The Great Song Dynasty's Soul-Forging in Progress

Wang Zhonghua (Zhao Zongshi) stayed up all night, reading the thin manuscript by lamplight three times. There were no obscure Zen principles, no vain talk of immortality; every word was clear and insightful, polished by wind and rain, and every sentence was filled with sincere devotion to the people and the nation.

On the corner of the table stood a small, rough-hewn pottery jar, its mouth tightly sealed with wax. Simple and unadorned, yet weighing more than a thousand pieces of gold. Inside the jar lay the ashes of Master Huiming, brought back by Lu Laojiu after a 30,000-mile voyage across raging waves. Before, the sea had been calm; Master Huiming had peacefully passed away, and his disciples, following his wishes, had placed his remains in the azure sea, returning to the bright moonlight. But three days later, on the stern deck, the waves rolled back a handful of pure white ashes, within which lay tiny, crystalline relics, clean and clear, untouched by the dust of the world.

Lu Laojiu knelt at the bow of the ship, gazing at the vast blue sea. He remained silent for a long time, then carefully bent down and picked up the embers, placing them in a personal bottle. He carried them all the way back to his homeland in the Central Plains, enduring wind and rain and avoiding waves and dangers.

When he returned to the palace to report, the weathered man's voice was hoarse, and he spoke slowly and deliberately: "Master said that if Heaven and Earth do not accept him, then I should take him home."

Zhao Zongshi still clearly remembered what Lu Laojiu looked like. He was only in his early forties, but his temples were already gray. His eyes and brows showed the weariness and vicissitudes of three years of drifting at sea. His eyes, which had once been ruthless and fierce, had been worn smooth and calm by the sea wind and the years, and there was no trace of ferocity left.

His fingertips gently brushed over the hemp paper note, finally stopping at a last sentence that had been repeatedly touched and was almost shiny, his heart filled with mixed emotions:

"Immortality is not about not dying, but about dying without perishing."

In the courtyard outside the window, a small ginkgo tree, recently transplanted, stands quietly, its branches and leaves half yellow and half green, slender yet resilient. A gentle autumn breeze blows, and withered leaves flutter down, slowly sliding down the window paper without a sound, much like the life of Master Huiming, who came into the world amidst clamor and departed in silence.

In a daze, memories from many years ago flooded his mind. Back then, he was still Wang Zhonghua, a struggling commoner in Chenzhou, not yet crown prince, nor wielding power over the land. In the Shousheng Temple Zen Monastery on the western outskirts of Chenzhou, ancient trees reached for the sky, cicadas chirped serenely, and the old monk Huiming, with his white eyebrows reaching his shoulders, often sat under the ancient pagoda shelling soybeans. Dressed in simple clothes and shoes, with gentle eyes, he was just like an ordinary old man from the countryside, showing no trace of his past obsession with immortality and entanglement with Zoroastrianism.

At that time, he was in turmoil and uncertain about the future, so he came to Huiming seeking enlightenment. Huiming didn't even raise his head, his fingertips constantly peeling green bean pods, and simply said, "You've come? Sit down. When your mind is unsettled, peeling beans is more effective than meditation."

That day, he sat quietly beneath the pagoda for an entire afternoon, shelling three pounds of edamame with the old monk, listening to his casual conversations and simple discussions on the path to peace of mind. There were no mystical doctrines, no empty pronouncements; every word was a simple, everyday truth. As dusk fell and the evening glow spread, he rose to take his leave. Suddenly, Huiming raised his hand to stop him, offering him a dark iron rosary. His voice was gentle, yet held a profound meaning:

"When the mind is calm, the sword is calm; when the mind is focused, the blade will follow. Remember these eight words; you will need them in the future."

At that time, Wang Zhonghua was ignorant and naive. He simply put the prayer beads into his pocket and wandered the world, experiencing many hardships, and had long since lost them. Until last night, when he reread this scroll of his overseas testament and saw the few words added by the old monk at the end of the letter, the memories that had been sealed for many years suddenly surged up and became clear.

"You lost that rosary, didn't you? It doesn't matter. Just remember those four words in your heart. When the mind is calm, the sword is calm; when the sword is calm, the mountains and rivers are calm. I spent my whole life searching for immortality, traversing overseas immortal mountains and desolate islands, only to realize in the end that immortality is not in the illusory path of immortality, but in the ordinary time you spend quietly shelling beans—live earnestly, do things practically, protect those around you, and pass on the world's way. That's all."

In just a few words, he revealed the emptiness of half a lifetime and the true meaning of a lifetime. Zhao Zongshi looked out the window at the falling leaves, his nose tingling slightly, his heart clear and lucid.

He withdrew his gaze and it fell upon a rough burlap sack in the corner of the study. The sack was open and plain, without any embroidered decorations. Inside, four small, neatly arranged burlap packets were filled with crooked handwriting, each labeled with the words Lu Lao Jiu had hastily written overnight: corn, peanuts, chili peppers, sweet potatoes...

