Fairyland of Sanqing – Stepping into a Painted Realm
The two rode on without pause, the silhouette of Sanqing Mountain gradually revealing itself in the distance—layer upon layer of verdant ridges, veiled in drifting mists, like a paradise on earth. At the foot of the mountain, they dismounted, leading their horses up the winding path. Step by step they ascended, surrounded by strange peaks and fantastical rocks, sheer cliffs and deep valleys, with cloud-bands streaming like silk. The beauty of the scenery cleared the mind and lifted the spirit.
Unknowingly, it was as if they had stepped into a painting, wandering through a celestial realm. In the distance, green gorges and emerald valleys stretched into the horizon; nearby, pine shadows swayed gently. Jagged peaks stood like watchful guardians, the layers of mountains unfolding like a vast scroll before their eyes. The narrow path twisted and turned; now and then, a waterfall would spill from a cliff face, raising a misty spray. Sunlight refracted through the droplets, revealing a fleeting arc of rainbow light, glimmering like a dream.
Sanqing Mountain took its name from the three lofty peaks—Yujing, Yuhua, and Yuxu—likened to the Daoist deities Yuqing, Shangqing, and Taiqing enthroned in majesty. Since ancient times it has been hailed as the "Lesser Huangshan," famed for its precipitous terrain, unique rock formations, and ever-shifting seas of cloud that lend it the air of a divine realm.
They came to a viewing platform and looked out. Between the ridges and valleys, the mists billowed and swirled—now like great waves surging, now like gauzy veils drifting in a celestial dance. The sight was mysterious and ever-changing, as though they had entered the hidden courts of Heaven, a sense of transcendence welling in their hearts.
Zhao Rou stood still, her gaze lingering. "Such wonders," she exclaimed, "are truly like a palace of the immortals!"
Wu Tong, too, gazed at the grandeur before them. Lightly shaking his folding fan, he smiled. "Such beauty belongs only to Heaven. How many times in a lifetime can one encounter it on earth?"
The famed "Four Wonders" of Sanqing—fantastical peaks and rocks, ancient trees and rare flowers, flowing springs and flying waterfalls, seas of clouds and billows of mist—now lay fully revealed before them. Gnarled pines, centuries old, spread their roots like coiling dragons, their trunks standing proud. Waterfalls plunged straight down from sheer cliffs like silver rivers suspended from the sky, their roar echoing through the valleys. Mist rose from below, catching sudden shafts of sunlight to form rainbows arched across the heavens, like celestial bridges flung through the clouds.
Zhao Rou sighed softly, then turned to Wu Tong with a smile. "No wonder they call Sanqing the 'Number One Sacred Mountain Under Heaven.' This sight truly captivates the soul."
Wu Tong nodded. "Neighboring Huangshan shares its strange peaks and rocks. No surprise people call them 'sister mountains.'"
They wandered on, each step revealing new marvels. Occasionally a Daoist temple appeared amid the pines—its halls simple yet dignified, its courtyards steeped in quiet mystery within the mists. Pilgrims came and went; the incense of Sanqing Palace rose in purple threads to the sky, bells and chimes sounding faint and distant, filling the mountain air with a deep Daoist resonance.
Standing atop a cliff, they gazed out over a vast sea of clouds. Peaks and rocks appeared and vanished in the shifting fog, like hosts of immortals riding the mist. Hearts wide open, they let worldly cares fall away.
"This scene," Wu Tong said with a smile, "deserves a verse." Unrolling paper, he wrote:
In the heights of Sanqing, Heaven leans to earth,Clouds wreath Yujing's shadow in endless mirth.Pines and rocks in smoke and light remain unmatched for all time,Flying springs and waterfalls pour from a thousand mountains in prime.Purple-bell tones drift far in empty skies,The Way stays evergreen where the immortal path lies.Today I walk the painted realm of man,My heart rides the wind toward fair Penglai's span.
Zhao Rou read the poem aloud, then laughed lightly. "Brother Tong, your verse has both strength and loftiness—it truly captures the spirit of this place!" They smiled at one another and walked on, venturing deeper into the mountain to seek its secrets.
They made their way toward Sanqing Palace, the Daoist holy site from which the mountain takes its name. Facing north, backed by Nine Dragons Mountain, its gates aligned with the stars of the Beidou and Ziwei, the palace was imposing in scale and solemn in bearing. Within were enshrined the Three Pure Ones—the Primeval Lord of Heaven, the Lord of the Numinous Treasure, and the Lord of the Way and Its Virtue—the creator deities of Daoist belief and its highest venerated figures. Golden roofs and crimson eaves gleamed in the light; the sound of morning bells and evening drums echoed in the valleys. Pilgrims came in an unending stream, bowing with sincerity before the altars.
