Chapter Twenty-Five: Dream Garments

The girl in the mural was so lifelike she seemed ready to take flight from the wall. The more Liu Ping gazed at the sorrow etched on her face, the greater his urge grew to protect her. Was “pitiful beauty” a phrase coined just for her?

Such thoughts filled his mind when suddenly he sensed something amiss—his body felt light and limp, as though it were floating away.

Had his soul left his body?

Startled, Liu Ping barely had time to process the sensation before a swirl of clouds drifted toward him. Settling atop the mist, he plunged headlong into the mural.

At once, his perspective shifted, the world turning upside down: before him stretched a vast celestial palace, pavilions and halls layered endlessly upon each other, resplendent in gold and jade, dazzling beyond mortal imagination. They sat upon the clouds, their grandeur awe-inspiring—surely this was no scene of the human realm.

The cloud carried him swiftly to a great hall. Stepping inside, he marveled at the intricate painted beams, exquisite ceilings, vermilion lattice windows, and winding galleries—a spectacle of opulence.

His jaw dropped in astonishment. Wasn’t this a little too extravagant?

He walked further, passing into the inner sanctum, where, directly ahead, an elderly monk in golden robes sat in meditation. Countless monks formed a circle around him, seated upon mats, breathing quietly, faces alight with devout reverence as they listened to the scripture.

The old monk’s expression radiated compassion. His skin was withered, his face deeply furrowed like the bark of an ancient tree. With lips moving softly, he intoned the sacred texts.

Liu Ping approached, found an empty cushion, propped his chin on his hand, and listened. After a while, to his surprise, the old monk began to tell a simple story.

The monk said, “Every day, countless devotees visit the temple, kneeling before the Buddha, faithfully reciting their wishes. The temple sweeper, feeling pity for the overburdened Buddha who must hear all these mortal prayers, said, ‘Great Buddha, you must be weary each day. How about I take your place for a while? Rest yourself.’”

“‘Very well,’ said the Buddha, ‘but you must promise me one thing.’ ‘What is it?’ the sweeper asked.”

“‘While you stand in my place, no matter what you hear from the worshippers, you must not speak a word.’ The sweeper readily agreed, and so took the Buddha’s place. Standing there, he truly could hear the hearts of all the visitors: their wishes, their follies, their rudeness, their laughter, and their sorrows. Many times he longed to speak out, but remembering the Buddha’s warning, he held his tongue.”

“That afternoon, a wealthy man arrived, knelt, and prayed fervently for riches, vowing faithful worship in return. When he left, he forgot his money pouch. Soon after, a beggar came in, praying for relief from his family’s hunger. At that moment, he found the pouch before him, rejoiced, and took it, convinced the Buddha had answered his prayers.”

“Not long after, a traveler about to cross the sea entered, praying for a safe journey. The rich man returned, spotted the traveler, and accused him of taking the money. They fought, and the traveler nearly missed his ship. The sweeper could bear it no longer and cried out, ‘It was a beggar who took your money!’”

“The rich man ran off in pursuit, and the traveler made his voyage. The Buddha then rebuked the sweeper, ‘Why did you speak out?’ ‘But I told the truth!’ the sweeper protested.”

“‘Indeed, it was the truth,’ replied the Buddha, ‘but what of it? The beggar, wrongly accused, fell into despair, and his family starved. The rich man’s money was destined for gambling and vice. The traveler, who caught his ship thanks to you, would perish in a storm with all aboard.’”

“Fate is fickle, destiny unknowable, like a boundless sea of suffering, with no raft to cross…”

At the end of the tale, Liu Ping clicked his tongue in admiration. There was certainly something profound here—who would have thought the mural concealed such hidden wisdom? Once the monk finished his story, he resumed chanting. Liu Ping, quickly bored, glanced around—and to his surprise, spotted a familiar figure far off upon the clouds.

Where had he seen her before? Wait, didn’t she resemble one of the celestial maidens from the mural? Suddenly remembering, Liu Ping sprang to his feet and hurried away.

He reached the hall’s threshold, finding nothing. Unwilling to give up, he began searching for her.

He wandered aimlessly for some time, unsure where he was. The winding paths took him through secluded scenes, until at last he came upon a series of wooden fences. To his astonishment, he found himself standing upon a verdant lawn, the fresh air invigorating his senses.

He walked a few more steps, and from not far away, the faint sound of weeping reached his ears. Frowning slightly, he drew closer, and the sound grew clearer—a girl’s voice, sweet and melodious, but tinged with such sorrow that it was heartbreaking to hear.

