of caution, he spoke the truth: "The secret manuals are too obscure and taxing on the mind. This one is fragrant, colorful, and popular—perfect to go with wine."
The words had barely left his mouth before he sobered up halfway. Thinking he was in trouble, he prepared to spin some other excuse to smooth things over, but he saw that his Master showed no anger, nor did he huff and glare as he usually did.
The elder remained silent for a long moment before saying, "You have been under my tutelage for twelve years and have committed every sort of absurdity. In all of Penglai, there is not a second person as lacking in ambition as you."
The Master sighed. "A jade exterior, but alas, a waste of natural talent."
Mo Qingbei replied, "You flatter me, Master. Truly."
"Save the nonsense," the Master said, flicking his horsetail whisk. "You drank wine in the Library of Scriptures today, squandering a grand opportunity. That is your fate. Everyone seeks something different; no one can be forced. But as your teacher, I have one question for you."
"Please speak, Master."
"Everyone who enters the Library of Scriptures has a quest—be it for merit, or for destiny." The elder glanced at the wine flask in his hand. "Your name contains 'wine,' and you are by nature fond of the cup. Once the cup is drained, what is it that you seek?"
Mo Qingbei scratched his head. "As a man of Penglai, does one not cultivate diligently for the sake of seeking immortality?" Could one seek anything else?
"There are many ways to achieve immortality. Leaving one's name in the history books allows one's reputation to live forever. Passing on teachings allows one's thoughts to live forever. Attaining Dao and ascending allows one to enter the realm of transcendence. All of these are forms of immortality."
"Penglai has not seen one who attained Dao and ascended in nearly a thousand years. Those who enter the Library of Scriptures no longer seek only cultivation. Everyone has their own destiny; you may choose your own path."
"But you must understand: what is it that you seek?"
"Since ancient times, the sages have all been lonely; only the drinkers have left their names behind. Du Kang drank and gained a name for excellence; Ruan Ji drank and left a name for wildness; Li Bai drank and earned a name as an immortal. What 'name' is it that you seek?"
This time, Mo Qingbei remained silent for a long while. Finally, he said, "This disciple does not know."
The Master sighed, as if he had expected this. "Since the founding of Penglai, you are only the second person with the talent to enter the Library of Scriptures who did not know what they sought."
"This disciple is dull-witted."
The Master shook his head. "It is not so much that you do not know what you seek, but rather that you seek too much."
"Your six senses are not purified, and your seven emotions are not severed. Now that you have reached adulthood, you are no longer suited to remain in Penglai."
The Master waved his whisk. "Go down the mountain."
"The things you seek must be found in the mortal world."
***
"And so, I entered the mortal world for a hundred years," Mo Qingbei said, spreading his hands. "All these years, I have been wondering what Master meant when he said I sought too much."
"Recently, I think I’ve begun to understand."
"Whether it was reciting poetry to the wind and moon or listening to the rain from a tavern balcony, for a hundred years I have been unrestrained and indulgent. I sought the prosperity of song and dance, the sight of every river and mountain, the agelessness of romance, and the squandering of a thousand gold pieces. In the end, all I sought was the word 'transcendence.'"
"It was indeed too greedy. Only immortals can enter the realm of true transcendence. A half-measure like me, who likely won't ascend despite living a long time, can't be a transcendent immortal—at most, I can only be a transcendent man."
"And a transcendent man can only exist in a peaceful world."
Mo Qingbei looked at Hua Bucheng.
"Back then, Master asked me what 'name' I sought."
He drained the last of the wine in the flask.
"No name, no surname. I seek only a world of peace."
Hua Bucheng looked toward the distant mountains and the boundless white clouds. "Uncle-Master sent you down the mountain to find your Dao. What he wanted you to find was likely not this."
"I know," Mo Qingbei said. "When Master said my six senses were impure and my emotions unsevered, he probably wanted me to let my heart grow cold in the mortal world so I would return and honestly practice cultivation."
He smiled. "But how can a chaotic world allow for a place of quiet sorrow? The mountains and rivers await restoration; I dare not let my heart grow cold."
Hua Bucheng sighed. "I knew I couldn't out-talk you."
"You know me." Mo Qingbei laughed. "I drafted this speech three times in my head, and I’m only saying it to you."
"I am honored," Hua Bucheng said helplessly. "I know I cannot stop you, but I must ask: once you go this time, there is no turning back. Is it worth it?"
"It’s not a matter of whether it's worth it." Mo Qingbei shook his head. "I asked the Heaven-Counter, and he said this is a matter of karma."
"What does that mean?"
"Heaven's secrets cannot be revealed."
Hua Bucheng realized he would get nothing more out of him. After a moment of silence, he said abruptly, "Back then, when you completed that half-line of poetry, it neither rhymed nor followed the meter. It was an utter mess."
"I know you're angry," Mo Qingbei scratched his head. "But there's no need to snap at me like that, is there?"
Hua Bucheng ignored him and shook his head to himself. "To think it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy."
