ATEG Chapter 139

What is Changyang?

Yin is that which is hidden, still, and dead; Yang is that which is bright, moving, and alive.

Chang means that which is lasting, that which is constant, that which is great, that which grows.

Changyang is Yang at its utmost extreme, where Yin begins to be born.

Changyang is not the way of solitary Yang; Supreme Yin is not the way of solitary Yin.

Yin and Yang flow and turn; death and life cycle in endless reincarnation. Birth is not a fortune; death is not a cruelty.

The ways of the gods of all the heavens, though distinct from one another, ultimately return to one. The way of Changyang begins from life.

In the royal capital of the Sui Kingdom, cultivators who fear death and seek life flock here, making it a place where dragons and fish mingle together — yet within the chaos there is order, and within the decay there is vitality.

Yet this place is ill-suited for the growth of two small swan demons. They are still too small and too weak; what they need is a peaceful and tranquil environment for growth, not turmoil. 

But in the midst of great calamity, where can tranquility be found?

……

In the Li Manor, among the outlying ranges of the Daqing Mountain range.

Though the deity had already departed this place, the living beings who had gathered because of him had not dispersed. Before the gate, young pines remained ever green; in the pond, fish-shadows gleamed silver as snow. Jin Liushan used to come up from time to time to give dharma talks to the little demons here, but recently, with so many strange occurrences, he had no time for it, and so Hou Li and Jin Yan took over this duty. Jin Yan had by now also attained human form, and was quite capable enough to teach the basics to those small animals whose spiritual intelligence had only just awakened. Hou Li, with his vast learning, though he had become able to leave the Li Manor, was still most able to bring his cultivation to bear within the manor as its Manor Spirit — and so, in the midst of the great calamity, he chose not to go wandering outside.

Since the earth spine had been fixed, cultivators who trained in seclusion within the Daqing Mountain range had also come here to investigate. Some, drawn by reverence for the divine legacy left behind by the deity, lingered frequently in the vicinity, and no cultivator would engage in fighting here. Those of gentle temperament who happened to meet here were willing to sit together and discourse on the Dao, and did not mind others listening in. Occasionally, a bold little demon would summon the courage to ask for guidance, and they would answer, depending on their mood. As time went on, this place had, surprisingly, become a gathering spot within the Daqing Mountain range where cultivators convened to discourse on the Dao.

On this day, Jin Yan had just returned to the Li Manor from the foot of the mountain when he received a transmission from Ding Qin. 

Shortly after, a small divine-power connection appeared before him, and Ding Qin, on the other side, passed him two small swan demons who were nestled together in sleep.

Jin Yan carefully received the two fluffy little grey creatures and complained in a low voice, “Why do I have to be the one to look after the little ones?”

Ding Qin couldn’t help but tease. “Who told you to be the only one here with wings?”

Jin Yan gave a couple of disgruntled huffs. Seeing the fine down of the swan demons being lifted by the mountain wind, he casually added a wind-warding protective charm around the two of them.

“Is everyone doing well?” Ding Qin asked.

“Of course! Do you remember that most mischievous little monkey — the one Hou Li chased out? I’m telling you, he’s listened to so many of the cultivators who come to discourse on the Dao, and spiritual qi has actually begun circulating within him. The silver fish has received many offerings from the people at the foot of the mountain; its cultivation grows better and better — Great King Yishan says he may soon be able to condense a divine seat. And then there’s little Loach…”

Jin Yan rambled on, touching on many trifling little matters, yet as Ding Qin listened, she gradually relaxed, and the face she had unconsciously held taut broke, without her realizing it, into a smile.

“A few days ago, a descendant of the Li clan came back as well — a young man called Li Shi. He’s quite easy to get along with. He’s kept all the rooms we were using before and left them untouched…”

After chatting for quite some time, Jin Yan slowly fell silent and asked, “When are you coming back? Yunling has been missing you a great deal, and Li Feng has asked about you several times.”

