Volume One, Chapter Four: Sweet Dumpling, Sweet Dumpling

Time passed swiftly, and three months slipped by in the blink of an eye. Master remained as erratic as ever, coming and going unpredictably, and the only constant was his inevitable tumble into the pond each time he appeared. The scriptures he taught Yibing were scattered and unconnected, never forming a coherent system. Although Yibing’s role was originally meant to fill the numbers, the Hong brothers still felt uneasy; compared to the other three disciples, theirs seemed rather unpresentable. Each disciple was under the tutelage of two senior brothers, and the thought of a public comparison made them wonder how they could save face.

Though the mountain was still off-limits, Yibing could now come and go freely within the compound and its surroundings. The enchanted gate, in particular, would open automatically whenever Yibing approached, without him needing to push. According to Brother Hongkun, this place was called Moon’s Companion Knoll, the immortal cultivation ground of their master, Daoist Menghong. Sometimes the knoll floated, sometimes it rested on solid ground. There were a thousand houses on the mountain, a hundred disciples, and countless divine birds and spirit beasts. Ordinary mortals could never break in; unless one was half-immortal, they could not even perceive its existence.

Within just three days of his newfound freedom, everyone on Moon’s Companion Knoll knew Yibing. Whenever Master left, a fleshy ball—Yibing—would roll across the mountain, frightening the flowers and grasses to shrink into the earth, while the divine birds and spirit beasts would scramble into trees or burrow underground. Even the fish, shrimp, and turtles in the pond would desperately dive to the bottom.

Perhaps it was because they were of similar age, but Yibing got along well with the other three disciples brought by the Hong brothers. The four often played together. Among them, Yibing was the fattest, the youngest, and by far the least gifted. The other three were exceptionally clever and diligent in their studies. When they gathered, all three would passionately discuss scripture and philosophy, while Yibing could do nothing but drool as he chased rabbits—though he had yet to catch even one!

The eldest, Tiezhu, was said to be the son of a hunter: dark-skinned, tall, and skilled with a bow. He studied the Heavenly Method under Master. The second, Atu, came from a farming family; short and sturdy, he was taught the Earth Method. The third, Baoyu, was of noble birth, refined and delicate, adept with money and resources, and so learned the Human Method. Only Yibing remained clueless as to what method he was supposed to be learning. When he asked the Hong brothers, their vague, evasive answers left him none the wiser. In truth, they were simply embarrassed to admit that Master’s “Primordial Method” only comprised three sections—Heaven, Earth, and Human. There was nothing left to teach Yibing, so they simply cobbled together lessons at random—Heaven one day, Earth the next, Human the day after. No wonder Yibing struggled; Master bore a large share of the blame.

Yet Yibing himself was unconcerned; his only interest was in learning the art of plucking rabbits from afar. Despite repeated warnings from Hongkun that the rabbits here were immortal creatures and not for eating, he could not resist trying again and again. Since he was content with his fruitless efforts, the senior brothers let him be. The only consequence was that after every rabbit chase, his appetite grew prodigiously, and Hongpeng’s cooking was never enough to satisfy him.

Whenever Master was due to arrive, the Hong brothers would prepare food in advance, to prevent Yibing from complaining of hunger during lessons. Although Master still scolded and beat him, he feared Yibing’s wailing tantrums even more, so at the first sign of hunger, he would quickly stuff his mouth. Strangely, as soon as Yibing had food, his mind seemed to clear and he became much more alert. Thanks to years of private tutoring, his understanding of the scriptures was deeper than the others’. Yet, for some unfathomable reason, his progress lagged far behind the other three, who were already cultivating body and breath while he still floundered, leaving Master so exasperated that Yibing’s round cheeks were swollen every day from beatings.

