David

Huzhou, the city on the lake, was likely not the only city that had been named such. But this city was where the denizens of this realm had agreed would retain its simple name - or it was the only Huzhou that had happened to survive.

It had two distinct advantages over other cities which might have competed for its name.

Firstly, there were a pair of sects vying over ownership of the city - one known for producing music heard all around the world and the other known for producing art hung in every palace.

But there was also the lake itself, shrouded in a mystery involving the remains of an immortal and garbed in ten thousand ornate torches. The torches had remained lit over its long history, despite changing dynasties and the drums of war. For each torch surrounding the lake, a temple stood in and around the city, each of them a record of the souls that had issued a challenge to the skies above.

Huzhou was known, officially, as the city of Ten Thousand Bodhisattvas. It was a city that not only worshiped its many deities but, if the central altar in Song Mountain Sect could be believed, sanctified the very idea of worship.

The crowded eastern shore of Huzhou had seemed materialistic and worldly to David's eyes. But on the quiet western bank of Immortal Lake, where the only structures were squat and stoic temples flanked by the Song and Tang Mountains for which their sects were named, the city's history of quiet devotion was laid bare in the moonlight. Symmetrically cut stones paved the road. The meticulously trimmed birch trees, each planted at the same, polite distance from the next, only added to the loneliness.

But in truth, it was almost crowded. Cultivators strolled along the waterfront in small groups. Most of them were headed west and south. The groups were robed in bright ruby red or deep ocean blue - but never both colors.

Compared to David's own sect, the disciples of both mountains weren't as loud in public and more polite in general. Much less polite, however, were the stares they sent his way.

When Daoist Bo had escorted David to Three Worships Hall, the few cultivators they'd passed had paid him absolutely no attention, but now, he'd become the subject of cautious glances and mistrusting whispers.

To his left, Bo continued along as she had - her gait somewhere between confident and delicate, her smile still delighted and slightly surprised. She greeted nearly everyone they passed with a wave, including the disciples of Tang Mountain. Most of them waved back. Nothing had changed - Bo was clearly well liked in this city.

The culprit, of course, was to his right. Wen did his best to mimic her behavior. Mostly everyone ignored him - and some threw him a fast glares when they believed Bo wasn't looking. When their attention inevitably moved to David, David figured that he'd become guilty by association.

As they followed the shore, they passed temple after temple with so few differences between them, David became sure they'd been built en masse, and then filled with their specific Bodhisattva as time passed by - like an elaborate cemetery.

Tang Mountain loomed tall and thin behind the rows and rows of temples, its entrance a little farther from the edge of the lake compared to Bo's sect, but only by the length of a few city blocks.

By the time they chose the split in the road that continued along the lakeside, most of the remaining pedestrians were headed in the same direction as they were and there were no more encounters with selectively friendly disciples.

The only sound that accompanied the quiet steps of cultivators were gentle waves and the soft echo of city life across the water.

In that silence, the voice of one Wen Cheng seemed almost thunderous. "A little child paddles a little boat, picks white lotus - drifting."

He trailed off.

"Unlearned in hiding the tracks he leaves, led by pondscum shifting," David finished.

"That's not how it goes," said Wen with folded arms. His eyes scanned the lake, the torches, the opposite shore - past David, past Daoist Bo.

David narrowed his eyes, recalling the sound of his mother's voice with crystal certainty.

"Art doesn't change just because you don't like it," said Bo, her eyes fixed on each torch they passed.

“That’s not true,” said Wen. He paused. “At least it feels untrue to me.”

“If a song is good enough, people will remember it and sing along.”

Wen’s brow furrowed. “But let’s say you hear music you really like, but it’s been performed by someone different from the original singer, would you say the song was unchanged?”

“Of course,” said Daoist Bo. “Just because someone sings a song I wrote doesn’t mean I didn’t write it.”

Wen had no response for her, but David did. “But if I were to hear the song from this new singer and then, in turn, sing it to someone else, would you say the song was still the original?”

Bo scoffed. “Of course.”

“What if I’d never heard you sing it personally?” David asked.

Bo nodded.

“And what if I’d never heard anyone sing it before, but by some coincidence came across the same tune and found the same words?”

“That would never happen,” said Bo, sure as summer rain. “Not for one of my songs. But I understand why this line of questioning is occurring. If you weren’t a student of the Skybound Scripture, I would have believed this was a clever attempt at espionage.”

“Espionage?” asked David. He figured it would likely be inconvenient to explain that he didn’t personally cultivate the Skybound Scripture, so he said nothing of it.

Wen nodded with solemn drama. “The scripture of Song Mountain is the Truth of Heart, a dialogue between the Blind Painter and the Singing Maiden. They were the founding immortals of Huzhou, and likely lovers - but at least dear friends. One day, they had an argument about which of them was more talented, and then about which of them had chosen a purer path. This is one of the topics central to the scripture.”

