Chapter 7: Mount Wudang

Gentle sunlight caressed his face, its warmth driving away the bone-chilling cold. With a small yawn, Yuan Ye slowly awoke. Raising his hand to shield his eyes from the dazzling light, he wondered why Tomoko hadn’t come to wake him yet.

The Hyuga clan was an ancient family whose traditions had been passed down for thousands of years, and their rules were strict and uncompromising. Every child of the clan, from the age of three, was required to rise early each day and attend the family school, where they learned etiquette, cultural studies, the history of the ninja world, and more. At five, they began training in chakra refinement, the Hyuga Gentle Fist, the basic Three Body Techniques, ninja tool handling, and other essential skills, all to ensure that even upon entering the ninja academy, Hyuga children would stand out among their peers and uphold the clan’s reputation.

Thus, for the past two years, the nanny who cared for Yuan Ye would wake him at precisely seven and send him to the family school for morning lessons at half past seven. Half a year ago, Tomoko had taken over this duty. Normally, even if Yuan Ye awoke early, he would lounge about until Tomoko gently coaxed him from bed; only then would he rise without complaint.

But today, with the sun so high in the sky and Tomoko still absent, Yuan Ye found it odd.

Something’s not right! The dilapidated temple… Startled, Yuan Ye sat bolt upright as memories of waking in a rundown temple the night before rushed back.

Leaning against the wall, he opened his eyes wide and scanned his surroundings. It didn’t take long for him to realize that the place he now found himself in was not the same decrepit temple where he had awakened last night.

He groaned in despair, “Oh heavens! Is this truly my fate? My grand mansion, my gentle maid, my vast wealth—all gone!” After a careful survey of the room, Yuan Ye’s heart sank.

With experience from his previous lives, Yuan Ye quickly deduced, after his careful inspection, that he was no longer in the world of the Hokage.

This was a simply furnished room, about twenty or thirty square meters. Two wooden doors led outside, each flanked by a pair of windows. The doors were tightly shut, but both windows were half-open, allowing the warm sunlight to slant in and bathe him in its glow.

Aside from the bed beneath him, there was only a roughly made square table to the left of the entrance, surrounded by four small stools, one on each side. On the table stood a ceramic teapot and several blackened teacups, which, after a closer look, Yuan Ye realized must once have been white. He felt an intense thirst and wondered what ordeal those teacups had endured to become so stained.

Barefoot, he stepped off the bed onto the clean stone floor, walked over, and poured himself a cup of cool tea. Unappetizing as the teacups looked, the tea was surprisingly delicious—pure and untainted.

After drinking three full cups, Yuan Ye turned to examine the bed on which he had awoken. It was, in truth, little more than a large sleeping platform built against the wall. There were four or five sleeping mats, his being the one furthest to the right. To the left, four neatly folded thin quilts were lined up, evidence of a regular and orderly life.

Above the platform hung a four- or five-meter-long horizontal scroll with the words “The Tao follows Nature” written in bold characters. Just gazing at those words seemed to clear the lingering haze from Yuan Ye’s mind, leaving him refreshed and enlightened.

This is a good piece; I wonder which renowned master created it—it must be worth quite a sum, Yuan Ye mused.

“Yuanqiao, how is that child?” Yuan Ye was still lost in thought, staring at the words on the scroll, when a gentle voice sounded from outside.

His eyes sharpened, and he turned to stare warily at the two tightly closed doors. In this unfamiliar place, he could not help but be on guard.

“Master, I gave the child medicinal soup at dawn. The fever broke two hours ago; he should be waking up soon,” another voice replied, clearly answering the first.

As the two voices conversed, their footsteps approached the door. Yuan Ye took two small steps back, bracing himself at the edge of the bed.

Creak.

The wooden door swung open, sunlight flooding in and making Yuan Ye squint, his hand rising to shield his eyes. As the harsh light faded, he opened his eyes wide to study the two people entering.

They, too, seemed surprised to see him awake; for a moment, the six eyes met in mutual astonishment.

“Oh! Little brother, you’re awake already?” one of them exclaimed after his initial surprise.

