The Great Song Dynasty's Soul-Forging in Progress

Only after surviving countless tribulations can one witness the eternal life of humankind.

Master Huiming from "The Great Song Dynasty: The Soul-Forging Process"

Text by: Azure Sky

When I finished writing the final nine characters, "Immortality is not about not dying, but about dying without perishing," I stopped writing, sat quietly, and remained silent for a long time.

A breeze blew through the window, and autumn leaves swayed gently. In a daze, I seemed to see the old monk from "The Great Song Dynasty: The Soul-Forging in Progress," the most contradictory, the most lonely, and the most insightful character in the entire book, standing quietly before me after traversing countless volumes of mountains and rivers and half a lifetime of vanity.

He was still dressed in the same faded white cloth robes and simple shoes, and the ancient pagoda of Shousheng Temple in the western suburbs of Bianjing was still bathed in the setting sun. He did not meditate, chant scriptures, seek immortality, or discuss Taoism; he simply sat quietly on the stone steps, head down, shelling green soybeans. The pods cracked slightly, and the beans rolled into the rough earthenware bowl, making a soft, tinkling sound.

At that moment, I suddenly understood: the highest level of Zen in this world is not found in the sound of temple bells or profound scriptures, but in the everyday life and ordinary work of ordinary people.

Yet this same person, once trapped by obsession and imprisoned by illusion, clad in Buddhist robes yet harboring demonic thoughts, sat in the dark chambers of the Zoroastrian sect, spending half his life pursuing illusory immortal traces and eternal life. He meticulously plotted and schemed, coercing and enticing the young and impoverished Wang Zhonghua, attempting to extract a non-existent secret of eternal life from the traces of Chen Tuan.

One person has two sides, one Buddha and one demon; one thought of delusion, one thought of returning to truth.

This is Huiming, the character I was most reluctant to part with and least dared to fully reveal in my entire novel, "The Great Song Dynasty: The Soul-Forging Process."

He was a charlatan who deceived the world, but also a true Buddha who saved people.

Throughout the entire book, Huiming is an extreme contradiction.

He was seen as a heretical cult leader by the world, a delusional madman hiding in the shadows of the Song Dynasty, deceiving all his followers while also trapping himself in a life of wandering. He wielded power in the shadows, was well-versed in cunning and secret arts, and deeply understood the weaknesses of the human heart, spending half his life chasing a mirage of immortality.

But he was also the earliest mentor of Wang Zhonghua, Qin Tiedan, Qin Tiehua and other teenagers.

Amidst the chaos and destitution of the common people, he rescued them from dire straits, imparted martial arts, taught them inner strength, and unraveled mysteries. The saying, "When the mind is still, the sword is still; when the sword is still, the mountains and rivers are still," not only protected the young protagonist's life and spirit but also permeated Zhao Zongshi's entire life of ups and downs, territorial expansion through new policies, and strengthening the army to stabilize the country, becoming the fundamental foundation for forging the soul of a prosperous era.

He was used to the wickedness of people's hearts, the treachery of the court, and the vanity of the world, yet he showed tenderness and devoted all his knowledge to a group of ordinary young men.

My purpose in writing about Huiming was never to create a perfect image of a great monk, but rather to depict the most authentic aspects of ordinary people's spiritual practice.

People cultivate themselves, seeking to let go, to understand, and to transcend. But often, the more obsessed a person is with "attaining the Way," the more easily they are trapped by the Way. Huiming's tragedy and enlightenment in life both stemmed from this: he spent his life seeking immortality, liberation, and eternity, only to find in the end that what he had been chasing for half his life had never existed in the first place.

He deceived the world his whole life, creating the illusion that he knew the secrets of heaven and held the destiny of immortality; he deceived his disciples his whole life, making Lu Laojiu follow falsehoods and believe in the immortal mountain for half his life; he even deceived himself for half his life, repeatedly consuming himself and struggling bitterly in endless obsession.

But what is most touching about him is that he frankly revealed his shortcomings on his deathbed.

