The mid-year sunbeams sear the summer sky,
The quiet words demand no soft reply.
Though footsteps slip amidst the material maze,
The opening Fa restores the ancient ways.
The Carpet of Fire
Mid-summer arrived, searing heat stretching across the streets like a carpet of fire, burning every object in its wake. The relentless drone of cicadas echoed through the expanse, an unceasing overture of the season.
Rare patches of shade beneath ancient branches served as temporary sanctuaries for weary footsteps, where men sought a pocket of peace amidst the stifling atmosphere. Hoa Long walked his trajectory with absolute stillness, free from urgency and empty of panic.
A Mundane Encounter
Days later, he crossed paths with an old colleague at a different tea stall—a quiet clearing where the two men had once read the texts and clarified the facts together. The senior had entered cultivation over a year prior, his foundational capacity proving exceptional in the beginning.
During his early days of Fa-study, the Master had permitted him to witness the spinning of the Falun, a mystical manifestation rarely granted to the eyes of ordinary men. During meditation, his physical frame had grown weightless, as if untying itself from mortal gravity. Every circumstance visiting his life unrolled into clear answers within the Fa. He had rejoiced, yet refused to boast with a loud voice, quietly accumulating diligence upon his path.
A Brief Conversation
That afternoon, while drinking tea beneath the shade, the senior practitioner questioned softly, his tone carrying a genuine, protective care:
“How has your cultivation progressed lately?”
Hoa Long offered only a few words, omitting the details of his severe crucibles and downplaying the hardships he had surpassed. He spoke softly, like a whisper rising from the deepest corridors of his soul:
“At times, the path resembles a complete halt. Yet in truth, it means anchoring oneself to stand firm.”
The senior listened in silence, his gaze caked in heavy thought. Then abruptly, he spoke, his voice saturated with deep self-reproach and sorrow:
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“I… have likely fallen from the ranks.”
A Famed Crucible Fails
He detailed his collapse: Initially, his household intended only to upgrade their tiled roof into a concrete structure on the second floor, a simple and necessary labor. Yet human ambition expanded, like a tree driving its roots deep into the soil. Ultimately, instead of a simple upgrade, they erected a massive four-story building, a structure far exceeding their capacity. The costs mounted, and debts piled high, resembling invisible chains binding his spirit.
The hours destined for the True Scripture of the Great Fa and the exercises vanished, swallowed by the frantic vortex of finance and labor. Day after day, his mind remained caked in stone, mortar, and dry metrics; his Righteous Thoughts withered away, like an oil lamp flickering before a northern gale.
Ultimately, he strayed from the Fa. He had fallen. No physical illness had struck his frame, and no sudden persecution had forced his hand. Yet a vivid sense of falling through dimensions gripped him, a regression in cultivation that he independently perceived. But the hour had turned late, like a vessel drifted far from the shore, struggling to find its way back.
The Absence of Casual Comfort
Hoa Long offered no hollow solace. He refrained from telling him not to grieve, and refused to claim that everything would magically settle into order. He understood that superficial comfort could never pierce the depths of his companion’s agony and regret.
He merely questioned, his tone calm yet carrying severe gravity:
“Do you still desire to cultivate?”
The senior nodded, his eyes holding a fragile hope and a deep hunger:
“I do. Yet each time I open the text, chaos disrupts my mind, like thousands of hornets swarming through my brain. My sleep dissolves into frantic, fragmented dreams without beginning or end. I cannot sit for ten minutes before my consciousness wavers relentlessly.”
Hoa Long understood with absolute clarity. Those were the maneuvers of interference—unpure forces desperately trying to drag a practitioner away from the path of cultivation.
The Stripped-Bare Truth
He spoke slowly, each word engraving itself deep into the listener's consciousness:
“Throughout antiquity, whenever a seeker fell from the ranks of a Dao cultivation, fated opportunities rarely materialized again.”
The senior lowered his head, resembling a withered tree buckling before a gale. It was a stripped-bare truth, harsh yet demanded by the moment.
“However,” Hoa Long continued, his tone abruptly surging with a powerful, commanding resonance, like a sudden sunbeam shattering the midnight gloom, “cultivating the True Scripture operates differently. A gateway remains open to forge your path anew. Yet the crucibles ahead… will bear a far more devastating weight.”
The statement stood as an uncompromising warning, yet breathed a monumental encouragement. It offered a final covenant, bound tightly to trials a thousand times more ruthless. The trajectory to enlightenment never offered a smooth passage, yet with the True Scripture, the gates of hope remained wide for those who possessed a genuine heart, desiring to return to the cosmic Truth.
Canto 72 — Summer's Heat, the Wordless Vow
The mid-year sunbeams sear the summer sky,
The quiet words demand no soft reply.
Though footsteps slip amidst the material maze,
The opening Fa restores the ancient ways.