Chapter 110: Competing with the Immortal

Later, I learned that this old man was no ordinary figure. Nearly every influential and powerful person in Hong Kong had sought him out, some even offering thousands just for a word from him. His name was Li Yunfeng, known by his Taoist title Xuangu. Among the common folk, he earned the nickname "Surpassing the Immortal" because his divinations were extraordinarily precise, said to glimpse the profound mysteries of Heaven. Born during the late Qing dynasty in a farming household beneath Mount Qingcheng, it was said that on the day he was born, brilliant multicolored auspicious clouds appeared above the mountain. By a twist of fate, he later became a disciple of the Chongyang Sect, a lineage that regarded his departure as a lifelong regret.

At eight years old, Li Yunfeng entered Chongyang, already able to recite the Tao Te Ching backward. By nine, he was personally accepted as a closed-door disciple by Master Yukun, the sect leader, dedicating himself wholly to Taoist cultivation. He was hailed as a once-in-a-century prodigy.

Li Yunfeng was not only well-versed in Taoist classics but also possessed formidable martial arts skills. In those turbulent times, with the country fractured and foreign invasions looming, the sacred incense atop the mountains dimmed. Many Taoists were forced to descend from the mountains seeking survival. Though Li Yunfeng was the sect’s favored disciple, his heart was set on greater deeds to benefit the world.

At twenty, he left the mountain and headed south to Guangzhou, intending to join Sun Yat-sen’s Northern Expedition. Later, he became a senior advisor in Chiang Kai-shek’s government. His divinations revealed the fate of the Republic, foretelling that its dragon spirit would last no more than twenty years. This angered Chiang, who saw such words as seditious and a threat to morale, causing Li Yunfeng to fall out of favor. He was relegated to a life of quiet cultivation within the official residence, no longer trusted with important affairs.

In 1945, as the Kuomintang retreated to Taiwan following defeat, coinciding with the 22nd anniversary of Nanjing as the capital, Chiang recalled Li Yunfeng’s prophecy and sent for him to accompany him to Taiwan. But Li Yunfeng had already moved south to Hong Kong, leaving only a single message: “The southern dragon line still breathes, one breath remains.”

Upon arriving in Hong Kong, Li Yunfeng lived incognito, making a living on the streets by reading characters, divining fortunes, and naming people. Hong Kong’s traditional roots ran deep, and his uncanny accuracy soon earned him the title “Surpassing the Immortal.” With fame came complications. The remnants of the Kuomintang in Hong Kong found him and intended to deport him back to Taiwan. To avoid political entanglements, Li Yunfeng resolved to renounce the world, entering a monastic life as a Taoist priest, henceforth known only as Xuangu Daoist, abandoning the name Li Yunfeng.

From then on, he built a small Taoist shrine on a hillside, living simply with the flickering light of his incense and Taoist scriptures. Yet visitors seeking his guidance continued to throng his doorstep. He set a strict rule: only one divination per month, and no questions about politics.

Despite this, the shrine remained bustling daily, visited by hundreds—from high officials to common folk—all eager to bask in the “immortal aura” of the “Surpassing the Immortal.” Eventually, Xuangu further tightened his rules to one divination every six months, yet the enthusiasm never waned. His fame even spread to Southeast Asia.

Later, to pursue quiet and deep cultivation, he made his rule even stricter: one divination per year, held only on the ninth day of the ninth lunar month, the Chongyang Festival. Throughout his life, he took no disciples and never married. Only a few helpers visited weekly with supplies.

Now, in his eighties, he remained one of the most sought-after figures in Hong Kong’s social circles. Yet his legs had grown weak in recent years. A hospital check revealed age-related kidney failure, requiring regular dialysis.

Returning to the present, the old man had been admitted to the ICU. Cha Wenbin was still delirious in his bed, a cold compress on his forehead. With the nurse’s aid, the old man barely stood. He lifted Cha’s eyelids to examine them and pressed on his cheeks carefully. Soon, he stepped out and hastily wrote a list for me to procure.

