The Sacred Leaves Family's Wishes for Peace

Yue Kingdom, Yun Cang County, Yun Family Village.

"Immortals are those who live by consuming the essence of heaven and earth, mastering yin and yang, seizing the forces of creation, commanding divine powers, and seeking eternal life.

All beings are bound by fate, but only immortals can defy the heavens and change destiny, achieving immortality and escaping the cycle of the five elements and reincarnation."

Outside the village, beneath the shade of a willow tree, sat an old blind Daoist. His tattered robe spoke of years of wear, and his unkempt appearance painted him as anything but ordinary. Cross-legged on a stone bench, he gently stroked his beard and spoke in a voice that seemed to carry the weight of the ages.

In front of him, a group of half-grown children from Yun Family Village sat in a circle, hanging on to his every word as he recounted secrets about the mountain-dwelling immortals.

"Daoist master, are the immortals on the mountain really that powerful?"

The question came from a lean boy dressed in a short tunic. His sharp gaze was fixed intently on the old Daoist as he asked.

"Indeed, they are," the Daoist replied, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "Did you not know? The Dao Ancestor once challenged the will of the heavens, the Confucian Sage defied destiny, and the Buddha opposed reincarnation itself. All for the pursuit of eternal life, to stand on equal footing with the heavens, earth, sun, and moon."

The Daoist stroked his beard, his "eyes" seeming to meet the boy's as he spoke with a solemn air.

"Incredible! Immortals... they dare to challenge the heavens, destiny, and even reincarnation," the boy murmured, his heart stirring with reverence for the figures the Daoist had mentioned—the 'Dao Ancestor,' the 'Confucian Sage,' and the 'Buddha.'

Those people must have been extraordinary!

"By the way, Daoist master," the boy said, snapping out of his daze. "Last time, you told us about the Mo Jiao Clan from Jiuli Mountain. What became of them in the end?"

The boy's gaze returned to the Daoist, his curiosity piqued as he recalled the unfinished story of the "Saint's Wrath that Vanquished the Mo Jiao."

"Do you have wine?"

The Daoist's hand moved to his beard again, a playful glint in his expression.

"Here!"

The boy quickly produced a wine gourd, filled with aged Nu'er Hong he had stolen from beneath his father's bed. He knew all too well that this eccentric blind Daoist was a lover of fine wine.

For these stories of immortals battling demons and monsters, a price had to be paid. Without such "offerings," one could wait an eternity for the next part of the tale.

Prepared as ever, the boy had come armed with his treasure.

Taking the gourd, the Daoist removed the stopper. Inhaling deeply, he savored the aroma before taking a generous swig. Smacking his lips in satisfaction, he nodded approvingly.

"Good wine!"

"Daoist master, you've had your drink and taken your offering. Surely it's time to get to the point. What happened to the Mo Jiao Clan?"

The boy grinned, his tone filled with anticipation.

The other children leaned in closer, their eyes sparkling with expectation.

"What else? They were wiped out, of course," the Daoist replied with a dismissive chuckle, taking another swig.

The children waited patiently, but the story seemed to stop there. After a while, the boy frowned.

"That's it?"

"That's it!"

The Daoist nodded solemnly, as if nothing more needed to be said.

"Daoist master, you're just making things up to drink my wine! Give it back!"

The boy, now frustrated, lunged for the gourd.

But the Daoist, despite his blindness, dodged the boy's grasp with surprising agility, leaving him sprawling face-first in the dirt.

"Why the temper, little one?"

"You tricked me out of my wine, and you have the nerve to ask why I'm mad?"

The boy got to his feet, brushing himself off and glaring at the Daoist.

"Calm yourself. Sit back down, and I'll continue the story," the Daoist said with a wave of his hand.

Reluctantly, the boy returned to his seat. As the Daoist resumed his tales of immortals slaying demons, the children listened, utterly captivated. The thought of immortals flying through the skies, wielding swords to vanquish evil, filled their hearts with admiration and wonder.

"Daoist master, are immortals real?"

"They are."

The Daoist smiled faintly.

"Then why have we never seen one?"

"If you mortals, confined to this tiny village, could easily see immortals, would they still be called immortals?

True immortals dwell in hidden paradises, unseen and unheard, their hearts set solely on pursuing the path to eternal life.

For mortals to encounter an immortal is as rare as reaching the heavens."

"But didn't you once tell us about a scholar who gave up everything, left his home, and eventually met an immortal? Didn't he become a saint in the end? How can it be so rare?"

The boy's curiosity was insatiable.

"Ah, that brings us to the matter of spiritual roots."

"Spiritual roots?"

"Indeed. Whether a mortal can cultivate depends entirely on whether they are born with spiritual roots. Those with spiritual roots will meet immortals and be guided into the mountains to begin their journey to immortality."

"Then check me! Do I have spiritual roots?"

The boy beamed as he leaned forward.

With a flick of his finger, the Daoist rapped the boy on the forehead.

"You don't!"

"Spiritual roots are not so easily found. Among mortals, not even one in a million has them."

"That rare?"

