Techniques have their limits, and laws have their cycles of birth and death.

Chapter 87 Techniques have their limits, and laws have their cycles of birth and death.

Wei Shufen suddenly remembered something her grandmother had said when she was a child.

My grandmother was the oldest Gu master in Qinghe Miao Village. She lived to be over ninety years old. The wrinkles on her face were so deep they looked like they were carved by a knife. Every line held the years she had lived, the Gu poison she had concocted, and the lives she had saved.

Her fingers were blackened by the poison, the blackness seeping into her bones and blood, indelible and impossible to wash off or scrape away, like the rings of a tree, a mark of her lifelong companionship with the poison.

Yet she could still pound the most potent poison powder in the mortar and pestle, her hands never trembling, her eyes never blurring, each pound steady as a mountain.

She spent her entire life with Gu poison and other poisons, constantly walking on the edge of life and death, not because she enjoyed danger, but because the Miao region needed someone to do this.

The poison is there, the curse is there, and someone has to understand it, manage it, and use it.

Before she died, her grandmother held her hand and said many, many things.

She remembered some of those words, and she forgot others.

Some things that were remembered have gradually faded, like stones washed by river water, their edges smoothed, their traces blurred, leaving only a vague outline, unable to recall their original appearance.

That's how time is; no matter how important something is, it will fade if left for too long.

But there was one sentence she always remembered.

When my grandmother said those words, her eyes shone exceptionally brightly, brighter than those of a dying person.

Those old eyes, which had been cloudy for over a decade, suddenly became as clear as a young girl's at that moment.

It was a strange feeling, as if my grandmother wasn't dying, but rather about to wake up; as if something was finally about to break free from that withered body.

Years later, she realized that it was not a final burst of energy before death, but an enlightenment.

She was an old woman who had spent her whole life immersed in Gu poison. In the last moment of her life, she suddenly saw the thing she had been searching for for a very long time.

"Shufen, you must remember that 'Gu, in the end, is nothing more than an insect, poison, and a means.'"

"There are many things in this world that can counteract Gu poison."

"Metal overcomes wood, fire overcomes metal, water overcomes fire, earth overcomes water—all things are mutually generating and mutually restraining, and even Gu has its adversaries."

"Herbal medicines from Miao territory, elixirs from the Central Plains, Buddhist incantations, and Taoist talismans can all counteract the Gu poison."

"But there is only one thing that can truly 'cure' the curse."

That is the "Tao".

She didn't understand at the time.

She knelt before her grandmother's bed, holding those withered, emaciated hands, her mind blank.

She didn't understand what "Tao" meant, what the relationship was between Gu and Tao, or why her grandmother would say such a word to her before she died.

She thought her grandmother would tell her a formula for poisoning, a method of poisoning, or some long-lost secret technique that she had never seen before—those were the things a poison master should pass on.

But Grandmother only said this one word.

Gu is Gu, and Dao is Dao. How can these two things be linked together?

Gu is tangible; it is an insect, a powder, something that can crawl in and out of a person's stomach.

The Tao is formless, invisible and intangible; even the oldest shaman in the village cannot explain what it is.

She thought her grandmother was senile and talking nonsense.

She had seen too many dying people say things that were incomprehensible to others, and she thought her grandmother was just one of them.

But at this moment, looking at the scene before her, she suddenly understood something.

Those Gu worms were not killed, not forced out, and not eliminated by any "means".

Killing requires a sharp weapon, forcing out requires a drug, and annihilation requires power, but she saw neither a sharp weapon, nor a drug, nor any power.

Wherever the clear light reached, the Gu worms dispersed as if they had never existed.

They were "resolved".

Their reason for existence was denied at its very root by something higher.

It's a fundamental negation, not a negation of "You are strong, but I am stronger than you," but a negation of "You should never have existed."

The former is a contest of strength, the latter is a judgment of truth.

In a contest of strength, the outcome is uncertain; but in a judgment of truth, the outcome is decided in a single blow.

It's not the restraint of metal and wood, nor the struggle between water and fire, nor any kind of "confrontation".

Confrontation means both sides are present, and it means you have to use your strength to overwhelm the other's strength.

A confrontation is a two-way street, with wins and losses. A confrontation means that the other party is real, exists, and is worth fighting.

