In Guiyang County, Guizhou, there lived a scholarly family surnamed Zhou. For generations, they had been an only-child lineage, making their living through farming and studying. But in the latest generation, things changed—there were nine brothers, all kind and filial, choosing not to separate their households. Even the youngest brother held the title of Xiucai (a scholar who passed the imperial examination at the county level), while the others were Juren (successful candidates in the provincial imperial examination) and Jinshi (successful candidates in the highest imperial examination). Their family was filled with harmony and joy, a true example of familial bliss. However, there was one regret: eight of the nine brothers had no children to carry on their legacy. Only the seventh brother, Zijing, had a son at the age of thirty-six, naming him Yuncong. From childhood, Yuncong was intelligent, sincere, and kind-hearted—he was the apple of the family's eye, the sole heir to all nine branches of the Zhou clan. Born into wealth, he was cherished deeply, yet he was not spoiled; he loved reading, entering school at fifteen and passing the Juren examination at eighteen with a high rank.
After becoming a Juren, Yuncong was not satisfied. He planned to go to the capital early to study, preparing for the next imperial examination. His father and uncles worried about the long, dangerous journey, but seeing his eagerness for success, they did not have the heart to stop him. They selected a trusted old servant, Wang Fu, and a young book boy, Xiaosan'er, to accompany him. On an auspicious day, Yuncong bid farewell to his family and friends, then set off with Wang Fu and Xiaosan'er.
After traveling for several days, they met several fellow Juren on the road—all heading to the capital early to prepare for the examination. Having companions made the journey less lonely, and as they traveled, more and more scholars joined them, until there were seventeen of them in total. These young men, newly elevated to Juren, were full of energy and love for adventure. One day, Yuncong suggested: “If we travel directly to the capital, we will have several months of free time. The ancients said, 'Read ten thousand books and travel ten thousand miles'—experience and knowledge are equally important. Why not take this opportunity to visit famous mountains and scenic spots along the way? It would make this long journey worthwhile.”
One of the Juren, Song Shi, replied: “Brother, I couldn't agree more. I have long heard that Shu (ancient Sichuan, China) is full of famous scenic spots—why don't we go to Chengdu and spend a few days there?” All the young men were eager to have fun, so they agreed without hesitation. They decided to let their servants carry their luggage and meet them in Chongqing, while the seventeen of them—each carrying only a small bag of personal belongings, except Yuncong, who brought his book boy Xiaosan'er—took a detour to Chengdu.
Wang Fu was worried that the young men, who were not used to traveling, might be cheated. He tried to persuade them to stick to the original route, but Song Shi dismissed his concern: “I have been traveling for ten years—I know all the ways of the world. Old steward, you can rest assured.” Wang Fu saw he could not stop them, and knowing that the road to Chengdu was a major thoroughfare, relatively safe, he had no choice but to agree. He pulled Xiaosan'er aside, urging him repeatedly to take good care of his young master and avoid trouble. Though young, Xiaosan'er was alert and nodded solemnly. With that, the group split up—Yuncong and his fellow scholars headed for Chengdu, while Wang Fu and the other servants went to Chongqing to wait.
The seventeen men traveled happily, arriving in Chengdu without incident. They checked into a large inn and spent their days visiting all the famous scenic spots in the city. One day, after wandering around for a while, Yuncong suggested going to Wangjiang Tower for a drink. They had been there twice before—most of them were sons of wealthy families, so they did not care much about money. The bartenders, seeing them as good customers, fawned over them eagerly. Yuncong proposed sitting by the window instead of in a private room, so they could drink and look out at the Yangtze River. Everyone agreed, and the bartenders reserved all the window seats for them.
There were only four tables by the window, and one of them was already occupied by a Taoist priest, who was lying on the table, fast asleep. Song Shi told the bartender to wake the priest and ask him to move. The bartender, who had long been annoyed by the priest—he had been drinking since morning and had not left all afternoon—was happy to oblige. He asked the scholars to sit at the other three tables first, then walked over and called the priest twice, but there was no response. He pushed the priest gently, but instead of waking up, the priest snored even louder.
Song Shi, who was impulsive by nature, grew impatient. Seeing the priest's shabby clothes and rude behavior, he flew into a rage and was about to speak. Suddenly, the priest yawned and said: “Another gourd of wine.” He lifted his head, revealing a red wine gourd in his arms. The bartender, seizing the opportunity, said: “Daoist priest, are you still drinking? You've been here since morning—you'll hurt yourself. Why don't you go back to your temple?” The priest glared at him: “Nonsense! You run a wine shop—are you not allowed to sell me wine? Stop pestering me and fill my gourd.”