“But here, there are still so many things left unfinished. The High God is confronting the great calamity — I can’t simply leave like this.” Ding Qin said reflexively.

Jin Yan looked at the expression of helplessness that had come over Ding Qin’s face, and said slowly, “Have you ever considered that the High God may not be counting on you to do anything? You are so young — compared to me, you’re still just a child, and in the High God’s eyes, you’re even younger still. In truth, you don’t have to accomplish anything in particular.”

How many people had already died in this great calamity? How many cultivators, whose years, knowledge, and cultivation far surpassed their own, had in the end perished helplessly? Why would those great cultivators of the Daqing Mountain range — powerful enough to carve out their own domains — be willing to come to a small manor like the Li Manor in the outlying ranges? Was it not precisely because they understood deeply how terrible the great calamity was, and so yearned to receive even a trace of the divine legacy here?

How dangerous was it outside? Even if one wished to do something, there was no need to go somewhere so far, so chaotic — right here in the vicinity, wasn’t there plenty that could be done? Doing what was within one’s means was enough.

Jin Yan’s gaze at her held a concealed worry.

This little girl had nearly died in the mouth of a wolf demon back then — he had been the one to carry her back on his back. He did not want to see anything happen to her.

Ding Qin pressed her lips together. “I will be careful.”

Jin Yan let out a sigh and pressed no further.

They cut off their connection.

Jin Yan went to settle the two small swan demons, and just then encountered Li Shi, who eagerly helped clear out a space for them.

Li Shi, in truth, had little sense of reality about the matter of returning to the Li Manor. He had not spent a single day here since birth — it had only ever been something spoken of to him since childhood. He had expected to find a dilapidated, desolate house upon his return, only to be met instead with a scene full of vitality. As for the creatures who were already living here, he had no feeling whatsoever of “my home has been taken by others.” It had been over two hundred years — if no one had moved in, that would have been the strange thing. Besides, the house was so large that he couldn’t fill it even on his own; having it warm and lively by sharing it was surely better than stubbornly driving everyone out and then sitting alone in this wilderness, wasn’t it?

And besides — he had only just set foot on the path of cultivation; these visiting cultivators were also willing to guide him without reservation. Was this not a good thing?

In the midst of getting things arranged, the two small swan demons woke. Finding themselves in a different place upon waking, with their parents nowhere in sight, they were thrown into a panic, and stretched their tender little throats crying out without stop — it was a sight that pained the heart.

Once the work was done, Li Shi went back to his cultivation. He had started on the path of cultivation quite late, and needed to work all the harder.

On his way back, he could not help but murmur softly to the jade pendant on his chest. “Ancestor, to have come here in the midst of the great calamity — I truly am fortunate.”

The Destiny-Recording Brush spirit did not feel fortunate at all.

At the very beginning, his mind had been shaken and his thoughts in turmoil, and he had only felt that the deity, in not granting him oblivion and allowing him to continue bearing his sinful blight, was punishing him. Yet after he was brought back to the Li Manor by Li Shi — who knew nothing of any of this — he dimly began to sense something was not right.

With the earth spine re-fixed and connected to the mortal sacred ground reestablished in correspondence with Changyang, the entirety of the Daqing Mountain range lay beneath the deity’s gaze. That Li Shi would return to the Li Manor, and inevitably bring him here along with it — this had been destined.

The deity had kept him alive — did he still intend to use him for something?

But what could he still do?

……

Bi Dongdi walked upon the Yellow Springs, the rhinoceros horn atop his head radiating a faint, dim glow that illuminated the murky yellow waters beneath his feet, rendering them clear.

The Yellow Springs were silent. No matter who fell into them, no matter what past the vanishing souls had carried, in the end all grew still here and flowed onward toward the next cycle of reincarnation.

