My Wife Is A Sword Immortal-Chapter 67 - 56: Covert Copying of Scriptures
Chapter 67: Chapter 56: Covert Copying of Scriptures
Zhao Rong felt a multitude of gazes piercing through the latticed wooden window of the attic, which frightened him into a cold sweat. He panicked, looking around frantically, and instinctively wanted to run away in complete disregard of everything. In the next second, Zhao Rong clenched his teeth tightly and pursed his lips, forcing himself to calm down.
He pulled on a tree branch and used the leaves to cover his figure, his eyes intently peering through the gaps in the foliage at the group of blue-clothed Daoists who had emerged from the observatory tower, trying to ascertain from which direction they would come to capture him after leaving the tower.
Suddenly, Zhao Rong was startled.
He saw the group of blue-clothed Daoists turn right, veering away from the direct path that led to Chongxu Temple’s main gate, and heading towards the direction of the Yin Ancestor Hall within the temple grounds. Zhao Rong took a closer look and noticed they were at ease, some even turning their heads to chat and laugh, not looking like they were out to catch someone.
Zhao Rong remained motionless, his brows slightly furrowed. After observing for a while, he saw them reach the back of the great hall, where there was a red lacquered gate that had been locked tight when Zhao Rong had previously scouted it, but was now wide open.
From his vantage point, the view only allowed him to see the neat and broad black stone steps beyond the gate.
...
Suddenly, a new group of blue-clothed Daoists emerged from behind the door. The two groups met and stopped, performing salutations before crossing paths; the earlier group entered the gate in succession, ascending the steps, and the red lacquered gate was quickly shut.
The newly arrived group of blue-clothed Daoists lost members along the way as they split off in threes into each great hall, leaving only seven to enter the observatory tower.
Zhao Rong’s brows relaxed, and he exhaled quietly. After one more glance at the attic, he skillfully jumped down from the tree.
At this moment, the bell from the mountain rang out, and Zhao Rong listened intently—it was a quarter into the mao hour.
Zhao Rong turned to leave, but after taking a few steps, he returned to clean up the pancake that had fallen in the dirt and the scattered leaves that he had dislodged, without lingering any longer.
It turned out that the earlier group was merely changing guard. He hadn’t been at the temple long and probably hadn’t been noticed by the secret sentries in the attic. However, this place was too dangerous for further delay. The observatory tower was too tall with an open view, making it unsuitable for hiding anywhere in the vicinity of the outer temple. It was time to relocate.
After pondering for a moment, Zhao Rong decided to enter the temple. He had already mapped the general layout and situation of the outer temple in his mind; further high-risk observation from an elevated position seemed unnecessary unless essential.
To be safe, Zhao Rong descended the mountain first and waited at the foot for a while, then re-ascended once it was clear there was no movement. This time, he adjusted his clothing and confidently entered the mountainside outer temple, making his way directly into the Spirit Temple without much wandering.
Upon entering the temple, he saw a large group of Daoists standing orderly in front of the holy image, arranged in four rows and five columns, engaging in morning recitations. They were sitting in meditation, chanting scriptures, led by an elder blue-clothed Daoist.
To the left front of the holy image, an elderly white-haired Daoist was greeting visitors and interpreting fortune slips.
In front of the walls on both the left and right sides of the great hall, a blue-clothed Daoist stood, each backed by two black-clothed young acolytes, standing close to the wall, the six of them scrutinizing the people in the hall.
Since it was a day off, there were many pilgrims and tourists, with the early morning crowd already matching the usual mid-morning traffic. There were those carrying their wives and children seeking peace, high officials and noble ladies asking for offspring, couples hoping for marital fate, and even those who traveled from afar to pray for their sick relatives at the Daoist temple…
As the temple was hosting morning classes, it was relatively quiet, and most of the newly arrived pilgrims naturally kept silent, offering incense and praying to the gods, or lining up to speak with the welcoming Daoists and interpret their fortune slips. Additionally, close to the main entrance of the great hall on the right side, there was a row of tables and stools where philanthropists were already seated and copying scriptures.