But this is not a confrontation; it is a more thorough, more fundamental, and more unquestionable dissolution.

Just as light dispels darkness, it is not that light triumphs over darkness, but rather that darkness, existing within light, never truly existed.

What is darkness?

It's just the absence of light.

When the light comes, the darkness is gone.

It wasn't driven away; it simply didn't exist in the first place. People just assumed it existed because they couldn't see it.

Just as truth dissolves falsehood, it is not truth that overturns falsehood, but rather falsehood that naturally dissipates in the face of truth.

What is falsehood?

It's just a misunderstanding of the truth.

When the truth is revealed, the falsehood disappears—not because it is destroyed, but because it was never true in the first place; it's just that people, unaware of this, believed it to be true.

The existence of those Gu worms was like a lie encountering the truth, like a dream encountering awakening, before that clear light. They were not destroyed, but rather "seen through".

In that clear light, they saw themselves, which should not exist, and so they ceased to exist.

It wasn't that someone erased them; rather, they themselves, in that instant, suddenly realized their own non-existence.

That is the Way.

It is not a technique, not a method, not anything that can be cultivated, mastered, or used.

Techniques have their limits, and methods have their cycles of birth and death, but the ultimate truth is the "original state".

Techniques are man-made, laws are prescribed, but the Way is original.

It is as it is, it has always been, it cannot be added to or subtracted from, it cannot be shaken.

Whether it's the Gu worm, Qingguang, Liyuan, or Wei Shufen, they are all within this "original state," all manifestations of this "original state." That's what Grandmother was talking about.

Wei Shufen stood in the aisle of the carriage, surrounded by a mess of people who had survived the disaster.

She looked at the figure in the moon-white Taoist robe, and at the clear light gradually fading from between his brows. The light faded not because it went out, but because it returned to where it came from, to its "original state".

Like the sun setting behind the mountains, it doesn't mean the sun is gone, but that it has gone to the other side; like the tide receding into the sea, it doesn't mean the water is gone, but that it has returned to the depths.

A feeling that was hard to describe suddenly welled up in my heart.

That feeling wasn't one of awe; awe was too shallow, too thin, to contain the emotions she felt at that moment.

Reverence is the feeling one has when facing a high mountain, but at this moment, what she was facing was not a mountain, but the sky.

Mountains have peaks, but the sky has no limits; reverence has boundaries, but this feeling is boundless.

That feeling wasn't worship, it was looking up to someone, it was distance, it was pushing the other person to a place they couldn't reach.

But at this moment, she didn't feel that Li Yuan was out of reach; she just felt that he was standing there, standing there, and that was all.

But it was this "that's all" that gently touched something in her heart.

The feeling was more like seeing it.

She saw something she had never seen before, yet she had always known it existed.

It's like someone who has walked in darkness their whole life suddenly seeing the light.

It wasn't light shining from elsewhere; the light was always there, but she only saw it now.

The light had no name, no shape, no temperature, yet she recognized it at a glance.

That was what she had been searching for, what her grandmother wanted to tell her before she died, what all the shamans of Miao territory, all the Taoist priests of the Central Plains, and all the monks of temples were looking for.

She saw it.

Even if it was just a glance, even if it was just a glimpse through the figure in the moon-white Taoist robe, a vague and indistinct look.

But that one glance was enough.

The black fog grew thicker and thicker.

But it simply floated in the air and no longer posed any threat.

The black mist swirled and surged, like a trapped beast struggling but with nowhere to go; like a defeated army with nowhere to escape.

They have no host, no foundation, and nothing to cling to.

They simply float there, like an abandoned old dream, slowly evaporating in the morning light; like a forgotten past, gradually fading with the years.

The black mist surged from the bodies of more than thirty people, gathered together, and swirled under the dome of the carriage, like a blob of ink spreading in water, or like a dark cloud rolling across the sky.

They were supposed to be evil, dangerous, and have the distinctive stench of poison.

But at this moment, they just drift and scatter, like abandoned old dreams, like forgotten memories.

No matter how terrible the old dream is, it's gone when you wake up; no matter how heavy the past is, it fades away when it's over.

The black mist is the same; it's still there, but it's no longer the same thing.

One by one, the passengers opened their eyes.

The first person to open his eyes was a young man.