Yuan Ye looked closely and saw two figures standing in the doorway: a white-haired, white-bearded old man in front, slightly portly but with a rosy, unwrinkled face and an air of sage-like grace, even in a simple, spacious gray Daoist robe. The old man smiled at Yuan Ye with such warmth and kindness that Yuan Ye felt an instant sense of closeness.

Behind him stood a man of about forty, dressed in a blue Daoist robe, his hair bound with a crown. He had a square face, upright features, and an aura of integrity—a man one could trust at a glance. It was this middle-aged man who had just spoken.

Yuan Ye guessed that it must have been these two who rescued him from the dilapidated temple and treated his illness.

No wonder my mouth tasted so bitter when I woke up—it must have been all the medicine. I don’t know where I am or who these people are. I’d better find out more before saying anything, Yuan Ye thought.

With that, he stepped forward, clasped his hands in salute as he’d seen on television, and said, “My name is Yuan Ye. Thank you, Daoist masters, for saving me.”

He spoke in Chinese, for from their attire and speech he had deduced he was in ancient China, though he couldn’t tell which dynasty. Their speech, too, was Chinese, though slightly tinged with a southern dialect.

“There’s no need for such courtesy, child. So your name is Yuan Ye?” the old Daoist said, taking his hand with a smile.

“Yes, master,” Yuan Ye replied obediently.

Feigning innocence was shameful, but survival mattered most, Yuan Ye thought, even as he looked up at the two men with a pitiful expression.

“Tell me, little Yuan Ye, where is your home? How did you come to be found alone, unconscious in that deserted mountain temple?” the old Daoist asked.

“I don’t know,” Yuan Ye replied, frowning and shaking his head. “When I woke up last night, I was already there and can’t remember anything from before.”

As for his origins, Yuan Ye dared not say—he didn’t even know where he was. Until he was certain of his situation and the intentions of these two, he would not reveal anything.

The old Daoist and the middle-aged man exchanged a glance and sighed softly.

“Tell me, little Yuan Ye, can you see with your eyes?” the middle-aged man suddenly asked, crouching in front of Yuan Ye, eyes full of uncertainty.

Byakugan!

Yuan Ye suddenly realized what he meant—he was asking about his Byakugan!

He had already noticed that their black hair and dark eyes, their yellowish skin, made them look much like ancient Chinese. Moreover, the younger man had kept glancing at his face with curiosity—now Yuan Ye understood: he was intrigued by his Byakugan.

“Oh… Big brother, do you mean my eyes? Of course I can see,” Yuan Ye replied.

“So you have the blood of the Semu people. How did you end up alone and adrift?” the old Daoist wondered aloud.

Semu people? What’s that supposed to mean? Are there many people with white eyes here? Yuan Ye was utterly baffled.

Seeing the change from cheerfulness to disappointment on Yuan Ye’s small face, the middle-aged man ruffled his hair and said kindly, “Don’t be sad, child. Not all Semu people are bad—there are good ones, too!”

“Indeed. Heaven’s way is to take from the surplus and give to the needy. As long as you speak Chinese and do good, you are no different from us Han, so don’t trouble yourself over it,” the old Daoist added with a smile.

Yuan Ye wanted to protest, “I’m not troubled or sad—I just have no idea who the Semu people are!”

For the old Daoist, who had spent decades cultivating and transcending such concerns, the child’s background was of little consequence.

“Mm-hmm,” Yuan Ye nodded lightly, though he still didn’t understand.

“By the way, venerable master, and you as well, Daoist brother, may I ask where I am? And what are your names?” he asked, looking up.

“This is Mount Wudang. I am Zhang Sanfeng, and this is my eldest disciple, Song Yuanqiao,” the old Daoist replied with a smile.

Mount Wudang? Zhang Sanfeng? Song Yuanqiao? … Zhang Wuji… Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber!

Yuan Ye’s mouth fell open slightly as he finally understood the world he had entered.

I’m going to make it big! Nine Yang Divine Skill, here I come! he exulted inwardly.

And with that wild joy, the world went black—and Yuan Ye fainted away once more.