Under One Person: The Taoist Priest Descends the Mountain

Zhuge Qing stood at the crossroads, unfolded the map, looked at it, and walked along a dirt road.

On both sides were loess slopes, covered with thorny vines and wild grasses, which looked particularly lifeless in the morning light.

After walking for about an hour, we turned a corner and a flat area appeared in front of us.

There is a Taoist temple in the middle of the flat land.

The Taoist temple was very small, with only one main hall and two side rooms on each side.

Half of the courtyard wall had collapsed, and the mud bricks lay on the ground, covered with moss and weeds. The roof tiles were sparse, and in some places the rafters were exposed. The rafters were black and rotten, and it was hard to tell whether they were rotten or smoked.

The characters on the plaque above the door are no longer legible, the wood has several cracks, the paint is peeling, and it wobbles in the wind.

Zhuge Qing stood at the door, looking up for a long time. Perhaps it was psychological, but he vaguely made out the character "武" (wu, meaning martial arts). Only half of the character remained, with a horizontal line and a slanted hook that pointed upwards, resembling the lower right corner of the character "武".

He walked around the Taoist temple.

Behind the Taoist temple were several abandoned graves, their mounds long since flattened. If it weren't for a few crooked stone tablets, he might not have been able to tell they were graves. The stone tablets were made of bluestone, their surfaces badly weathered, the inscriptions worn away, leaving only a few shallow engravings.

Further on, there was a dry ditch, its bed covered with small pebbles of all shapes and sizes, white, gray, and yellow. At the bottom of the ditch, there was a puddle of water, its surface tinged with green, with a few rotten leaves floating on it.

Zhuge Qing returned to the main gate of the Taoist temple and stepped inside.

The courtyard was covered with moss, which was slippery and soft underfoot, but Zhuge Qing walked very steadily, stepping on the thickest part of the moss with each step, as if he were walking on the stone path in his own yard.

He walked straight to the main hall.

The main hall's main gate was closed, with the two wooden doors joined together.

Zhuge Qing reached out and pushed the door open.

crunch--

Clang!

The entire door panel was slammed to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. Dust bounced up from the ground, accompanied by a musty smell.

A glowing light spread around Zhuge Qing, weaving a thin curtain of light in front of him. He made a hand seal, and a gentle breeze blew from inside the hall outwards, stirring up dust and scattering it in the courtyard.

The scene inside the hall gradually became clear.

The main hall is not large, only about ten square meters.

In the very center stands a statue of a deity, its paint peeling off to reveal the original grayish-white wood beneath.

The face of the statue was no longer recognizable; a piece of its nose was missing, and only a line remained of its lips. The eyes, however, were still there, with two black pupils staring straight ahead, seemingly looking at something.

On the offering table sat a bronze incense burner, covered in green rust, with very little incense ash remaining inside.

Zhuge Qing's gaze fell on a wooden box next to the offering table.

The box was small, about a foot square, made of natural wood, unpainted, and its lid was spotless, standing out conspicuously among the dust that had accumulated for who knows how many years.

Zhuge Qing walked over and carefully examined the box—it had no lock, no seal, just an ordinary wooden box, confirming that there were no hidden mechanisms.

He gently opened the box.

Inside was a stack of bound A4 papers, white paper with black lettering, completely out of place in this Taoist temple.

Zhuge Qing carefully turned to the first page.

The handwriting is very neat, written with a fountain pen, each stroke is precise and orderly, as if copying a calligraphy model.

He read a few lines, his fingers unconsciously tightening.

"When I woke up, I was inside someone's body."

"His soul was trembling with fear. I could feel that he was afraid of me. He didn't know who he was, nor did he know who I was."

"Actually, I don't know either. I only know that my name is Zhuge Liang, courtesy name Kongming, and I am from Yangdu, Langya. I remember my birthday, I remember my family, and I remember that when I was twenty-seven years old, the late emperor visited my thatched cottage three times, and I wrote the 'Longzhong Plan'."

"But what I remember doesn't seem to be entirely what he remembers."

Zhuge Qing frowned and turned to the second page.

"Later I discovered something—the 'me' in his memory is not quite the same as the self I know."

"He remembers me borrowing the east wind, I remember the empty city stratagem, I remember capturing Meng Huo seven times, and I remember setting up the Eight Trigrams Formation. Some of these things are true, and some are false. There are some things I never did, but he believed them."

"Those stories are wrong. But I need those stories. Without stories, there is no me. Without these stories, I cannot stay in his spirit."

Zhuge Qing turned the pages one by one, faster and faster, the papers rustling in his hands.

"I started reading the books he remembered. He had read the Records of the Three Kingdoms and the Zizhi Tongjian. But he read the Romance of the Three Kingdoms even more. He said it was a novel, made up by later generations, and shouldn't be taken seriously."

"But I read them all."

"The 'me' in the book is more like 'Zhuge Liang' than the real me. He is smarter, more resourceful, and more dedicated. The people praise that version of me, and future generations admire that version of me."

"So I started learning from him."

"I imitated his appearance, his tone, and the way he spoke. The 'Zhuge Liang' in his memory—I began to play the role of the 'Zhuge Liang' in his memory. The more he believed, the more real I became."

Zhuge Qing's hand stopped there, and he stared at that passage for a long time.

Zhuge Qing's hand stopped there, and he stared at that passage for a long time.

The fingers crumpled the paper, then slowly unwrapped it.

He closed his notebook and shut his eyes.

A true Zhuge Liang should not learn from books.

That guy who calls himself Zhuge Liang is not Zhuge Liang.

He is a "personality" born from faith and stories, requiring the host's approval to exist. He must act out the image of Zhuge Liang as the host remembers him.

Then who is the host mentioned in this notebook?

Zhuge Qing put the stack of A4 papers into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and got up to leave.

"Are you a descendant of the Zhuge family?"

The sound came from behind me; it was very soft and sharp.

Zhuge Qing suddenly turned around.

A man stood at the entrance of the hall, wearing a gray jacket, black trousers, and cloth shoes. He had a thin face, high cheekbones, and was looking at Zhuge Qing with his hands behind his back and a smile on his lips.

Zhuge Qing tensed up, on guard: "Who are you?"

The man didn't answer, but looked at the open box and then said, "You read those notes? What were your thoughts?"

Zhuge Qing watched him warily, turning slightly to face a gap in the wall of the main hall—a gap where half of the courtyard wall had collapsed, and beyond that was the outside of the Taoist temple.

"Who exactly are you?"

The man waved his hand: "Who I am is not important. That pile of things you have was given to you by your ancestors, including this thing."

The man pulled a slip of paper from his sleeve and released his grip.

The note didn't fall; instead, it slowly flew towards Zhuge Qing, as if an invisible hand was supporting it. It drifted leisurely for three meters before stopping in front of Zhuge Qing.

Zhuge Qing reached out and took the note, but didn't look at it, still staring at the man: "Who are my ancestors, as you claim?"

The man laughed: "Who else could it be but the renowned Zhuge Liang?"

Zhuge Qing's pupils contracted, but since he had squinty eyes, the person couldn't see him.

Zhuge Qing put the note in his pocket, his voice calm: "How do you know that was Zhuge Kongming? Are you a ghost like him?"

The man chuckled, his laughter echoing in the empty main hall: "You're quite clever."

He straightened his jacket: "You can call me Lao Wei."

Zhuge Qing muttered to himself, "Old Wei?"

The man laughed even harder, his cheekbones puffing out: "Wei, as in Wei Zhongxian."