David realized suddenly that he’d never really had an argument with Alice about cultivation, and wondered how it would go.

“Their disagreement was so severe they never spoke again, and forbade their many disciples from speaking to one another.

Bo grinned. “A ridiculous story, which has undoubtedly become more ridiculous over the generations, but one that is based in at least some truth. Both my sect and our neighbors over in Tang Mountain claim the Truth of Heart as our foundational scriptures. The texts are similar in meter and rhyme, and they ask the same questions of the world, as far as I’m aware.”

“Whose song is the original?” David asked, before he could stop himself.

Bo’s smile widened. “Ours, of course. The Tang Mountain’s Truth of Heart is heretical and perverse. What a silly question.” She winked.

“Have you read it?” David asked.

“What an awful thing to suggest!” Bo stared up at the moon, theatrically moody. “It would be such an unthinkable breach of decorum for a proud disciple of Tang Mountain to show his favorite singer the secret foundational scripture of his sect in an attempt to woo her. If the elders discovered such a transgression, there would be war on the streets of Huzhou!”

“Right,” said David. It seemed that Wen’s melodrama was infectious.

“But if I were to guess as to the differences between the scriptures,” said Bo, with a sudden sobriety, “I would say they present similar views of the world while coming to drastically different conclusions.”

“What sort of conclusions?”

“Path Friend!” Wen protested. “You can’t just ask about secrets that our ancestors gave their lives to protect.”

David shrugged. “I suppose it’s improper.” To be quite honest, mostly everyone David had run into had, by coincidence or lack of caring, imparted some of their supposedly precious scriptures onto him. It really didn’t feel that serious.

His contemplative silence was broken twice - by the sound of singing, and by the sound of the Song.

The voice that echoed over the stillness of the lake, cutting through the muted sounds of Huzhou, was clear and bright.

David caught a quick refrain of the song - “And I want you in my arms by the end of the night.” On its face, there was nothing special about it - just a catchy pop song sung by a chirpy soprano. She had a nice voice, if unspectacular.

The lake for which Huzhou was named was not perfectly round - instead, a little peninsula formed onto it, possibly natural, possibly manmade. On it was a structure of metal and wood which, from a distance, was the same shape as the many Bodhisattva temples that littered the city.

But instead of being small and squat, this one was as wide as a handful of city blocks and two-storied. On the road from Song Mountain Sect, David had mistaken it for yet another one of those temples, but as they drew closer, it became clear that this was where Daoist Bo’s student was performing.

It was a stadium, as large as any of the sports stadiums that dotted modern cities back home. And from it, a multitude of voices bellowed along to what must have been the chorus to the woman’s voice.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Bo muttered. “Ten thousand souls at the altar. This, too, is immortality, to have a crowd hear your voice.”

From the stadium, there was a swell - qi rising into the sky shaped by the sound of the song, more qi than David had ever witnessed, even at the peak of Earth Mountain where he’d formed his core. It was not the qi of the natural world, not the qi generated by the natural shapes of earth and sea and sky. It was not the qi of design, not the qi generated by the deft flick of a Fairy’s sword or by a girl’s fingers dancing over a guqin.

This was a similar sound to the qi that was generated during a Forging at Sky Mountain, a similar sound to the thunderclap of Uncle Jiang’s descendants kneeling at his presence as he lifted an offering of sorghum wine. It was the qi of adulation.

But this was more. It burned fast and bright and could not be held. It played a melody that tasted of colors, that felt like a hundred pitches.

“You can’t,” said Bo, shaking David from his reverie. “You can try, but it’s not for you.”

They had stopped moving.

“You’re bright,” she said, managing to sound rueful, indulgent and impressed at the same time. “So you can have this lesson for free. Don’t ever try to take what doesn’t belong to you. This is a concert held by Liu Na, for those who love Liu Na.”

“What do you mean by take, master?” Wen had been quiet for a while, David had almost forgotten he was there.

“We all have reasons when we give up our feelings, we all have fantasies we can’t help but believe in. We all have dreams that smoke up to the ceilings, we all have prayers - and grievances that we leave in,” Bo muttered.

“Is that scripture?” David wondered, as he tended to when something rhymed in both Chinese and English.

“I’m flattered,” said Bo. “That was my debut song, a young girl’s understanding of the Truth of Heart. I don’t sing it much anymore. It’s common for anyone producing art to be embarrassed by their early work, even if they still secretly love them.”

She suddenly seized him by the collar. “Never try to get between someone and something they love, and never try to pretend to be who they love. This is what the Venerates above know as stealing Fate.”

In the darkness of the night, in the swell of the qi from the stadium, in the way Wen Cheng bit his lip so hard he could smell that drop of blood, David knew this to be the truth - knew why Daoist Bo was so sure her songs belonged to her.