His eyes narrowed at first, as if he was afraid to see something. What he was afraid to see was still that hell, still the ground covered with insect corpses and vomit, still those people struggling on the brink of death just like himself.

But then he suddenly opened his eyes, as if he remembered something—the light, the voice, the person who said, "None of you will die."

He looked down at himself, touched his stomach, his face, and his arms.

My stomach doesn't hurt anymore.

That excruciating, agonizing pain is gone.

That pain made him wish he could cut open his stomach and scoop out that messy thing inside.

But now, it's gone.

It vanished completely, as if it had never hurt.

He stared blankly at his hands—hands that had been covered in vomit and so dirty he didn't want to look at them—but now they were clean and odorless.

He touched his face again. His face, which had been as pale as paper and as cold as a dead person, was now rosy, warm, and vibrant.

Then, he cried.

Tears welled up silently, streaming down her cheeks, one drop at a time, landing on her clothes and the back of her hand.

He didn't wipe them away, but let the tears flow freely, as if he wanted to let all the fear, despair, and near-death experience flow out with them.

Those were tears of survival.

Then, more people opened their eyes.

A middle-aged woman looked down at the two children in her arms.

Both children opened their eyes, stopped crying, and just quietly looked at her, their little faces rosy and their breathing steady.

Just moments ago they were vomiting, crying, and struggling in her arms; now they were just looking at her, quiet and still, as if they had just woken up and didn't know what had happened.

She hugged the children tighter, forehead to forehead, tears silently streaming down her face. She didn't utter a sound, just held them tightly, as if trying to meld the two children into her own body, never letting anything hurt them again.

An old man stood up shakily, stretched his limbs, sat back down, and let out a long breath.

He exhaled a long, long breath, as if he wanted to expel all the pent-up air from his chest. He had thought he was going to die, and he had started thinking about his affairs, his life, the things he hadn't finished, and his grandson whom he hadn't yet met.

But now, he doesn't have to think about it anymore.

He can still live, he can still finish those things, and he can still see that child.

Someone knelt down.

It was a middle-aged man wearing a gray cloth long gown. His knees slammed heavily onto the floor with a dull thud.

He kowtowed heavily in the direction of Li Yuan.

His forehead hit the floor with a loud, heavy "thud."

That muffled thud seemed to convey its gratitude to that person through the floor.

Then there was a second one.

The third time.

Each slam was so hard that it left a red mark on his forehead and made the floor vibrate slightly.

Some people put their hands together in prayer.

She was an old woman with gray hair and deep wrinkles on her face.

She faced the direction of Li Yuan, clasped her hands together, and murmured something as she moved her lips.

Her voice was low and intermittent, and it was impossible to hear what she was chanting, but her lip movements and expression clearly indicated that she was chanting Buddhist scriptures.

She didn't know that the person standing in front of her was a Taoist priest.

She didn't know the difference between Taoism and Buddhism. All she knew was that someone had saved her; it was a deity, a bodhisattva, the greatest benefactor she had ever met in her life.

In her heart, the one who saves people is a Bodhisattva, regardless of whether they are Taoist or Buddhist, male or female, old or young.

Some people hugged their loved ones and cried loudly.

It was a young woman, holding her husband, crying her heart out.

Just now, she watched her husband vomit in front of her, watched the white cocoons pour out of his mouth, watched his stomach swell and churn, and watched him fall to the ground, convulsing and spasming.

She thought he was going to die.

She thought he would never wake up again.

She thought she would have to raise two children alone in this chaotic world.

That kind of fear was more painful than the pain of a worm burrowing into one's heart.

But her husband woke up.

He opened his eyes, touched her face, and said, "Don't cry, I'm fine."

So she cried even harder.

It was a cry of grievance, a cry of fear, a cry of regaining what was lost, a cry of letting out all the tears that had been held back.

Throughout the carriage, the sounds of crying, kowtowing, chanting Buddhist prayers, and expressing gratitude mingled together, creating a noisy yet warm atmosphere.

Those who were screaming, crying, and running away just moments ago are now crying not out of fear, but out of gratitude; not out of despair, but out of rebirth.

Crying out of fear and crying out of gratitude may sound similar, but they are two completely different things when they come to mind.

Cries of fear are cold, cries of gratitude are warm.

It's warm inside this carriage right now.