HCAW 120

Chapter 120: Peach Source Dream

Darkness stretched endlessly.

Chu Kuang felt as though he were standing in a narrow corridor, feet pressing damp moss, and the chill wind clinging to his face was cold and clammy. A voice rose from the depths of the gloom—a deep, echoing chant, like ten thousand mouths reciting from the abyss, making the ground beneath him hum and tremble:

“To slander the Dharma is to hate and resent the true teachings of the Buddha. The Buddha said: ‘Those who slander the Dharma shall fall into the Great Hell.’”

Whether this was dream or reality, Chu Kuang could no longer tell. Before his eyes, a flash of color suddenly appeared—blood-red arrow flowers burst forth from the cracks of square floor tiles, blazing like flame, spreading outward like a trail of red lamps leading the way.

From the walls of the corridor came even stronger chanting, as if a million monks were reciting sutras behind the walls:

“One kalpa of suffering in the Screaming Hell, One kalpa of suffering in the Mass-Crushing Hell—”¹ Descriptions of the Eighteen Hells (八热地狱), where souls are punished for grave sins. A Kalpa is an extremely long unit of time in Buddhist cosmology—millions or even billions of years. 

Countless blades tore through flesh—Chu Kuang felt as though he were suspended above a mountain of swords. In a low, narrow dungeon, he hung by chains, while guards sneered and drove short blades into his body. The vision shifted—he was forced to kneel upon iron spikes, massive stones pressed against his thighs, blood pouring from every limb.

The chanting went on:

“One kalpa of suffering in the Burning Hell, One kalpa of suffering in the Great Burning Hell—”

Fire was the cruelest torture of all. The guard knew well how to extract pain from his flesh. Sometimes they clamped red-hot shackles on him; sometimes they wrapped him in sheets of heated iron. The pain was beyond endurance. Branding irons scorched his ribs with a hiss that chilled the spine.

“One kalpa in the Black Rope Hell, One kalpa in the Avīci Hell—” ²Avīci: Sanskrit word meaning “uninterrupted” or “without interval” and the lowest and most severe of all hells in Buddhism.

Red-hot iron ropes choked his throat, pushing him to the edge of suffocation. Whips, cudgels, blades—there was no end to the torment. He was in a purgatory of unending suffering.

“One kalpa in the Hair-Raising Hell, One kalpa in the Blazing Blister Hell—”

Icy brine was poured over his head, sending new wounds screaming with the agony of blades and needles, pain burrowing into bone. His body burned with fever, but the cold gnawed at him too—it was a clash of extremes.

Finally, the overlapping voices intoned:

“—Those who slander the Dharma shall suffer eight full kalpas in the Eight Hot Hells, enduring great torment.”

The pain devoured Chu Kuang like a tidal wave. Though still faintly breathing, he felt worse than dead. In a flash, he plummeted into bottomless darkness.

Who knew how long passed, before a faint light glimmered in the void. A many-branched lamp slowly lit, outlining the figure of a young man. The Gu Bi Guard sat beneath it in dark armor, his helmet gleaming, Panguan Brush at his waist. He looked younger than usual—like he had during the days when he followed Emperor Bai into battle. His expression was calm.

“Toanfu Guard,” he said, “do you know why I hate you? Why I’ve tormented you so?”

Chu Kuang stood in the shadows, staring coldly at the dream figure. “I’m not the Tianfu Guard. I don’t know what grudge lies between you.”

The Gu Bi Guard gave a mocking laugh. He rose, and the arrow flowers bloomed at his feet, weaving scenes behind him like paintings: frost-heavy drums, chariots thundering, rolling over the land of Xian Mountain; then a vast, desolate wilderness lit by ghostly flames.

“Long ago, Emperor Bai led an expedition to Guixu. The closer we drew, the more soldiers froze to death in the icy wastes. To reduce losses, the Emperor ordered me to garrison this place.”

As he spoke, the arrow flowers petals unfurled, painting a bleak vision: white grass, yellow clouds, barren stony plains. No soul in sight. A few wild geese swept past, like careless brushstrokes on an old scroll. The Gu Bi Guard sighed:

“See? That was Daiyu in the beginning—desolate, covered in smoke and weeds. I guarded this place for countless autumns, short on food and clothing. My men fell to the cold one by one—until only I remained.”

Chu Kuang stayed silent. The flowers shifted—he saw a lone figure gazing at the Ming Sea, flesh worn away with the years, a once-proud back now stooped.

“Emperor Bai and the Tianfu Guard never returned. I was left alone. Five years? Ten? A hundred? I cradled the bones of my fallen comrades, living here alone through ages uncounted. But you never fulfilled your promise. You cast me aside—left me here to rot!” The Gu Bi Guard suddenly rose, his expression twisting into fury.