*The gentleman tilts his cup where autumn sounds,*
*The immortal fishes by the white clouds.*
*For the lord, I write the Song of Peace,*
*The ink thins, yet the painting remains unmade.*
"Speaking of which, I never asked you," Mo Qingbei said. "That first half of yours—'The gentleman tilts his cup where autumn sounds'—where did those words 'autumn sounds' come from?"
"This pavilion was built by my Master," Hua Bucheng replied. "It is named 'Drifting Autumn Sounds.'"
"The Sword Pavilion is covered in snow year-round, except for these few dozen days around the Beginning of Autumn. Only then can one see the autumn spirit on the peaks, the white dew lodging on the eaves, and hear the cicadas outside the pavilion."
"Drifting Autumn Sounds." Mo Qingbei nodded. "It's a good name."
He brushed his sleeves and stood up, standing tall against the wind. He turned the wine flask over, pouring out the last drop.
*The world is a great dream; how many autumns bring chill to life? At night, the wind-blown leaves already sound in the corridor. Look at the brows and the temples.*
On that day of the Beginning of Autumn, Mo Qingbei descended the mountain alone. For the next several decades, the two did not meet again.
Occasionally, a white crane would bring news. He had returned to court, assisting the young sovereign, initiating Westernization reforms, leading troops to recover the southern borders, deploying coastal defenses, overseeing river works... until the Young Emperor took the reins of power once more.
In the year the Young Emperor began his personal rule, the white crane brought a box of osmanthus-flavored "Rolling Donkey" cakes. The small shop in the capital from years ago had now spread its branches everywhere. Hua Bucheng brewed a pot of tea and sat in the pavilion, remembering his old friend drifting on the lake years ago—a young man waving a white fan, idle and content, loving wine and hating trouble.
Now, that man had become a leader of the righteous officials and a high-ranking minister of the war faction. Hua Bucheng calculated the years; given the other's current identity, he must be past seventy.
At the bottom of the box was a letter, and a piece of cardstock fell out with it.
"This is called a photograph," Mo Qingbei wrote boastfully in the letter. A British journalist had accompanied an envoy into the palace for an audience, and the Emperor, on a whim, had pulled Mo in to take a picture.
The old man in the photo wore official robes, his beard full, his expression gentle and solemn, bearing the slight stoop of one who had given his all to his duty.
This was the first time Hua Bucheng had seen Mo Qingbei's mortal appearance.
In the mountains, there is no calendar; when the cold ends, one knows not the year. Hua Bucheng had lived atop the Sword Pavilion for so long that his concept of time had become blurred. He pressed the photograph under his sword and stuffed the box of pastries into his mouth, the powder falling in flurries.
That day, he did not pick up his sword. Instead, he opened the doors of the pavilion and thoroughly cleaned the long-dusty collection of books. Then, he warmed a pot of wine and went fishing on his boat.
That day was the Great Cold.
Hua Bucheng did not drink, but from then on, every year on the day of the Great Cold, he would warm a pot of wine in the pavilion.
His awareness of time grew increasingly sharp.
By the time he was warming the sixth pot of wine, something happened in Penglai.
Penglai was isolated from the world, but cultivators roamed the four seas. Rumors and idle talk were never lacking, though they rarely reached the Sword Pavilion. If any news managed to reach Hua Bucheng’s ears, it was bound to be something major.
The Sect Leader's disciple, who had entered the world for training a century ago, had suddenly returned to the mountain.
Mo Qingbei used to sneak back frequently, but this time was different. He entered through the mountain gate openly and with dignity, alarming the entire sect.
Hua Bucheng had a faint inkling that Mo Qingbei’s return this time was for something monumental.
The world was not yet settled; the winds of a chaotic era were surging. The man's return was certainly not to wash his hands of the world and enjoy a peaceful retirement.
That night, the Golden Peak Hall was brightly lit. Even from the mountain top, Hua Bucheng could hear the old man’s thunderous roar of rage. In the middle of the night, a surge of sword intent suddenly erupted, shearing off half a cliff face.
The next day, news arrived: Mo Qingbei’s leg had been broken by the Sect Leader, and he had been imprisoned in the Cliff of Reflection.
***
| Chinese | English | Notes/Explanation |
| :--- | :--- | :--- |
| 泛秋声 | Drifting Autumn Sounds | The name of the pavilion at the Sword Pavilion. |
| 清平 | Peace and Tranquility / A Peaceful World | A state of societal peace that Mo Qingbei seeks. |
| 逍遥 | Transcendence / Carefree | A Taoist concept of spiritual freedom and wandering. |
| 驴打滚 | Rolling Donkey | A traditional Beijing snack made of glutinous rice and bean flour. |
| 思过崖 | Cliff of Reflection | A common trope in cultivation novels; a place for punishment and meditation. |
| 大寒 | Great Cold | The last of the 24 solar terms in the traditional Chinese calendar. |
| 立秋 | Beginning of Autumn | One of the 24 solar terms, marking the start of autumn. |
| 洋务 | Westernization / Western Affairs | Refers to the Self-Strengthening Movement in late Qing history. |
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