Those shadowy netherworld beings that the Yellow Springs Inn had turned from illusory to corporeal shifted once again behind them from corporeal back to illusory, dissolving into a boundless dim darkness — desolate, yet tranquil. With each step Bi Dongdi took forward, his form solidified a little more. This filled him with joy — yet when he looked down at the murky yellow waters beneath his feet, he could not help but feel a rising dread.

“You fear reincarnation?” Li Quan asked suddenly.

“Yes.” The question had, for some unknown reason, instantly summoned the fear lurking at the bottom of Bi Dongdi’s heart. His voice was low. “After death, everything of this life becomes as bubbles, and one does not know where the next life’s turning will lead, nor whether one will ever again encounter a means of escaping the cycle — only endlessly reincarnating between life and death, life after life. Now I am Bi Dongdi, a powerful demon cultivator; in the next life I may become the cattle and sheep on a butcher’s block. I have seen wild beasts that delight in eating their prey alive, starting from the places that won’t kill outright, so that the prey can only watch helplessly as it is eaten bite by bite; I have seen mortals who delight in tormenting food before eating — stripping a live donkey’s hide, scalding its flesh with boiling water, cutting it away piece by piece while still alive; the donkey’s cries are anguished and wretched, yet the onlookers are unmoved. I have seen the many sufferings of all living beings and thought that in my next life I may encounter these very sufferings myself — and so I am filled with dread.”

“Within reincarnation, the body is not one’s own to control — it is indeed bitter,” Li Quan said lightly. “What did this make you think of?”

His indifference carried a different kind of pressure; his voice was like a sharp awl piercing straight to the heart.

Bi Dongdi did not understand why this should be so, yet within this voice he could not help but feel another, greater, deeper dread arise — and it was within this dread that a certain instant suddenly became vivid to him, a faint, fine thought that had arisen in the deepest part of his heart.

“I… I thought — if the future may be so terrifying, it would be better to transform into an Aberration. Even if my true spirit were to be utterly extinguished, it would still be better than that endless suffering.” Bi Dongdi’s voice trembled.

This thought had been so faint that he had not even noticed it before. Now that he had noticed it, he began to find that even though he knew this was a wrong path, a part of his heart truly yearned for it. And he also understood clearly just how dangerous this faint thought was — it would become a seed, a source that might lead him toward that very outcome.

“Who says that the utter extinction of the true spirit after an Aberration’s death is not also suffering?” Li Quan’s voice remained calm and detached, yet it fell upon his heart like a muffled thunderclap, heavy and resounding, shaking loose the many emotions he had long been suppressing.

Bi Dongdi suddenly felt a rare clarity. Within this clarity, he connected many scattered things into a single thread.

The targeting of cultivators who did not wish to become Aberrations; the Yellow Springs Inn with its unclear background and apparent connections to the Underworld; the true spirits of Aberrations falling into the dark abyss of chaos after their deaths; the fate of the Inn’s guests after they entered the Underworld — and certain things that Bai Qingya had once spoken to him about…

When all these things were connected together, he finally saw the vast net that lay behind it all — someone was scheming against the true spirits of all living beings!

Bi Dongdi was suddenly struck by a chill that went to his very bones.

How could he be certain that the true spirits of Aberrations after death simply ceased to exist — rather than meeting with something far more terrible?

No cultivator is without fear of reincarnation’s suffering; this is the very fundamental purpose of the path of cultivation. As long as the true spirit endures, there is always the hope of transcending the cycle. But if one becomes an Aberration, even that hope is gone. Yet a cultivator’s very fear of reincarnation’s suffering may in turn give rise to this yearning for Aberration. How many cultivators in the world had, beginning from just such a thought, ultimately fallen and become Aberrations?

Bi Dongdi suddenly felt a hand clap him on the back. Only then did he realize that, amid the enormous fright of a moment ago, he had unknowingly come to a halt.

“Are you not going to move?”

Li Quan’s voice was still very calm. Yet Bi Dongdi no longer felt the fear he had felt before. He found that the dangerous thought which had unknowingly arisen in his heart was already utterly dissolved in that earlier dread, and could no longer imperceptibly lead him toward becoming an Aberration.