Of course, Hongkun knew the reason, but could not say it outright and could only fret inwardly. One day, when the others are floating in the air, will our little fat one still be earthbound? So, he and Hongpeng began giving Yibing extra lessons every night. Though Yibing grumbled, the lure of vegetarian drumsticks made him acquiesce. Still, the brothers could only share their own experiences for Yibing to draw from; whether he could comprehend and apply them was left to fate.

Fortunately, the initial practice was merely breath control. Yibing imagined his lower dantian as a pot of rich chicken soup, the breath swirling like the fragrant broth—breathing in and out, he practiced with gusto. But as he advanced, it became harder to control, for he always wanted the chicken soup to flow into his stomach, never managing to form the proper internal circulation. However, Master had just begun teaching the Primordial Fist, which Yibing picked up with surprising speed, each move sharp and impressive. The brothers thought, Even if he never becomes an immortal, he might at least grow into a martial prodigy—an unconventional success, but a success nonetheless.

Another half year passed in a flash. The other three disciples had all opened their meridians, but Yibing’s internal energy still bounced chaotically within him. What puzzled Master and the brothers most was that, despite such internal chaos, Yibing suffered nothing more than occasional stomachaches—his cheeks remained rosy, he ran as quickly as ever, chased rabbits with unflagging enthusiasm, and slept more soundly than a piglet. Master Menghong, already half-mad, was now completely at a loss. His temper worsened, and after each lesson, Yibing was left battered and bruised from head to toe. Were it not for Hongpeng’s vegetarian drumsticks, Yibing would never have endured. But soon, Master’s madness deepened; he even forgot about the matter altogether, and suddenly, just as he did with the others, began eagerly teaching Yibing the art of flight.

Cultivating the Flight Technique required both breath training and the ingestion of elixirs. Master’s Primordial Golden Elixir was a peerless concoction, blending a hundred celestial herbs and fruits, refined in the furnace of yin and yang for eighty-one days. Each disciple took one pill daily during practice, guiding the energy within: pure energy rose, turbid energy sank, circulating through the body, passing the meridians, harnessing the forces of heaven and earth, making the body light enough to ascend.

Seeing Yibing, who hadn’t even unlocked his meridians, take an elixir each day, the brothers knew it was a waste but could do nothing. Yibing, however, found them delicious—sweet and sour, wonderfully refreshing. Yet the good times were short-lived: the other three had already begun to levitate, hovering an inch off the ground, while he remained firmly seated in his own little pit. Master’s ill-temper returned, and Yibing secretly thought, If I can just tough this out, Master will soon forget about it again...

One day, as the winter wind began to blow, Master plunged early into the pond. Hearing the commotion, Yibing hurried to open the door, but before his chubby face had fully emerged, he received a resounding slap.

“Where did those two rascals run off to?”

“Master, didn’t you send them to deliver a message to that other master yesterday?” Yibing mumbled, rubbing his swollen cheek.

“Did I?!” Master paused, then pinched Yibing’s fat face fiercely. “Nonsense! It doesn’t take two to deliver a message! What are they really up to?”

“No, really! Master, it was you… you said Kun is clever and Peng is agreeable, and together they’d get it done!”

“Then… then… what message did I send?” Master’s eyes darted anxiously.

“I have no idea. You whispered with them in the courtyard all afternoon… I didn’t hear a thing…” Yibing was exasperated.

“Is that so…” Master swallowed. “Fine… what did we learn yesterday?”

“After eating the steamed buns… the Flight Technique!” Yibing always recalled events by the food involved.

“Flight Technique?! Which idiot taught you that? You haven’t even opened your meridians—what are you doing practicing flight?” Astonishingly, Master seemed much more lucid. Cold sweat broke out on Yibing’s back. “It was… it was you…”

“Nonsense!” Another ringing slap. If it wasn’t him, who could it be?

“I…”

“Must’ve been those two scoundrels… teaching nonsense…” Master’s voice faltered.