He said, “Bring these items here and wait for me. I will undergo dialysis now. The silver needle lodged in his forehead was placed by me, temporarily sealing his vital gate. Do not touch it. After I finish, find a quiet, secluded place and we will go together. This young man still has a chance.”

Hearing “still has a chance,” I nodded repeatedly like a chick pecking grain. Grasping the list, I hurried with the police inspector. If not for the old man, I wouldn’t have had a clue how to find these items in sprawling Hong Kong.

I had grown used to fetching strange items for Cha Wenbin, but the old man’s list was truly unusual: the longest hair from the crown of a newborn girl’s head, a cup of the first urine from a newborn boy, two qian of white snake feces, one qian of ambergris, a handful of wood shavings from golden-thread nanmu aged over three hundred years. The rest—gold and silver ingots, incense, paper money, cinnabar, and chicken blood—were less peculiar. Fortunately, this was an official matter. Upon Zhou Zhonghua’s order, various trades mobilized, and within half an hour, all items were delivered.

The old man chose a site: an abandoned shooting training school in the suburbs, deserted for over a year, with only a few guards at the gates.

At the hospital, an ambulance was dispatched. Cha Wenbin remained feverish and dazed. I noticed the silver needle protruding halfway from the center of his forehead. The old man rested quietly, his complexion much improved.

Eventually, he spoke first. “Who is he a disciple of? Who is his master?”

I only knew Cha Wenbin often mentioned Ma Sufeng, but had no knowledge of which sect or school the Heavenly Righteous Tao came from. I relayed what I had heard, but the old man seemed unfamiliar with Ma Sufeng’s name. After confirming Cha Wenbin was indeed a Taoist disciple, he grew excited, asking me relentlessly about his hometown. It was clear he longed to return.

“My child, I have something to discuss with you.”

In his eyes flickered a sly light. I thought perhaps he was about to demand a lion’s share, but I dared not offend him and smiled gently, “Speak plainly, old sir. If it’s within my power, I will help.”

He beamed. “My hometown is Qingcheng, Sichuan, in a village called Lijiapo. I left at eight and never returned. Turmoil drove me to Hong Kong; half my life spent in war, half in Taoist cultivation, yet I have nothing worthy to bring back to my ancestors. I am old now. I want to make a deal: I will save this young brother of yours, but you must promise to return my ashes to my hometown, first resting for three days in the Li family ancestral hall to pay respects to my forebears, then bury me in the Li family ancestral grave. Can you do this for me?”

I thought, I had no choice. Once Cha Wenbin recovered, we would leave Hong Kong, and who would remember whom? I might never return.

“Very well, I promise!”

The old man pulled from his pocket a small, red, hexagonal folded talisman. “This is a peace charm given to me by the previous Chongyang Sect leader when I descended the mountain. Now I give it to you. Do not break your promise. If you fail, the old man will haunt you in your urine at night.”

I never expected a gift. I stuffed it carelessly into my pocket and looked back. He had turned to gaze out the window, his face calm yet touched with hope.

The car entered a large courtyard where wild grass grew past my calves. This place had once housed British death row prisoners, later converted into a police training ground. Passing a long, rusted corridor, time seemed to stretch. When a small room was opened, everyone else was excluded. I was fortunate to stay behind to assist the old man.

As he mixed the bizarre ingredients, I half-thought him a charlatan. The snake feces soaked in urine became dough-like, rolled into small strips in a bowl. The golden-thread nanmu shavings and ambergris were added as seasoning. A slender wooden stick, about half an arm’s length, was carved from a main beam of Hong Kong’s famous Wong Tai Sin Temple, and the newborn girl’s hair was carefully wrapped around it.

The old man kneaded the sticky mixture onto the stick. Slowly, I realized he was crafting an incense stick.

When the incense was lit, it would be my cue to leave. He instructed me to hold it over a candle. This candle was no ordinary one—it was made from the oil of a deep-sea fish from the South China Sea, burning long and emitting a peculiar fragrance.

After finishing, the old man placed a circle of small copper coins around Cha Wenbin. Each coin’s hole held a standing egg, upon which he drew intricate designs with cinnabar. Unlike talismanic script, these resembled tiny human figures.