“So I built Daiyu—this city of nine avenues and three markets, of music and splendor—greater than the one Emperor Bai once ruled. This is my dream—my peach source land!”

In a blink, thousands of red arrow flowers blazed in the dark like a raging fire, shaping grand buildings, pavilions, and towers of Daiyu. The Gu Bi Guard’s silhouette stood at the center like a lone lead actor on stage.

Chu Kuang said calmly, “Everything here is a dream. The people in it are false. Gu Bi Guard, to sustain this illusion, you used the power of the ‘Immortal Elixir.’”

He asked again, “Tell the truth—how many living people are left in Daiyu?”

The Gu Bi Guard’s face faltered briefly, tinged with melancholy, but he still smiled.

“None. Not a single one.”

“Hundreds of soldiers from Emperor Bai’s army died here. You used the ‘Immortal Elixir’ to reanimate their bodies, while keeping their minds under your control. That’s how they became Daiyu’s citizens.” Chu Kuang’s gaze was steady and cold, with a hint of sorrow. “But what are you really trying to achieve? A dreamland of mountain and water, filled with the dead, day after day?”

Gu Bi Guard smiled. “What I seek is to build a Peach Source. Not beyond Guixu your emperor chases so bitterly, but right here. Daiyu is the Peach Source I long for. And you, Tianfu Guard—who risked life and limb for your prince as if asking for nothing in return—what, in your heart, is your ‘Peach Source’?”

Chu Kuang said nothing.

He had never thought about the answer. From the moment he was born, his fate seemed already written. “Peach Source” had never mattered to him—he had been born for one purpose: to die as the ‘Emperor Bai’s son.’

Seen in this light, he and Zheng Deli were alike. Only Zheng Deli had more choices. Chu Kuang had no path left.

Suddenly, Gu Bi Guard’s figure blurred into the dark like ink dissolving into night. The world spun, and a new scene unfolded before Chu Kuang’s eyes.

He saw the past—ten years ago. The Fang estate, green waters and cloudy skies, duckweed blooming thick. A youth in a brocade robe embroidered with ink bamboo, sleeves trimmed like arrows, danced with a sword in the practice grounds. Fang Minsheng thrust and cut, the swordlight gliding like dragons and serpents, graceful and fierce.

Wind rustled, and elms and locust trees in the courtyard shed leaves like rain. From the corner of his eye, Fang Minsheng saw movement in the holly tree at the wall’s edge—a small shadow fumbling awkwardly among the branches. He glanced quickly. The boy was dressed in a rough brown robe, face dirty, hands clumsy on the tree. He looked to be about his age. Black, lively eyes stared at him, full of longing.

Fang Minsheng had never seen the boy before. Curious, but he didn’t stop practicing. He continued his swordplay as usual.

Later that evening, he asked the Langgan Guard, “Father, today when I was practicing, I saw a boy climbing the holly tree by the wall. Is that the brother you mentioned?”

Langgan Guard smiled faintly. “So you saw him. What did you think?”

“He’s too weak. Can a body like that really bear the burden of being Emperor Bai’s son?”

“So even you look down on him!” The Langgan Guard burst out laughing. Fang Minsheng muttered, “I just think the future emperor should have a commanding presence.”

“What does a broken body matter? Look again—he’s a new shoot unbroken by stone, a flame unextinguished by storm. Once you truly see him, you’ll understand why we must support him as sovereign.”

Fang Minsheng didn’t yet understand his father’s words. He only felt disappointed. His father had said he was born to sacrifice himself for his brother—but to die for such a frail child, he couldn’t find the meaning.

So the next day, he returned to the practice yard and trained as usual. The little boy came again, climbing the holly tree with clumsy effort, like a fledgling bird. And so it went, day after day. Fang Minsheng had sharp eyes—he noticed the boy’s palms and knees had turned red and raw, the bark scraping his skin bloody. Yet the boy never flinched. He clung to the tree and watched eagerly, eyes full of joy.

He was a child born weak, like a bird with broken wings, short in stature, yet willing to endure pain just to watch Fang Minsheng wield a sword. Sometimes, sharp scolding rang from the servants’ quarters, and the boy showed up on the tree with bruises on his face—clearly beaten. Yet whether in sweltering summer or frigid winter, he always came, eyes bright, gaze locked on Fang Minsheng.

He truly was a tender sprout, beaten down again and again, yet growing stubbornly on. Before long, Fang Minsheng felt a deep pity for him. Though his body was frail, his spirit was tenacious and unyielding.

Fang Minsheng thought: Perhaps a child like that really could become the future of Penglai.

