"Forgive all sins, transcend all calamities.
A vast source of immortality, a natural clarity, all aided by the power of the Dao, subduing all demons,
What blazes in the air is nad the Mud Pill Immortal, the purple cloud covers the Yellow Elder, known as the Three Treasure Lord,
Returning to the heavenly Qi, controlling the souls of the nine heavens, saving all mystical deities from suffering, seeing salvation in tis of hardship,
The heavens are undivided, heavenly Qi returns to one body, all beco natural beings, naturally there are different forms..."
Inside the main hall, two Daoists were earnestly reciting the "Sutra of Transmigration."
These Daoists were one old and one young, the old one with white hair and a sparse beard, approximately over sixty years old, and the young one with lingering youthfulness on his face, appearing to be only around twenty years old.
Though he was young and earnest in chanting, the unusual expression in his brow and eyes was hard to conceal.
In front of them was a coffin, inside which the deceased old woman lay quietly, dressed in her floral shroud.
After two sticks of incense burned, the sutra had been chanted a full three tis, and the two finally paused their almost-smoking throats.
The young Daoist, impatient with youth, glanced outside the door and grumbled, "This host really is too stingy, not even giving us a bit of water!"
"Bi’an, how many tis have I taught you? Perhaps the host was busy and forgot. Don’t always sigh like this."
The old Daoist glanced up to warn, scolding him lightly.
The young Daoist complained, "Forgot? I think they are being stingy, leaving us with this ss. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they even send water to this room?"
"Ah..."
The master wanted to say more, but his own throat was smoking too. Holding a ritual without even water prepared was indeed unexpected.
He sighed deeply, stood up, and just as he reached the door, Village Chief Zhang Tianshuo boldly approached from outside.
Seeing the old Daoist rising, he hurriedly and nervously asked, "Daoist Master, what is this?"
"Well, pardon , could you bring two cups of water for us? My disciple and I find our mouths dry from chanting."
Despite his thin face, the old Daoist felt embarrassed saying this.
"Oh, oh, oh, I’m sorry, it’s my lack of hospitality."
Feigning realization, Zhang Tianshuo imdiately instructed the household kitchen to start up, preparing an evening al for the two Daoists, simultaneously serving two bowls of sweet water.
The evening al was simple, just scallion-mixed tofu, Di San Xian, plus a couple of small dishes, all very ordinary vegetarian fare.
But the master and disciple enjoyed it greatly, the young Daoist observing the surroundings as he ate and, confirming no one was around, whispered, "Master, how much did we earn this ti?"
The old Daoist said nothing, rely extending two fingers silently.
The young Daoist frowned, raising his voice by two decibels, "Master, it’s too little; we took this job at risk. Why not charge more?"
"Stop talking nonsense! We promised the amount beforehand, and we must not break the rules."
The old Daoist glared, blowing his beard, and imdiately tapped the young Daoist’s head, telling him to eat quietly and ask fewer questions.
According to Liaodong customs, when an elder passes away, the village keeps the coffin on display for more than seven days.
However, Zhang Tianshuo shortened the ritual to three days, hoping his mother would be buried peacefully sooner.
The old Daoist, though puzzled, said nothing when taking this job.
But upon arrival, he found himself caught in a trick.
The reason was simple: there was a hidden matter with the deceased old woman!
However, rules are rules; the price was settled beforehand, any issues in between were the Daoist’s responsibility, as set by the grandmaster.
The old Daoist naturally hoped not to break the rules under his guidance.
After the evening al, intent on being diligent and dedicated, he led the young Daoist back to the mourning hall to chant the "Sutra of Transmigration" once again.
Different from the usual "Rebirth Spell," the "Sutra of Transmigration" must be recited eighty-one tis for perfect rit before the ritual is considered truly complete.
The seven-day ritual being shortened to three days ant the two had to work overti at night.
Though the young Daoist recited, he couldn’t hide his impatience and eventually drifted into sleep.
The old Daoist shook his head, smiling slightly, subtly shifting his body to block the view of the young Daoist from others, while continuing his chanting.
Thus, a whole night of chanting, the eighty-one recitations of the Sutra of Rebirth were satisfactorily completed.
The next day, the group gathering to collect the old woman’s coffin was already impatient.
Zhang Tianshuo led, followed by dozens of robust young n, each muscle full and shirtless, their faces painted with chicken blood symbols.
"Daoist Master, you worked hard; this is a token of appreciation, please accept it."
Zhang Tianshuo handed over two red banknotes; the old Daoist took them with a bitter smile, still politely expressing thanks.
As the auspicious hour arrived, the well-built youths took the lead, lifting the coffin at the front, followed closely behind, all n in their pri.
Papers fluttering, the group proceeded towards the predetermined burial site.
The master and disciple said nothing, finding the second-hand electric scooter they had parked in the courtyard and wobblingly heading the other way.
After roughly half a stick of incense, they arrived at the city suburbs, where there stood a small Daoist Temple.
Weathered and dilapidated, the paint on its walls had started peeling, revealing no original color, the temple door flimsily locked with a loose latch.
Parking the vehicle, the two approached the temple; the young Daoist unlocked the door, reaching to push it, but suddenly let out a scream.
"Ah..."
The lock fell with a clatter; the old Daoist furrowed his brows in anger, bending over, coughing until his face reddened.
On the wooden door and nearby walls, there was a bold word—demolish!
"Master, are you alright..."
The young Daoist hurried to support the master, then opened the door, leading him inside.
Despite its worn appearance outside, the Daoist Temple’s interior wasn’t much better.
A small shrine room housing the grandmaster’s altar, flanked by two side halls, one serving as a living room, the other as the master and disciple’s bedroom.
A tiny timber store, a vegetable garden nearby, and a rudintary outhouse stood in the depths.
The entire Daoist Temple lacked modern facilities, the only electric cable installed on the villagers’ insistence to ease the master and disciple’s travel.
This old Daoist, though not a traditional Northeast Daoist, hailed from the south.
Despite the rundown temple, it had significant heritage.
Globally, Daoist families mainly divide into the Zhengyi Sect and Quanzhen Sect, the old Daoist from the Maoshan branch of the Zhengyi Sect, renowned for its abundant talent in both Upper Mao and Lower Mao.
Southern faiths are nurous; one grows, another decreases, thus upon mastering Upper Mao, the old Daoist decisively left the south, heading north seeking a place to spread his teachings.
It happened to be the era’s need, with all of the Northeast vigorous and thriving, the old Daoist naturally arrived in the Northeast.
As fate would have it, Northeast Daoists primarily belonged to the Zhengyi Sect, yet this Daoist Skill was unpopular, making it a fitting place for teachings.
Through ti, the old Daoist rooted himself here.
In this small place, he stayed his entire life; he cherished silence, never recruiting disciples until feeling aged, and adopting an orphan as his successor.
A place like this, desolate and obscure, lacked worshippers’ offerings, incense fluctuating between presence and absence.
To make ends et, the master and disciple quietly perford rituals for villagers, fulfilling their hopes, most importantly sustaining themselves.
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