Last night, during his audience with the emperor, Lu Laojiu presented his will and the urn containing his ashes. He then solemnly untied his weary travel bag and gently placed the four bags of seeds on the blue brick floor. His hands trembled slightly, and his eyes were filled with sincerity. These were exotic seeds that Master Huiming had found over three years, traversing the islands of the East China Sea, the southern border of Ryukyu, and the desolate Kuroshio Sea, searching across thousands of miles of barren hills.

The old monk spent his life seeking immortality and pursuing the Dao, ultimately traversing 30,000 miles of the vast ocean without finding a trace of immortality. However, he discovered the true Dao amidst the mundane struggles of life on a wild island. He personally tasted the grains, recorded the planting methods, and noted their habits, deeply understanding that these crops were resistant to barren soil and drought, and undemanding of water and soil. If introduced to the Central Plains, they could revitalize vast tracts of arid land in the north and feed countless impoverished people.

Compared to the elixir of immortality, true salvation and longevity lie in ensuring that all people are well-fed and that there is no famine in the world.

Lu Lao Jiu carefully took out a withered yellow leaf vein wrapped in layers of oiled paper. It was a sweet potato vine leaf that Huiming had personally pressed dry, so that farmers in the Central Plains could easily identify and plant it. "On the eve of his death, Master repeatedly instructed his disciple to personally hand it over to His Highness, and not to make the slightest mistake."

Zhao Zongshi crouched down, gently untied the corn seed bag, and cupped a few plump, golden kernels in his palm. The touch was warm and heavy; this was life that had traveled across mountains and seas nearly four hundred years ahead of schedule, defying the predetermined course of history. A single seed, carrying the weight of an old monk's lifelong enlightenment, thirty thousand miles of trials and tribulations, and the hopes for the livelihood of countless people, rested heavily in his palm, and also fell upon the land and rivers of the Song Dynasty.

"Master," he murmured softly, his voice gentle, only audible to himself, "In your life, you entered Buddhism to seek truth, entered the demonic path to break free from attachments, deceived the world and trapped yourself, but in the end, you traveled across mountains and seas, suddenly realized the truth, and ultimately became a true immortal who saves and guides people."

He rose and carefully arranged the four bags of grain seeds, solemnly placing them on the top shelf of the antique display case, alongside the "Records of Land Measurement in Jingdong Road." The land measurement record was the standard for regulating the land; the four bags of new grain seeds were the foundation for nourishing all people. Literature and agriculture, regulations and sustenance—all were the foundation of a prosperous and peaceful era.

He then spread out plain white Xuan paper, ground ink, and began to write, each character steady and deliberate: "The Last Words of the Returned Overseas Scholar"—Postscript to the Last Words of Master Huiming.

He resolved to compile all of Huiming's experiences of wandering for half his life, the true meaning of his enlightenment across the sea, the secrets of planting four kinds of exotic crops, their soil and water habits, and the key points of harvesting into a book. Together with the old monk's oral accounts of overseas scenery, sea voyages, and island customs, he compiled the book into "Record of Returning from the East China Sea," which was printed and distributed to agricultural departments in all prefectures and cities throughout the country, so that even a small seed could benefit thousands of miles of land.

This is not just an ordinary agricultural book; it is a complete testimony of a wandering practitioner who, after a lifetime of delusion, finally returned to the mundane world and the path of humanity.

As the ink began to dry, the eunuch Zhao Shun stepped inside, bowed, and softly reported, "Your Highness, Lu Laojiu is waiting outside the palace. He said that he had not finished discussing his matters last night and has come to pay his respects again today."

"please."

A moment later, Lu Laojiu bowed and entered the hall. He had changed into a clean, simple gray cloth robe, washing away the dust and frost of the sea, but not the weariness and vicissitudes in his eyes. Three years ago, when he went to sea with his master, he was a brave and ruthless young martial artist. Now, he was thin, with prominent cheekbones and sunken eyes. His left little finger was missing a section, a scar from when the ship's mooring was broken by a fierce storm and he risked his life to protect the ship, a testament to the hardships of crossing the sea.

He knelt steadily in the hall, raised his hand and took out an iron rosary strung with a red rope from his bosom, then respectfully presented it with both hands raised above his head. The rosary had been rubbed day and night, making it smooth and round, with its edges worn warm. The four characters "When the mind is calm, the sword is calm" that were once engraved on it had faded, but were still clearly legible.

"Your Highness, these are the prayer beads that my master gave to me. I have been adrift at sea for three years, carrying them with me day and night, never letting them out of my sight."

Zhao Zongshi took the prayer beads; their warmth still lingered in his hand, carrying the crispness of the sea breeze and the sincerity of a mortal. He nodded slightly and gently returned them: "What your master has given you is your destiny; keep it safe."

Lu Lao Jiu took back the prayer beads, his fingertips clenching them tightly. Suddenly, he prostrated himself and kowtowed deeply, his shoulders trembling slightly, his voice choked with emotion: "Your Highness, I held back all night, but I finally couldn't help but speak. On the night my master passed away, he sat alone on the deck gazing at the moon and told me a truth, which I have remembered to this day and dare not forget."