Zhao Rong swept his gaze over the scene, taking it all in. An idea struck him, and he joined the queue at the greeting Daoist. When his turn came, he expressed his wish to transcribe scriptures for his relative bedridden with illness, and after making a substantial payment for the writing materials, a young acolyte took him to the Scripture Tower to fetch the paper, pen, and scripture.
Zhao Rong settled himself at an inner table, which was directly in front of a holy image.
There were many rules to follow when copying scriptures.
First, Zhao Rong offered three sticks of incense before the holy image. Then he cleansed his hands with the fragrance of the incense, held the scripture and rice paper together in both hands, unfurled them above the burning incense, circling them counterclockwise three times, followed by clockwise three times, before placing them next to the altar. Next, he held his hands palm-down and naturally spread them out, circling above the incense three times in each direction to purify his hands.
Finally, holding the scripture and pen, he bowed three times to the holy image before sitting down. He then bowed his head and chanted the sacred name three times before starting to copy the scripture.
Zhao Rong sat cross-legged, keeping his back straight and eyes cast down, his expression solemn as he copied the scripture in the corner of the great hall, using his peripheral vision to discreetly survey the situation inside the hall.
The Thunder and Rainbow Purple Gold Furnace remained in its usual spot, on the second offering table in front of the holy image in the center of the great hall. Zhao Rong’s view of it was obstructed by the Daoists conducting their morning classes, discernible only through the faint wisps of blue smoke swirling about and the strong sensation in his mind confirming its presence.
Although he was now so close to the Divine Furnace, those few steps felt as difficult as Ascending to heaven.
This was not an opportunity akin to those found in storybooks, where the protagonist could easily obtain tremendous luck. It was a treasure that required painstaking efforts and careful planning to attain. The slightest misstep could lead to the loss of all previous efforts or even put one’s life in danger.
However, Zhao Rong harbored no complaints. Instead, he felt even more grounded, believing that only the things he worked hard for, step by step, were truly worth pursuing. In contrast, those easy gains solely dependent on luck, like castles in the air, would only shatter a man’s spirit.
Mao hour, four quarters past, the sound of a bell came from outside the hall, marking the end of the early morning ritual in the Great Hall, where many Daoists had gathered. Besides the elderly blue-clothed Daoist, three others remained while the rest of the Daoists left the Spirit Temple.
Zhao Rong, multitasking with a focused mind, was simultaneously copying scriptures, pondering, and keeping an eye on his surroundings.
The Praying Scripture he was currently transcribing was called the “Taiyin Rescue Suffering Body Protection Scripture.” The scripture was lengthy, and any mistakes or omissions in copying meant that it had to be burned. However, Zhao Rong was skilled in calligraphy, his brushwork perfection, and he possessed an exceptionally good memory; having copied the scripture three times, he could recite it from memory, which allowed him to write quickly and fluently.
Thus, although he appeared to be multitasking, the transcription work hardly divided his attention, and at most, he would pause to rest his hand when it grew tired before continuing.
Zhao Rong slightly tilted his head and noticed a little Daoist boy at the front right-hand side, one of the four in the Great Hall, bowing his head and lightly nodding, raising it now and again, only to drop it immediately, much like a chick pecking at grains.
Zhao Rong stopped writing, sighed softly, and set aside the eighteenth completed copy of the “Taiyin Rescue Suffering Body Protection Scripture.” He stacked it with the others he had finished, placing it at the upper right corner. Then, lifting his gaze, he casually picked up a stack of Xuan paper and took the opportunity to observe the dozing Daoist boy thoroughly. After a glance, he lowered his eyelids and continued copying.
Wasn’t this the same plump Daoist boy from yesterday morning, who was carrying the Thunder and Rainbow Purple Gold Furnace?
Zhao Rong’s expression shifted slightly as he stealthily surveyed the other Daoist boys in the hall; they all looked somewhat familiar, likely from the procession the previous morning.
