Chapter 3: When Reading Scriptures, One Must Penetrate the Scriptures of Doubt

Chapter 3: To Master the Sutra, One Must Shatter the Sutra of Delusion

That voice—it was that very voice!

My illness was clearly cured.

Like a demonic chant burrowing into his mind, the sound echoed relentlessly in Zhang Sanlu’s head! The very voice that had nearly driven him to take his own life was coming from here. Was this place a dream, or was it reality?

Muttering to himself, “I’m not sick, I’m not sick,” Zhang Sanlu suddenly shoved open the wooden door. Outside was a small courtyard, modest in size, with two side rooms flanking his own. Their doors stood wide open, but the Daoist priests who normally inhabited them were nowhere to be seen.

He followed the chanting along a winding path, passing through the temple’s bamboo grove, until he came upon the main hall, half concealed. Above the entrance hung a plaque inscribed with four ancient characters: “Seek Not the Dharma Without.” The main hall was not large, but it exuded a quiet dignity; blue tiles lined the roof, and the wooden beams and pillars bore the marks of age. The solemnity of the place, mingled with the chanting, lent it an air of transcendence, serene and detached from the mortal world.

The hall’s doors were ajar. Inside, eight or nine Daoists in simple robes sat with their backs to the entrance, cross-legged on straw mats, hands pressed together in prayer. Their voices were low and resonant, reciting the scriptures in slow, steady rhythm. A faint fragrance of sandalwood drifted through the air, twining with the chanting to create a mysterious and solemn atmosphere.

Yet, to Zhang Sanlu, that “familiar” chanting made his skin crawl, as if the entire temple was covered in an invisible rash.

On either side of the chanting priests stood several fierce wooden statues, each carved in a different form, but all radiating a chilling aura. Some figures had twisted faces, as if enduring endless torment, their eyes sunken and seemingly bottomless; others, with gaping, inhuman mouths, revealed sharp fangs; still others brandished swords or ritual implements in exaggerated poses, not fighting, but dancing some strange and eldritch dance. The hall had no windows, and in the dim light, the statues’ shadows flickered across the walls, as if they might spring to life at any moment.

What happened next unsettled Zhang Sanlu even more. In the statues’ hollow eye sockets, something seemed to flash by—a presence lurking within!

Before he could cry out in alarm, the statues abruptly appeared to come alive, moving in time with the chanting, waving their ritual implements and twisting grotesquely! Their fangs jutted from gaping mouths, and, impossibly, these clay and wooden effigies joined in the recitation of the scriptures!

Stunned, Zhang Sanlu, having reached the top of the steps in front of the hall, staggered back down two steps before regaining his balance. At that moment, the chanting halted, and several priests turned their heads to look at him.

When he looked again, the statues had returned to their original, lifeless forms.

“Zhenfu, because you’ve been unwell these days, we did not summon you for morning prayers. Why have you come to disturb us?” The old priest sitting at the head of the group frowned and scolded.

Last night, Zhang Sanlu had already learned his Daoist name from the young novice. He knew the old priest was addressing him, but he could hardly admit what he had just seen. Hurriedly, he replied, “Master, I greet you. I heard my brothers chanting in my sleep and came over without thinking. Perhaps I’m still weak; as I climbed the steps, I slipped and stumbled.”

The old priest nodded. “Your aspiration is commendable. The rest of you—your minds are impure; the slightest disturbance unsettles your hearts.” The latter was clearly directed at the disciples seated before him.

They quickly lowered their heads in acknowledgment, some muttering under their breath.

Zhang Sanlu understood well enough: wherever there are people, there is rivalry. He couldn’t tell if the old priest had deliberately set him up or not, but what did it matter? If it was just his own hallucination, so be it. If this place was real, why should he, having recovered from illness, fear a little workplace mind game?

With this thought, he spoke up at once, “Master, I see the hall and its statues are thick with dust and filth, which is most disrespectful to the immortals. Why don’t we, your disciples, move the statues out and clean the hall thoroughly today?”

Noting the surprise on everyone’s faces, Zhang Sanlu smirked inwardly. If they dared to chant scriptures and give him a headache, he’d set them to hard labor. Who knows what’s lurking inside those wretched statues—mice or worse? Annoy him, and he’d have them taken apart and aired out.

“Nonsense!” The old priest waved his sleeve, then paused and added, “That’s enough for morning prayers today. Zhenfu, come with me.”

The other priests hurriedly rose, confused, and performed a ritual bow to their master.

Catching the eye of the young acolyte Suqing, who winked at him, Zhang Sanlu responded with a playful raised eyebrow before following the old priest to the rear hall.

The rear hall was as simply furnished as the other side rooms. The old priest sat cross-legged on the mat in the center and gestured for Zhang Sanlu to do the same.

Awkward with the posture, Zhang Sanlu did his best to sit cross-legged without making his discomfort too obvious.

“Zhenfu, you’ve recently been afflicted by evil influences; it’s natural that your temperament has changed somewhat.” As he spoke, the old priest drew a thin yellow booklet from his sleeve and handed it over. “This is the Sutra of Dispelling Delusion. Study it carefully, morning and night, and strive to break through confusion and return to your true self.”

Zhang Sanlu took the opportunity to uncross his aching legs, then accepted the booklet with feigned solemnity. “Thank you, Master. I will study it diligently.” Inwardly, he thought, it was this very sutra that used to give me headaches—if I don’t find a place to bury it, I’ll never be rid of it.

The old priest nodded, then, with even greater ceremony, produced a pill from his robe. “This is an Elixir of Longevity, refined with the rarest ingredients. It strengthens the body, replenishes vitality, and prolongs life. In over a hundred years, I have only crafted a few dozen. I bestow one upon you now.”

Outwardly, Zhang Sanlu maintained his composure, but inwardly he scoffed: Master, you must be joking! The old priest looked to be about fifty, but by his account, he was over a hundred years old? Was it possible? Could this place truly hold the secret to longevity?

He looked down, and his gaze was drawn to the pill. Before his illness, Zhang Sanlu—well-versed in history, film, novels, and animation—knew all too well that alchemy was a favorite pastime of ancient emperors.

In his world, the use of elixirs could be traced back to the Warring States period. Sima Qian’s Records of the Grand Historian mentions alchemists from Yan. But emperors who indulged in elixirs rarely lived long.

Emperor Sima Pi of Eastern Jin, a devotee of the Yellow Emperor’s arts, died at twenty-five after taking “elixirs.” Tuoba Gui, founding emperor of Northern Wei, was fond of pills and died at thirty-nine.

In the Tang dynasty, when Daoism flourished, Emperor Taizong Li Shimin, Emperor Xianzong Li Chun, Emperor Muzong Li Heng, Emperor Wuzong Li Yan, and Emperor Xuanzong Li Chen either suffered madness or died from elixirs.

The Ming emperors continued the habit: Emperor Guangzong Zhu Changluo died shortly after ascending the throne due to pills.

Even Emperor Yongzheng of the Qing is thought to have died partly because of elixir use. He even wrote a poem about it: “Lead and cinnabar mixed with herbs, pines and cypresses encircle the altar. The furnace stirs the fires of yin and yang, perfecting both inner and outer elixirs.”

And among the aristocrats of the Wei and Jin dynasties, few who took the famed Cold-Food Powder lived long.

In truth, most elixirs were full of toxic heavy metals, and consuming them brought no benefit—yet, seduced by the promise of immortality, the death-fearing emperors pursued them like moths to a flame.

Thus, in his world, alchemy was little more than a slow-acting recipe for poisoning.

But here—could alchemy truly extend life? Were evil spirits and the path to immortality real after all?