Rubbing his forehead, the boy muttered, a trace of disappointment in his voice.

"And that's just the beginning! Do you think having spiritual roots makes the path to immortality easy? That's only the first step!"

"Alright, alright! That's enough storytelling for today. I've entertained you brats long enough. Now go on, back to your homes, back to your mothers. This poor Daoist needs his afternoon nap!"

With a loud yawn, the blind Daoist waved the children off. Then, lying down on the stone bench beneath the great willow tree, he quickly drifted into a deep sleep. Before long, the sound of his snoring filled the air.

"He fell asleep so fast... just like a pig," one boy muttered, throwing a glance at the snoring Daoist before gathering the children from Yun Family Village and leading them back toward their homes.

"Yan Shui-ge, do you think what that old Daoist said is true?"

The speaker was a chubby boy of about seven years old, his nose still glistening with snot. He waddled up beside the lean boy, casting a glance back at the sleeping Daoist beneath the willow before turning his hopeful gaze to Yan Shui.

"True about what?" Yan Shui replied.

"About what he said just now—if you're born with spiritual roots, you can see immortals? And if you meet one, you can follow them into the mountains to cultivate and seek eternal life?"

"I don't know. But I hope what he said is true. I've been alive for seven or eight years now, and I've never seen an immortal. I don't even know what they look like."

"Yan Shui-ge is so smart—you're sure to have spiritual roots! I bet it won't be long before you meet an immortal."

"Stop buttering me up! That lousy Daoist already said "I don't have spiritual roots."

Yan Shui gave a good-natured laugh, though his tone carried a hint of frustration.

But at the mention of lacking spiritual roots and being unable to cultivate, a shadow of disappointment flickered in his eyes.

His full name was Yun Yan Shui, eight years old, a direct descendant of the Yun family lineage, and the undisputed leader among the village children.

By day, he led his gang to climb trees, catch fish, and hunt for mud eels. By night, they snuck around with slingshots, shooting down chickens from other people's yards and roasting them in the hills for a secret feast.

His life was carefree and full of mischief.

That was, until a year ago, when a ragged old Daoist had inexplicably appeared in the village and begun spinning tales about immortals to the children.

It was as if a grand new door had opened before Yun Yan Shui, revealing a world far beyond the confines of Yun Family Village. A world where sword-wielding immortals soared through the skies, battling demons and monsters that devoured humans whole.

There were stories of Lu the Sword Immortal, who struck the gates of heaven with his blade and sought ascension, only to perish tragically under divine punishment.

There was Wu the Old Daoist, who journeyed barefoot for a thousand miles to enter the sacred grounds of the Daoist Three Purities, eventually achieving ascension in his twilight years through sheer determination.

And there was Scholar Xu, who gave up his wealth and renounced worldly pursuits, dedicating his life to seeking immortals and the path to eternal life.

The Confucian Sages stood tall in the lands of the Great Sages, spreading knowledge and wisdom, their disciples scattered across the world.

Meanwhile, Buddhist monks delivered sermons that attracted countless pilgrims, their words so profound they manifested divine visions and celestial blessings.

Listening to the blind Daoist's tales of these lofty immortals, Yun Yan Shui was filled with admiration and longing.

He yearned to seek out immortals, to someday wield a sword against demons, pluck stars from the heavens, and live a life of unrestrained freedom—soaring above the clouds in the morning, resting beneath the vast skies by dusk.

He wanted to see the boundless world for himself.

But for now, it seemed such dreams would remain just that—dreams.

Still, he was pragmatic. If he couldn't become an immortal, so be it. A simple life in the village wasn't so bad either. With his parents and younger sister by his side, he could grow up, marry a beautiful wife, have ten or eight fat sons, and live a peaceful, uneventful life. It didn't sound terrible.

"Hah! That old Daoist is blind. How could he possibly see how amazing Yan Shui-ge really is?"

The chubby boy puffed out his chest, his expression full of pride and confidence.

"You're acting strange today," Yan Shui remarked, narrowing his eyes at the boy.

"Huh? Strange? What do you mean, Yan Shui-ge? How am I strange?"

"You never butter me up like this. Come on, spill it. What do you want from me?"

Yan Shui fixed his gaze on the boy, his suspicion evident.

The boy's name was Yun Yan Dong.

The two had grown up together, practically inseparable since their diaper days. Yan Shui knew him like the back of his hand—where he'd sit and what kind of mischief he was planning.

There was no way Yun Yan Dong could hide anything from him.

"Hehe... You really are the smartest, Yan Shui-ge. You saw right through me!" Yan Dong laughed nervously before sheepishly admitting, "I do have a favor to ask."

"Out with it."

"Well... Mr. Yu punished me by making me copy The Three Character Classic a hundred times. You know how it is with me—I get dizzy just looking at words. So, I was hoping, maybe... Yan Shui-ge..."

"You want me to copy The Three Character Classic for you?"

"Exactly!"

Yan Dong nodded eagerly, his face lighting up with a hopeful grin.

"Dream on! Mr. Yu already punished me with copying The Heart Sutra three hundred times, and I haven't even finished yet!"