The bartender nodded obsequiously: “Yes, yes, Daoist priest. I have a favor to ask you. These four tables were reserved by those young masters over there—they said they would come at this time today. When you came this morning, I thought you would leave soon, so I let you sit here. Now they're here—could you please move to another table?” The priest flew into a rage: “Other people pay for their wine, and I pay for mine—why should I move for you? If you had reserved the tables, you should have told me when I came in. You're clearly bullying me, a monk without a home! I'm not leaving— I'll drink here all day!”
Song Shi could no longer contain his anger. He walked over to the priest and said sharply: “This table was reserved for us. If you don't move, don't blame me for being rude!” The priest sneered: “Why should I move for you? Show me what you've got.” Enraged, Song Shi raised his hand and slapped the priest across the face. Yuncong, who had been trying to step in to mediate, was too late. He heard a cry of pain—Song Shi was clutching his hand, his face contorted in agony. Slapping the priest was like hitting a block of iron, and the pain shot through his entire arm.
The other scholars were furious. “This is outrageous!” they shouted. “Drag him out and beat him half to death, then send him to the officials!” They were about to rush forward, but Yuncong stepped in to stop them: “Fellow brothers, wait a moment—let me speak.” As the wealthiest among them, and the most generous, Yuncong had unknowingly become their leader. When he spoke, the others stopped, waiting to see what he would do.
Yuncong approached the priest, who had stood up and was staring at him intently. Yuncong noticed the priest's eyes—bright and sharp, like a sword. He knew this was no ordinary person. Wang Fu had often told him that there were many extraordinary people in the world; one should never offend them casually. Yuncong bowed slightly and said: “Daoist priest, please don't be angry. The sixteen of us are fellow Juren, here to drink together. We asked the bartender to disturb you because we wanted to sit together and talk. It's fine if you don't want to move—please don't take offense.”
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The priest replied: “Who is offended by you? You saw it—he hit me, and I didn't fight back.” Meanwhile, Song Shi's right hand was swollen and throbbing with pain. “That Taoist priest must have used evil Daoist magic!” he shouted. “We must send him to the officials to be punished severely!” Yuncong quickly winked at him, telling him to be quiet. He turned back to the priest: “My friend offended you, Daoist priest. I don't know what kind of Daoist magic you used, but he is in great pain. Please show mercy and help him.” The priest shrugged: “He brought it on himself. He tried to hit someone but didn't know how, so he hurt his own hand. I didn't move a finger—how could I use magic?”
The innkeeper, hearing the commotion and fearing trouble, came over to mediate, but the priest refused to back down. Yuncong begged repeatedly, and finally, the priest said: “I don't want to argue with a man who courts death. He used the wrong force when he tried to hit me, straining his tendons. For your sake—I'll help him. Tell him to come here.” Song Shi was still cursing the priest, but Yuncong helped him over, urging him to be quiet. To Yuncong's surprise, the priest ignored the curses and said to him: “Don't worry—I don't get angry with those who are doomed.” He took Song Shi's hand, clasped it in his own, and rubbed it gently. “There—better. Don't go around hitting people next time.” He glanced at Song Shi, then sighed softly. The swelling and pain in Song Shi's hand were gone, leaving only a faint red mark.
Yuncong pulled Song Shi aside, then thanked the priest, telling the bartender to add the priest's wine to their bill. The priest said: “I've had enough to drink—I just need five jin of Daqu wine for tonight.” Yuncong quickly told the bartender to fill the priest's gourd. The priest did not thank him; he picked up his gourd, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out without looking back.
The scholars erupted in chatter—some said the priest was a demon, others said he was just a con artist who left once someone paid his bill. Only Yuncong followed the priest to the stairs, suddenly remembering he had forgotten to ask the priest's name. He leaned against the window, looking down to see where the priest was going. The street below was crowded, but wherever the priest walked, people automatically moved aside, leaving a foot of space around him, as if an invisible force was pushing them away. Yuncong was astonished. He called out: “Daoist priest, please wait!” The priest, who had been walking slowly, looked up at the window. Yuncong thought he would turn back, but the priest suddenly quickened his pace and disappeared into the crowd. By the time Yuncong turned back to his friends and then looked down again, the priest was gone. He had no choice but to return to the table, chatting and drinking with the others. Song Shi, humiliated by the incident, was eager to leave Chengdu. After finishing their drinks and food, he suggested returning to the inn. The others understood, and Yuncong paid the bill before they left.