By noon, Yibing still hadn’t opened his meridians, driving Master into a frenzy. His chubby face was covered with handprints. With the brothers gone, there was no one to cook. Seeing Master had no intention of eating, Yibing dared not speak—he tried to hold out, but his stomach began to rumble loudly.

Master glanced at him. “No food until you break through!” But before the words had faded, his own stomach grumbled in sympathy.

“…Fine, fine, eat… just don’t start crying!” Seeing Yibing’s mouth begin to quiver, Master hurriedly covered it. “Go fetch something from the kitchen!”

The wretched Hong brothers had left nothing at all! Yibing licked the bottom of the pot in vain before returning, dejected.

“Master, can you cook? There’s nothing left!” Yibing gazed at Master with hungry eyes. Master licked his lips. “That… isn’t really my specialty…”

“Master, can’t you conjure something to eat?”

“…No, no… it would violate the rules…”

“Master, if you’re an immortal, why do you need to eat?” Yibing eyed Master’s grumbling belly.

“Ah… who’s an immortal? Hush! Besides, even immortals must empathize with mortals; how else can they save the suffering masses?”

Yibing eyed him doubtfully. This old man, mad or not, never speaks the truth!

“Master, could I have a sweet ball to tide me over?” Yibing stared longingly at the pouch on Master’s belt.

“Sweet ball?” Master was taken aback, then realized Yibing meant the Primordial Golden Elixir. He hesitated, then handed one to Yibing and popped another into his own mouth. Yibing savored it without swallowing, glumly thinking of when Hongpeng might return—life felt hopeless.

“Heh heh! Today we begin the Earth-Burrowing Technique!” No sooner had Master finished the elixir than he burst out in a foolish grin.

“Master?” Yibing was dumbfounded. Why did Master flip out so suddenly?

“This! This! Read and memorize quickly!” Master suddenly thrust a scroll at Yibing and began pacing the room, muttering to himself. Yibing was genuinely frightened. Usually, Master’s fits ended with him flying away; he’d never seen him wander in circles, drooling!

Better memorize quickly, Yibing thought, before he comes up with something else. He seized the scroll and began to recite.

Strangely enough, the pressure brought out all of Yibing’s latent intelligence—within half an hour, he had it down perfectly, stunning Master, who made him recite it three times before he was satisfied.

“Good disciple… good disciple… Come, I’ll explain it word by word!” Master was uncharacteristically exuberant.

“Master… another sweet ball, please… I’m starving…” Yibing truly couldn’t go on.

“All right, all right, you can have them all!” In his madness, Master was extraordinarily generous. Yibing seized the opportunity, munching happily, one after another.

Whether from fright or the effect of the sweet balls, Yibing found Master’s explanation unusually clear, understanding everything in less than an hour. After a brief recitation, Master impatiently began teaching him the Earth-Burrowing Technique, but forgot one crucial fact—Yibing had not opened his meridians and could never learn such an immortal art.

After two hours of effort, Yibing was black and blue like a panda, but had not burrowed an inch. Yet he had eaten every last one of the sweet balls! Only a madman would allow such a thing—the Primordial Golden Elixir was meant to be taken one per day, yet Yibing had consumed dozens. Strangely, while anyone else would have been crippled or worse, Yibing remained utterly unharmed.

“Master, there’s no sweet balls left!” Yibing’s stomach continued to rumble.

Master froze, stared at Yibing for a long while, then suddenly rolled his eyes and shot out the window, vanishing into the night. Yibing rushed to the window, but Master was gone; only the full moon hung high in the sky.

“Master…” Yibing couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

When the Hong brothers returned, Master did not fall into the pond as usual. Luckily, Hongpeng brought back vegetarian drumsticks, or Yibing might have fainted from hunger. As they ate, the brothers asked Yibing about the day. Hearing that Master had been especially mad, they exchanged glances at the moon. Yibing, however, was careful not to mention that he had eaten all of Master’s sweet balls; given the way the brothers always eyed them, he thought it best to keep silent.