The round-faced Daoist boy next to the plump one seemed similarly drowsy, frequently rubbing his eyes and yawning silently, fighting off sleepiness.
In contrast, the two Daoist boys in front of the wall on the left side of the Great Hall, one tall and the other short, did not exhibit such behavior.
The blue-clothed Daoist sitting in front of the two drowsy boys turned his head unintentionally, noticed their condition, and scolded them in a low voice, asking what they did last night. The two boys didn’t dare make a sound and simply bowed their heads to accept the reprimand.
Zhao Rong raised his eyebrows slightly.
As time went by, more people entered the Spirit Temple. Besides the three blue-clothed Daoists, the four Daoist boys, the four black-clothed Daoists, and the row of script-copying philanthropists that included Zhao Rong, everyone else was an itinerant worshipper. The crowd was neverending.
To an outside observer, Zhao Rong seemed to be devotedly copying scriptures, but he was always silently memorizing the faces and features of those who permanently stayed in the Great Hall, their pacing rhythms, subconscious habitual actions, and even the patterns of their restroom visits. All of these details were carefully noted and speculated by Zhao Rong.
The morning passed in a flash, and Zhao Rong donated some silver before heading down to eat at the mountain’s dining hall. After his meal, he swiftly returned to continue his transcription work in the Spirit Temple.
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During the noon hour, the Spirit Temple had fewer visitors, but the Daoists did not leave or rest. Aside from the four little Daoist boys who sat on stools and took a nap, the other seven Daoists were meditating cross-legged on round cushions, facing the Holy Image, with the Thunder and Rainbow Purple Gold Furnace in their line of sight.
By evening, the same group of Daoists from the morning arrived for the evening ritual. Afterwards, the temple’s outer doors prepared to close, prohibiting laypeople from lingering within.
Zhao Rong stood up, tidied his papers and ink, and as he would return the next day, he neatly placed them on the desk inside the hall. He then handed over the thick stack of the 181 copies of the “Taiyin Rescue Suffering Body Protection Scripture” that he had transcribed to a small Daoist boy who came to collect the texts. These were to be delivered to places that either stored them or were in the process of being archived in the Daoist temple.
If the handwriting was neat and without errors, they could be distributed in the Daoist Temple to the public; and if exceptionally well-written, they could even be enshrined within the Holy Image for worshippers to accumulate merit.
The fellow philanthropists, who had been copying scriptures alongside Zhao Rong and noticed the substantial amount he had completed in one day, were all curious. They all came forward to peek at the Xuan paper which was densely filled with a captivating style of regular script. The characters were vigorous and strict in conformity with rules, showing boldness within the regularity and freedom within the structure, provoking a hum of admiration from the crowd.
The small Daoist boy who collected the scripture and two blue-clothed Daoists drawn by the commotion took a few glances and couldn’t tear their eyes away. They looked up in astonishment at Zhao Rong.
A few other philanthropists approached Zhao Rong, asking for a few copies to take back for admiration and copying.
Zhao Rong managed a few polite responses with a smile, then turned and left the temple, descending the mountain to depart.
As Zhao Rong walked back, he frowned to himself. He had always feared drawing attention and had tried to conceal his skill, but the hint of the European style in his regular script caused quite a stir. He decided that next time, he would need to take his best works with him and not copy as many scriptures—it was strangely tiring…
A full day of copying scriptures was indeed dull and monotonous. Of course, to put it nicely, this could be considered a practice of self-discipline and devotion, but Zhao Rong didn’t buy into that; he decided to change to a more interesting scripture to copy the next day and not focus solely on the Praying Scripture anymore.
With the moon high in the sky, Zhao Rong returned home adorned with stars. Upon reaching his dwelling, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, only to trip over “something” and stagger. In Zhao Rong’s own words, it was nearly a case of him “handsomely planting his face on the ground,” jeopardizing his good looks.
Clang!
“Shut the door, don’t light the lamp,” she said.
“What are you going to do? Don’t come any closer!” Zhao Rong panicked, but he didn’t dare light the lamp because he was afraid.