The next morning, after breakfast, Song Shi suggested visiting Ciyun Chan Temple on the outskirts of the city. Ciyun Chan Temple was a famous monastery in Chengdu—with winding corridors, lush flowers and trees, and a serene atmosphere. It owned a great deal of land, and the monks rarely left the temple. They were known throughout Shu for observing the monastic rules and practicing meditation. The scholars had long heard of it, and since it was only thirty li from the city, with a village market nearby, Yuncong suggested: “We've visited all the scenic spots in Chengdu—this is the only one left. Why don't we leave today, stay at an inn there for a night, visit the temple, and leave for Chongqing tomorrow?” Song Shi, still embarrassed by the previous day's incident, was eager to leave Chengdu and agreed immediately. The others had no objections, so they set off lightly, taking only Xiaosan'er with them.
By noon, they had traveled thirty li and reached the village market, where there were inns. They asked about Ciyun Chan Temple and were told it was not far away—most of the villagers here farmed the temple's land. They ate a simple meal, left Xiaosan'er at the inn to look after their things, and walked to the temple. After walking about half a li, they saw a dense forest with a corner of red walls peeking through. A breeze blew, carrying the faint sound of Buddhist chants—it was indeed a sacred place for cultivation. They entered the temple gate, where they were greeted by a guest monk, who served them vegetarian snacks and tea, then led them to visit the Buddha halls and meditation rooms.
The guest monk, named Liaoyi, was elegant in speech and attentive in his hospitality, which pleased Yuncong and the others. After wandering for a while, Liaoyi led them to a meditation room to rest. The room was exquisitely decorated—with famous calligraphy and paintings on the walls, and neat stationery on the table. By the western meditation bed, there were two linen cushions, used for meditation at night. The scholars wanted to meet the abbot, but Liaoyi said: “My master, Zhitong, is practicing meditation in the backyard, cut off from the mortal world. He rarely meets visitors. Fellow believers, we will meet again if fate allows.” The scholars sighed in admiration.
Song Shi noticed a painting hanging in an odd position and was about to ask Liaoyi about it when a young monk came in and said: “The abbot asks for you, Master Liaoyi.” Liaoyi turned to the scholars: “The temple halls are winding, and it's easy to get lost. Please wait for me—I'll be right back to continue our tour.” With that, he left in a hurry.
Song Shi turned to Yuncong: “Look at the temple's decorations and the guest monk's speech—so elegant and refined. This meditation room is so well-decorated, with famous paintings on every wall, yet they hung such a shoddy painting here—it's like spoiling a Buddha's head with dung!” The meditation room was large: there were windows on the east, a door on the south, a horizontal scroll of Mi Fu's “Misty Rain” on the west wall, and a central painting of Fang Xiaoru's “White Stones and Green Pines” on the north wall, paired with a couplet of Song Dynasty poems: “Green mandarin ducks have guarded the temple for centuries; white cranes often visit the descendants.” It was signed by Zhang Yi, a minor celebrity in Shu. Only in the middle of the west wall, above the meditation bed, hung a single central painting—Eight Immortals Crossing the Sea, crudely painted with no artistic merit. The scholars had been too busy talking to Liaoyi to notice it before; now, after Song Shi pointed it out, they all turned to discuss it.
Yuncong was sitting on the meditation bed. He turned around, saw a chime hammer hanging below the painting, and picked it up to play with. Accidentally, he brushed the hem of the Eight Immortals painting. The nail holding the painting was old and loose; the chime hammer hit it, and a section of the wall about a man's height and a foot wide caved in, revealing a small chime hanging inside. The scholars were confused—why would a chime be hidden there? Song Shi, who was standing by the bed, took the chime hammer from Yuncong and played with it. Feeling playful, he struck the chime once—it rang out clearly. He struck it twice more.
Yuncong suddenly saw a young monk peeking in and said: “Brother Song, stop fooling around. It's rude to touch other people's things—what if the guest monk comes back?” Before he could finish speaking, three bells rang, followed by a creaking sound. At the same time, a small door appeared in the wall, and a beautifully dressed woman stood in the doorway. When she saw the scholars, she let out a gasp and quickly retreated. The floor beneath their feet seemed to shift, and the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the corridor outside—they were trapped, with no way out but the small door that had just appeared.