A lone boat on a vast ocean, sitting alone gazing at the moon, the old monk, nearing the end of his life, finally confessed to his disciple who had followed him all his life: "I lied to you my whole life. I made you believe in fire worship, in immortality, and in the medicine of the immortal mountains, but in truth, I myself was half-believing, half-doubting, and half-losing my life."

This sentence is the breakthrough in Huiming's life, and also the gentlest redemption in the entire book.

Before this, he was a layman pretending to be a Buddha; after this, he was a genuine person who dared to admit his mistakes.

He didn't achieve enlightenment or ascend to heaven at the moment of his death; he simply shed all pretense, all obsessions, and all illusions, and returned to being an ordinary person.

To acknowledge confusion is to be clear-headed; to acknowledge illusion is to be enlightened.

After traversing 30,000 miles of vast ocean in search of immortality, he finally attained enlightenment amidst the mundane world.

My insistence on arranging for Huiming to travel across the sea and experience 30,000 miles of trials and tribulations is the most crucial part of the character arc in the entire story.

He spent the first half of his life in the Central Plains, trapped by old acquaintances and imprisoned by his obsessions. His vision was limited by the mystical teachings of immortals and Buddhas, and his mind was bound by the illusion of immortality. So I sent him out to sea, to let the raging winds and waves shatter his obsessions, and to let the desolate islands and wilderness wash away his mystique.

He traversed the desolate regions of the East China Sea, the barren islands of Ryukyu, and the mysterious realms of the Kuroshio Current, searching for the legendary immortal mountains and spiritual continents. Yet, throughout his life, he found not a trace of immortality, nor obtained a single elixir of immortality.

The vast ocean, though it did not grant him his dream of immortality, did grant him the path to enlightenment in the human world.

On a desolate, uninhabited island, he witnessed the indigenous people living off the land and the mountains, relying on a few exotic crops to ensure they were well-fed and lived peacefully year after year. He tasted the grains, observed the farming, and recorded their customs, and finally realized that the eternity that people spend their entire lives pursuing is never in the heavens or among the immortal mountains.

True immortality is not about physical immortality or living as long as the heavens; it is about planting a seed, nourishing a region, enriching the land, and benefiting future generations.

So the mysterious and enigmatic leader of the Zoroastrian cult, who had been obsessed for half his life, put down all his mystical scriptures and secret arts of immortality and did the simplest thing—collecting seeds, recording farming methods, traversing deserted islands, and identifying crops.

Corn, peanuts, chili peppers, and sweet potatoes. Four bags of extremely simple seeds, without any radiance, miracles, or mystique, yet more profound and immortal than any elixir of immortality or Buddhist treasure.

This is the most precious gift that Huiming gave to the Song Dynasty after braving 30,000 miles of wind and waves, and it is also the most fervent merit he left to future generations of China.

Nearly four hundred years ahead of schedule, breaking the shackles of history, a monk, with his own strength, planted the seeds of hope for bountiful harvests and food security for the barren, arid lands of the north and the people of the Song Dynasty who suffered from famine.

Those who seek immortality will ultimately not achieve it; those who do not seek immortality, however, nourish the mountains and rivers and endure for eternity.

After stripping away half a lifetime of illusions, one realizes that ordinariness is the way.

When writing Chapter 404, "The Last Words of the Returned Overseas Student," what I loved most, and what I was most reluctant to write about, was never the turbulent sea, the return of the relics, or the eternal last words, but rather the most ordinary blank space of memory.

Young Wang Zhonghua, his mind in turmoil and his future uncertain, sat quietly beneath an ancient pagoda, spending an afternoon shelling edamame with an old monk.

There were no sermons, no pronouncements, no prophecies. Only ordinary fireworks, the soft crackling of bean pods, the rolling sunset, and the gentle evening breeze.

The old monk said calmly, "When your mind is unsettled, shelling beans is more effective than meditation."

