Chapter Sixty-Five: The Secret Records of Mount Mao

However, upon hearing these words, Yan Fei’s expression shifted once more. He took a deep breath, reached for a bundle of bamboo strips nearby, and said to Wang Feiyang, who was kneeling before him, “Let me see your knife.”

Wang Feiyang hurriedly drew the bamboo knife at his waist and handed it to Yan Fei. Yan Fei didn’t take it; he merely glanced at it and remarked, “Your knife has three nicks, the blade is curled at the front. You carry too much hostility. The bamboo knife is meant for splitting bamboo strips and crafting paper, not for hacking at people.”

With that, Yan Fei tossed the bamboo strip in his hand. The light strip shot from the room like an arrow. As it passed my ear, I vaguely heard a whistling sound.

Outside, the bamboo strips flew straight down and embedded deeply into the earth.

Yan Fei, his face expressionless, said, “There are eighteen bamboo strips out there, each only six millimeters wide. Use your knife to split each strip into one hundred and twenty-eight finer strips. When you succeed, come find me again!”

Six millimeter bamboo strips, split into one hundred and twenty-eight layers with Wang Feiyang’s already dulled knife. My mind couldn’t process how thin each layer would be.

I said, “Master Yan, this is an impossible task. Isn’t this just making things difficult for him?”

“Is it?” Yan Fei’s gaze sharpened. In a flash, he took Wang Feiyang’s knife and another bamboo strip. His technique was lightning-fast, reminiscent of a master slicing noodles. Countless thin strips, delicate as membranes, flew from his blade, floating in the air before settling to the ground.

I stood stunned, utterly amazed by Yan Fei’s godlike skill.

Yan Fei returned the knife, tossing it before Wang Feiyang. “If the bamboo isn’t thin and the hostility isn’t dispelled, how can the paper figures fly?”

“But Master Yan, you’ve been crafting paper for decades, and Wang Feiyang...”

I wanted to argue further, but Wang Feiyang picked up his knife and stopped me. He looked at me seriously and said, “Wu Dao, I had hoped to spend this New Year with you, but now it seems I won’t get the chance.”

I frowned. Did he really intend to stay here and split bamboo?

“Yes!” Wang Feiyang nodded firmly. He walked outside with his knife and began working on one of the strips.

Wang Feiyang had been in the paper-crafting trade since childhood, but even so, he could only split a bamboo strip into nine thinner strips at most. With his blade now dulled, even nine was difficult, and the strips broke easily—he was nowhere near meeting Yan Fei’s demands.

But since his mind was made up, I didn’t say more. I clapped his shoulder and said, “Brother, since you’ve decided, I won’t disturb you. I’ll come see you when I have time.”

Wang Feiyang nodded without speaking further. So I turned and left the Flying General’s Paper Shop, silently praying for Wang Feiyang to soon become Yan Fei’s disciple.

I didn’t return to school. Instead, I planned to find a quiet place to memorize the Yellow Springs Book I carried, and then destroy it.

But in this bustling city, finding a truly quiet place was nearly impossible.

As I wandered aimlessly through the streets, an old man dressed as a Daoist suddenly appeared behind me.

“Young man, you’re born with a Nine-Yin fate—a rare talent in the Daoist world.”

His words startled me. How could this Daoist immediately see my Nine-Yin fate? I quickly sized him up: oily blue robes, slick shining hair, utterly unkempt. He resembled the character Hong Qigong from the martial arts novel, and indeed, there was something of Hong Qigong in him.

While I was lost in thought, the old Daoist grinned and said, “Young man, I possess a Maoshan secret manual. Seeing your remarkable bone structure and Nine-Yin fate, I’ll give it to you. The future of world peace rests on your shoulders.”

I frowned. Why did this sound so familiar? Then I realized—it was a classic line from Stephen Chow’s “Kung Fu.”

I sighed inwardly—clearly, I’d encountered a seasoned swindler.

Initially, I wanted nothing to do with him and turned to leave. But he blocked me, insisting, “Young man, I never lie. If you doubt me, I can take you to my temple. My Maoshan manual is right beneath the statue of the Daoist patriarch.”

“A temple?”

His words piqued my interest. I was looking for a quiet place, and a temple seemed ideal.

So I asked him where his temple was.

He gave me a mysterious smile and extended his hand. I frowned, “What are you doing?”

He chuckled, “Calling a taxi.” At first, I didn’t understand, until he waved his hand with a flourish and called out, “Antelope!”

In my generation, “antelope” was our slang for a taxi. So he meant to hail a cab.

Once inside, the Daoist chattered endlessly about his adventures descending Maoshan to banish demons, tales eerily similar to the old vampire films. Even the driver grew annoyed, nearly refusing to take our fare and wanting us out. I quickly handed the driver fifty yuan, and the Daoist finally fell silent.

Eventually, we arrived at what he called a temple, only to find ourselves in the city’s outskirts, a mixed urban-rural area.

There stood a small hill, not tall but pleasant, and halfway up was a battered, weather-beaten temple. The decrepit gate still bore three dusty, upside-down characters: “Clear Breeze Temple.”

Wild grass grew everywhere around the temple. In front stood a large yellow-bark tree, its branches adorned with many red cloth strips—most faded and tattered from years of weather.

I turned, frowning, to the Daoist. “This is your temple?”

He chuckled, “Impressive, isn’t it?”

I was speechless, but surveyed the surroundings. Despite the eerie atmosphere, it was indeed an excellent spot to study the Yellow Springs Book.

I decided to stay, and asked where the Maoshan manual was.

The old Daoist grinned mischievously and went inside, searching beneath the faded statue of the Daoist patriarch. He produced a yellow cloth bundle, and inside was indeed a Maoshan secret manual.

He smiled at me, “See, I wasn't lying. Genuine Maoshan techniques, only three thousand yuan. You can't buy a house or a car for three thousand, but this book gives you the chance to become a hero and safeguard world peace. Worth it, don’t you think?”

I was convinced he was a snake-oil salesman, yet instinctively took the book from him.

Flipping through it, my heart raced. To my surprise, it truly contained various Maoshan spells and methods for exorcising ghosts.

I had wanted to study authentic Daoist arts to conceal my Yellow Springs techniques, and here, by chance, the manual was in my hands.

I eyed the Daoist again. Judging by his demeanor, the book wasn’t his—it was likely scavenged, then photocopied for profit.

I quickly flipped to the back of the book. Sure enough, the printed retail price read: “Thirty-two yuan fifty.”

“Sixteen yuan,” I cut the price in half.

The Daoist grew agitated. “Young man, who bargains like that? How about one hundred fifty?”

“Fourteen fifty!”

“All right, sixteen it is!” He extended his hand. “Pay up.”