Bi Dongdi suddenly understood why Li Quan had wanted to have that exchange with him earlier. A profound gratitude arose within him; for a moment he could not find words to speak, and simply walked on in silence with his head down.

Li Quan pinched between his fingertips a strand of thought-prayer that had suddenly condensed there. The deep, steady voice of Bi Dongdi sounded in his mind: “A prayer: may Li Quan be undisturbed by the great calamity, and may he soon leap free of reincarnation.”

He smiled slightly. Not very necessary — but quite sincere.

Reincarnation…

One hundred and twenty thousand years ago, before the great calamity had arisen. When Changyang had established the Underworld, he had once traversed all nine springs of the netherworld.

In those days, Shetu was still present, her power threading through all nine springs, walking alongside the deity through the Underworld.

The Underworld is an illusory realm, not to be entered directly. The celestial gods, taking their own Dao as their form, had no need to enter directly either. What was called “entering the Underworld” was, in truth, a matter of perceiving the condition of the Underworld.

The causality and destiny principles of heaven and earth had fallen into disorder — this was because the Dao had a deficiency, and the Underworld was established precisely to mend that deficiency.

Yet the Dao of the celestial gods ultimately returns to one — though in truth it is not one. This world, from the very beginning, had always existed within the operation of such a Dao. Never having seen the Dao in its wholeness, how would one know that the current Dao had a deficiency — or where that deficiency lay?

It was like a blind man feeling an elephant: he touches its leg, and concludes the elephant is like a pillar. It was also like a person who had only ever seen a full moon, and therefore assumed the moon was always as round and complete as the sun — not knowing the appearance of a crescent. A round and full moon — was this not perfectly in accordance with reason? Was something wrong with it? And yet, from the moon curved like a hook to the moon round as a dish — only that constitutes one complete transformation. Such completeness is something that one who has never witnessed it cannot know.

At that time, among all the celestial gods, there was only Changyang who believed the Dao had a deficiency and wished to mend it. The celestial gods could not be persuaded — celestial gods each had their own Dao, their hearts solid and complete, and only concrete proof of the deficiency could shake their understanding.

Yet as old friends of many years, they did not mind lending Changyang their assistance; they simply believed it to be a futile endeavor.

The Dao neither increases nor decreases, neither arises nor ceases — how could it possibly be altered by him? Therefore, whether a single Underworld was added or a single Underworld was lacking — what difference could it make? And since it made no difference, why not help one’s friend?

Shetu, whose power connected to the cycle of reincarnation, assisted Changyang in perceiving the Underworld, and throughout this journey in the still and tranquil Dao, she never once spoke. The perception of the Dao, after all, need not be communicated in words.

But on one occasion, Shetu suddenly asked him a question: “Have you found where the Dao is deficient?”

The causality and destiny principles of the world had fallen into disorder, yet the cause had never been found. And so most celestial gods believed this was simply yet another transformation of the Dao, while Changyang alone believed it was because heaven and earth had a deficiency. The Underworld was like a physician who treats the head when the head aches and the foot when the foot aches — it could resolve the problem of causality and destiny principles, but it was not a treatment from the root. If he could not find where the deficiency lay, how could he persuade the other celestial gods?

“No,” Changyang replied. “Why do you suddenly ask this?”

Shetu was silent for a long time; her heart seemed already to have been stirred. After a long while, she answered. “I had a dream.”

Celestial gods should not have dreams.

Mortal beings have dreams because their hearts are not clear and still — they are disturbed by a chaos of wandering thoughts. The seven emotions and six desires all tug and pull at the stirrings of their hearts; the heart is not its own master, and so all manner of dreams arise. Every thought of a celestial god is lucid and clear; no thought that is swayed by emotion, no thought beyond one’s own control, will arise in them.

Yet Shetu had dreamed.

“What did you dream?” Changyang asked.

“I dreamed of… annihilation,” Shetu said.”