When I was young, I didn't understand. But after experiencing half a lifetime of trials and tribulations, traveling thousands of miles, and experiencing great ups and downs, I finally realized that this is the ultimate truth of life.

The Great Way is never a momentous epiphany, but a steady, daily practice; longevity is never an ethereal eternity, but living earnestly.

Huiming traveled the farthest roads, crossed the most treacherous seas, and held onto the most devoted beliefs throughout his life, only to finally understand that the path he had been searching for was never found at the ends of the earth or in celestial mountains and secret realms, but rather in every blade of grass and every meal at the Jingxin Zen Temple, in the daily life of farmers planting in spring and harvesting in autumn, and in the simple and steadfast commitment to protecting those around him, doing his job well, and benefiting all people under heaven.

The essence of life is simply this: live earnestly, finish what you're doing, take good care of those around you, and pass on the teachings that should be passed on. That's all.

This is the clarity that comes after weathering all storms, the authenticity that comes after washing away all illusions, and the gentleness that comes after sailing through countless trials.

His bones returned to the sea, his heart returned to his homeland—this was the best ending for him.

I deliberately designed the dual destiny of "returning to the sea with last wishes and returning home with ashes," which is the most perfect closed loop in Huiming's life.

Throughout his life, he devoted himself to Buddhism, believing in the emptiness of the four elements and the formlessness of the physical body. Therefore, his last wish was to return to the sea, drift away with the waves, leaving no tomb, no monument, and no attachment to the mortal world.

Heaven and earth pitied him, time cherished him, and all living beings remembered him.

The vast blue sea was calm and still, yet it somehow swept back a handful of pure white ashes and several clear relics.

Heaven and earth do not accept him because his worldly ties are not yet severed; the ocean does not embrace him because his great path has not yet been severed.

He should not return to the cold, deep sea, but to the great Song Dynasty land that he guarded and nurtured for half his life.

Lu Laojiu, burdened with heavy loads and weary from his journey, brought back a handful of embers and four bags of seeds to the Central Plains, back to Bianjing. What he brought back was never a pile of bones or a handful of dust.

What he brought back was the sudden awakening of a deluded person, the enlightenment of a spiritual practitioner, and a burning passion that transcends mountains and seas and benefits all people.

Zhao Zongshi placed the urn containing the ashes on his desk and the grain seeds on the shelf, facing them day after day. This was not a simple act of remembrance, but a lifelong remembrance of "the great way of humanity and ordinary merit" by the creator of a prosperous era.

Huiming's path is not in the void of the other shore, but in the cooking smoke of the Song Dynasty.

Conclusion: For mortals, transcending tribulations is the path to immortality.

For me, writing about Huiming was a long self-dialogue, and also a soul-searching process that runs through the entire book, "The Great Song Dynasty: The Making of the Soul."

Like Huiming in his youth, each of us has, at some point, been superstitious about finding the ultimate answer in the distance and eternal liberation in the mysterious. We chase after empty fame, perfection, shortcuts, and illusory eternity, while neglecting the everyday joys, the responsibilities of the present, and the kindness at hand.

Huiming's life was a grand ordeal.

He has been a swindler, deceiving the world; a disciple, trapped by his own desires; a mentor, guiding future generations; and an ordinary person, gaining enlightenment for all living beings.

He ultimately neither became a Buddha nor an immortal.

He lived the life of a most simple person: an old monk shelling beans, a farmer, and a savior who filled the stomachs of all people.

The most moving eternity in the world is never the immortality of the physical body, but rather illuminating the eternal mountains and rivers with one's own faint light, and nourishing countless people with one's ordinary life.

Having weathered countless storms and washed away half a lifetime of vanity.

It turns out that the simple pleasures of life are the ultimate path to immortality.

It turns out that being down-to-earth is the eternal path.

This is Huiming, and also the gentlest, most profound, and most healing ultimate answer in "The Great Song Dynasty: The Soul-Forging Process".

Dear readers, are you satisfied with the character of Master Huiming?