Disturbed, he pressed on for dozens of steps, arriving at a small brook. There, beside a great stone, sat a young maiden in a sheer green veil and pink bodice, sobbing quietly behind the rock.

The flowers were dying, and Meng Shang was beside herself with grief. No matter how many times she pulled the hateful weeds, they sprang up again, entwined with the flowers, stealing their nourishment and thriving, while the flowers withered day by day. She was at her wit’s end, unable to find a solution.

The third day of the third lunar month would be the Queen Mother’s birthday, marking the start of the Grand Peach Festival—barely a month away. The decorative flowers were essential, yet at this crucial moment, they were fading. The consequences could be severe, and she feared rebuke and punishment. This only made Meng Shang cry harder.

Surely the exalted immortals would know what to do, but she had no connections, no one to ask for help, forced to watch helplessly as her beloved flowers declined. Even her closest friends seemed to turn a blind eye, deepening her despair.

She had tried to find Lady Hundred Flowers, but the mistress was always traveling, nowhere to be found. With no solution in sight, Meng Shang felt a profound hopelessness.

If she failed to present the required flowers, she would face questioning and blame—who would care for a mere flower sprite? No explanation would suffice.

What to do? Her mind was in turmoil. Was that a voice she heard—a young man’s voice? Someone was asking, “Why are you crying?” But how could a boy be here, in the domain of Lady Hundred Flowers’ nymphs?

Meng Shang was annoyed, blaming herself for her weakness. She’d read so many romantic tales, always wishing for a man to rely on—yet now, in this crisis, why was she still thinking of men? Was she imagining things? How shameful, if anyone found out…

Liu Ping, hearing the growing sobs, was frustrated. He’d called out several times but received no response—were all these celestial maidens deaf? He tried again…

Drawing a deep breath, the crying only set his nerves further on edge. Losing patience, he turned his shout into a scolding—after all, she didn’t seem to hear him anyway—

“Stop crying!”

“Ah!” Meng Shang jumped in fright, letting out a startled cry and nearly falling over as she sat down hard, her tear-stained face lifted in confusion at the sight of a young man. For a moment, she was too stunned to react.

“Um…” Liu Ping felt awkward. He hadn’t expected her to hear him; his outburst had clearly startled her. Would she now think him rude? He was annoyed at himself—it would have been easier just to tap her on the shoulder.

Both stood in embarrassment, staring at each other in silence.

“What are you crying about?” Liu Ping managed a smile as he spoke.

Meng Shang wiped her tears, hesitated a moment, and mumbled, “It’s nothing…”

“Then I’ll be leaving,” Liu Ping replied, turning to go.

Meng Shang was left dumbfounded. Weren’t the gallant heroes in romances always eager to help? Why was this youth so quick to walk away? Did he find her too plain?

Suddenly realizing he really would leave if she didn’t call out, she exclaimed, “Wait!”

Liu Ping turned back. “What is it?”

Meng Shang looked at him pitifully. “There’s something… could you help me?”

Liu Ping’s heart softened. “What is it?”

Meng Shang said, “My garden is overrun with weeds, the flowers are dying. The Peach Festival is coming soon, and if things go on like this, I won’t have flowers to present. I’ll be questioned, perhaps even punished…”

That was a lot of information. Liu Ping’s heart skipped a beat, though his face remained composed. “Take me to see. Perhaps I can help.”

Meng Shang brightened, quickly replying, “Thank you, sir!”

She rose and led the way. Liu Ping looked about and asked, “Where is this place?”

“You’re here and don’t know where you are?” Meng Shang replied, puzzled.

“I ended up here by accident. Naturally, I don’t know,” he answered.

“This is the Realm of a Hundred Flowers, under the rule of Lady Hundred Flowers,” she explained.

Liu Ping asked, “May I know your name?”

“My name is Meng Shang. And you, sir?”

“I am Liu Ping, courtesy name Fengchang.”

“Then I’ll call you Master Liu… Here we are.” Meng Shang pushed open a wooden gate, leading him into a small courtyard.

The garden was choked with weeds—so thick they filled every corner. Liu Ping had thought there would just be a few stray stalks among the flowers, but here the blossoms were mere specks in a sea of grass. He was taken aback.

Wasn’t this a bit excessive?

He couldn’t help but ask, “Was this garden meant for growing weeds?”

Meng Shang pouted. “Master Liu, please don’t joke. Why would I plant weeds?” She looked at him hopefully, asking, “Can you help?”

Liu Ping racked his brains, recalling all the spells and techniques he had learned. After a moment, he replied, “Let me give it a try.”