"Master said: Ninth brother, I have lied to you my whole life. I taught you to believe in fire worship, immortality, and elixirs from sacred mountains, but in fact, I myself was confused and doubtful for half my life. Only after traveling 30,000 miles of sea route did I finally understand - there are no false immortal methods in this world. The real merits of a person's life are the practical things they do and the people they benefit."

He looked up, his eyes filled with tears and earnestness: "In the first half of my life, I followed my master in his delusions and went astray. In the second half, I want to help my master return to the right path and uphold his original heart. I humbly request Your Highness's permission to stay at Shousheng Temple and tidy up my master's old residence and meditation room. I will not chant scriptures or seek enlightenment, but only chop wood, boil water, farm, and guard the temple. I will help wandering monks from all directions, take in homeless orphans, and keep the temple bells ringing, and protect my master's last human attachment."

Zhao Zongshi gazed quietly at his sincere and earnest expression, remained silent for a moment, and then gently agreed: "Granted. But it's not just about protecting the temple."

He turned and took four bags of seeds from the antique shelf, taking a small amount from each bag, carefully wrapping them in plain hemp paper, and handed them to Lu Laojiu: "Take these back to Shousheng Temple, and cultivate a vegetable garden in the backyard. You and Han Qi can try planting these new grains. You traveled with your master to the deserted islands of the East China Sea, and you have personally witnessed the methods of planting and harvesting. You know more about practical matters than any agricultural official in the world. This skill in farming and this ability to help the world are far more effective in calming people's hearts and helping the common people than empty scriptures."

Holding four heavy bags of seeds, Lu Laojiu stared blankly at them for a long time. Finally, the gloom that had been hanging over his rough, dark face broke through, revealing a broad-minded smile that had been absent for three years. His smile was simple and sincere: "Your Highness, rest assured! For three years, I have been on a deserted island with no land and no food. I survived entirely by digging in the soil and planting vegetables. I may not have any other skills, but I am sure I can do farming well and reliably. I will never fail my master's last wish or Your Highness's entrustment."

Zhao Zongshi gently patted his shoulder, his eyes warm: "Plant well. When the vegetable garden yields a bountiful harvest and the new grain is ripe, I will personally go to Shousheng Temple to take a look."

Lu Laojiu bowed deeply in gratitude, then rose and retreated steadily, his steps more composed and resolute than the night before, showing no trace of wandering or confusion.

The palace door closed softly, and the study returned to tranquility, save for the autumn breeze blowing through the window and the rustling of pages. Zhao Zongshi returned to his desk, picked up his pen, and continued writing "The Last Testament of a Returned Overseas Student." His brush moved with composure, each word clear and insightful.

"Master Huiming once said: 'Longevity is not immortality, but rather dying without perishing.' Reflecting on his life, I realize that he spent half his life pursuing the illusory and the other half on practical matters, traversing the vast ocean and finally comprehending the true meaning. Human lifespan is finite, but the Great Way is infinite, the cultural lineage is infinite, skills are infinite, and food is infinite. To dedicate oneself to passing on skills, benefiting all people, and nourishing the mountains and rivers is the immortality of mortals and the longevity of humankind. My master sought this for thirty thousand miles without success, but suddenly attained enlightenment, which is truly a great fortune."

With his brush in hand, he looked up out the window. In the courtyard, Lu Lao Jiu, carrying seeds on his back, passed through the moon gate, his back hunched but resolute, walking step by step westward toward the Shousheng Temple in Chenzhou. The morning light illuminated his journey home, and also the path ahead for a grain of rice to fall to the ground, for a heartfelt aspiration to take root.

Zhao Zonghe gently closed the manuscript, carefully placed it into a sandalwood box, and sealed it away. Three years of anxiety had finally come to an end; a lifetime of obsession had ultimately returned to the mundane world.

He sat quietly with his eyes closed for a moment, and when he opened them again, his eyes were clear and calm, showing both ruthlessness and gentleness, and a balance between strategic vision and warmth.

"Han Nian'an".

Han Nian'an (originally named Qin Nian'an, but changed to Han Nian'an after Qin Xianglian married Han Qi), who was already a palace guard, entered in response.

"Order Duan Gong, Mu Guiying, and Zhe Kexing to hold a meeting at the Eastern Palace tomorrow at Chenshi (7-9 AM). The strategy for the Northern Expedition against Yan and Yun should be drafted today and finalized tomorrow."

Han Nian'an accepted the order and withdrew.

Zhao Zongshi stood with his hands behind his back by the window, gazing up at the northern horizon. The Yan-Yun homeland, which had been separated from the Song Dynasty for over sixty years, was now in sight; the old humiliations awaited avenging.

The autumn wind rustled the pages on the desk, and in a daze, it seemed as if the gentle laughter of an old monk came from the depths of the sea breeze: Live well, do things diligently, spread the great way, and protect all living beings.

Zhao Zongshi nodded slightly, silently agreeing.

Outside the window, ginkgo leaves fluttered down, carpeting the ground in golden hues, creating a peaceful and serene scene.