The day was clear, the air fresh, and the mists swirled about the pines like strands of white silk. Every step seemed to carry them deeper into a living painting—mountains unfolding layer upon layer, clouds rising like an ocean tide, colors shifting with the sun's course. Strange rocks took on the shapes of dragons, immortals, tigers, and phoenixes, each seeming to hold its own spirit.
Through a shaded path they came upon a waterfall plunging a thousand feet, roaring like the voice of Heaven. Spray filled the air; sunlight broke upon it in shimmering arcs of color.
Wu Tong marveled aloud, "Such beauty can hardly be spoken—it must be seen to be believed."
Zhao Rou nodded. "No wonder the ancients praised Sanqing as the greatest of all sacred mountains—truly no empty boast."
As they climbed higher, they came upon the famed "sea of clouds." From their vantage, the mists stretched like a boundless ocean, sometimes forming snow-like peaks, sometimes rolling into silver waves, or winding in jade-like bands, or cascading like the Milky Way itself. At sunrise, golden light spilled across the peaks; at sunset, the sky blazed with crimson and gold, the spectacle beyond words.
They stood in silence, lost in the scene. Zhao Rou murmured, "To live here in seclusion—what more could one ask of life?"
Wu Tong smiled. "The mortal world is full of dust and noise, but to retreat here, even for a time, and feel the mysteries of Heaven and Earth—such is a rare gift."
Just then, the faint toll of bells reached them from deep within Sanqing Palace, the notes long and resonant, as if carrying the essence of the Dao itself. They glanced at each other and smiled, continuing toward the sound.
Under the blue sky and bright sun, the mountain winds swept gently through the valleys, carrying a celestial freshness. It was a place of poetry and painting, lifting the heart toward the clouds.
At length they came to Dragon-Tiger Hall, where two men were locked in combat—shouts and blows ringing out. One was a Daoist priest with long white brows, known as White-Brow Daoist Zhi Xuan; the other, a round-bellied monk called Master Zhenkong. The pair were known throughout the jianghu as the "Two Marvels of Rivers and Lakes"—priest and monk inseparable, their reputations matched.
Today, however, Daoist and Buddhist pride had brought them to blows.
"The breadth and depth of Daoist martial arts," Zhi Xuan sneered, "is something a bald donkey like you could never match."
Master Zhenkong chuckled. "I don't know about others, but with your meager skill, you dare boast?"
Zhi Xuan shot back, "Your Buddhist lot stole Daoist scriptures and turned them into sutras, took our qigong and claimed it as your own—shameless!"
Zhenkong laughed twice, then glanced at the newcomers. "And who can prove such things belong to you? Only your books are scriptures, only you can practice breathing arts? Tell me, young sirs, is that fair?"
Zhi Xuan huffed. "Your 'emptiness' is but our 'nothingness.' You interpret Buddha through Laozi—if that's not theft, what is?"
Wu Tong and Zhao Rou, amused, dismounted to watch. The argument grew hotter—monk speaking of sutras and dharma, priest speaking of the Dao and its mysteries—each eloquent, each convincing, impossible to judge who was right or wrong.
As the sun began to dip, Wu Tong finally stepped forward, clasping his hands. "Honored elders, the hour grows late, and we must seek lodging. We will gladly hear more of your wisdom another day."
Zhi Xuan brightened. "There's a Daoist temple nearby, kept by an old friend. Why not come with us?"
Wu Tong glanced at Zhao Rou. "Shall we?"
She smiled. "As you decide."
"Then we'll trouble you for the road," Wu Tong said.
"Come then," Zhi Xuan replied. "The day wanes—Zhenkong, let us lead the way for our guests."
As they walked, the Daoist murmured, "With Sanqing's clouds and mists, this is a place fit for refining elixirs and cultivating the Way."
Zhenkong gave a dismissive laugh. "And who says it belongs only to Daoists? Were the Buddha to see this place, he too would wish a temple built here—it is a place for worship as well as meditation."
The Daoist snorted. "Bald donkey, you'll oppose me in anything!"
The monk chuckled dryly. "And who can prove this mountain is yours?"
Their voices faded into the wind, and Wu Tong and Zhao Rou followed, both smiling in quiet amusement.