So one day during practice, he finally called out to those shining eyes watching from the shadows:

“Come out. If you want to watch, then watch openly.”

After a long silence, a screen door creaked open. A breeze stirred the blossoms, and bright crape myrtle petals drifted like a rainstorm. A thin, timid figure crawled out from the house, small as an insect. He knelt low like a courtier paying homage, and looked up at Fang Minsheng with wide, glossy eyes.

Fang Minsheng knew: This is the person to whom I will dedicate my life. This is the sovereign I will serve.

Fang Minsheng and Fang Jingyu quickly grew close. Though not of the same blood, they were like twin branches sharing the same shade. Fang Minsheng taught Fang Jingyu to wield a sword, play the bili, shoot a bow, visit temple fairs and watch opera. Fang Jingyu clung to him like a shadow. After learning to circulate qi through his bones, he became livelier, slowly shedding the gloom of earlier years.

When free, they liked to sit on the little ridge behind the Fang estate and gaze at the Ming Sea. Red arrow flowers bloomed around them, burning bright as fire.

Fang Jingyu often said, “If I ever can walk properly, I’ll go outside the pass with Brother Minsheng!” Whenever he said it, his eyes were brilliant, like holding daylight within them. Fang Minsheng would laugh, “The world beyond the pass is vast. Have you decided where to go?”

At that, Fang Jingyu would always fumble and stammer, unable to say. Fang Minsheng once cleaned out the side courtyard and found hidden books on “Da Yuan Dao” in Fang Jingyu’s room. He had scolded him, assuming it was just childish foolishness. Now thinking of it again, he chuckled and asked:

“You don’t really want to be like those Da Yuan Dao disciples and search for the Peach Source beyond the pass?”

Fang Jingyu widened his eyes and asked earnestly, “What’s so great about the ‘Peach Source’?”

“It’s a place untouched by frost or famine, without conflict or chaos—a pure land everyone longs for.”

“But I feel,” Fang Jingyu said, eyes locked with his, voice serious, “that as long as I’m with Brother Minsheng, I’m already in a Peach Source.”

The dream turned to mist and gauze. All the vivid images—green estate, bright blossoms, that child with gleaming eyes—shattered like bubbles. The shell of Fang Minsheng peeled away like a cicada’s husk, and Chu Kuang, battered and bloodied, returned.

Again, he saw the corridor, cold wind biting his skin. The chanting of thousands of monks continued. Amid blazing red arrow flowers and the glow of the branched lamp, Gu Bi Guard smiled and asked:

“Tianfu Guard, where is your ‘Peach Source’?”

He thought, I likely share the same vision as Fang Jingyu. I’ve already offered this life to Penglai’s future. I’ll forge a path with my bones and blood.

He answered:

“Wherever His Highness is—that is my Peach Source.”

The dream shattered.

Agony surged over him like a wave and dragged Chu Kuang back to the present. He hung from iron chains in darkness, pressed against cold stone. The stench of rust filled his nose. Blood poured from his body. The end drew near. He remembered how long he had been locked here—each time the torture nearly killed him, they fed him black meat slices, forcing his shattered heart to beat again. But now, the ‘Immortal Elixir’ no longer gave him strength—only barely kept him alive.

Gu Bi Guard stood before him, holding a short dagger, its tip touching his cheek. The handsome youth wore a cruel smile.

“Tianfu Guard, I’m quite fond of your eye,” he said lightly. “They say such eyes are rare. In ancient times, only the sage kings—King Cang, Emperor Shun, the Lord of Western Chu—had them. In this age, only you.”

The dagger’s tip slid gently along his skin, drawing tiny beads of blood. Gu Bi Guard continued, “I’d very much like to keep your eye as a collectible. It’s a shame you only have one—it can’t be a matching set.” Suddenly clapping his hands with mock surprise, he said, “Ah! I’ve thought of a solution. I’ll gouge it out and feed you ‘Immortal Elixir.’ Once it grows back, I’ll gouge it again—soon I’ll have three or four of them to admire at my leisure.”

He smiled at the blood-drenched young man hanging from the chains, hoping to glimpse fear on his face.

But his calculation failed.

Chu Kuang’s face was calm. A quiet smile touched his lips.

“Come on, then. Whatever you’ve got—bring it all.”

His face was pale as paper. His breath, faint as drifting wind.

“I’ve nothing left in this world to hold me back… and nothing left to fear.”

• 1
  Descriptions of the Eighteen Hells (八热地狱), where souls are punished for grave sins. A Kalpa is an extremely long unit of time in Buddhist cosmology—millions or even billions of years. 
• 2
  Avīci: Sanskrit word meaning “uninterrupted” or “without interval” and the lowest and most severe of all hells in Buddhism.