Chapter 2: Prosperity Brought the Buddha, Chaos Brought the Tao

For over three years, Wang Xiaoqiang had honed his skill in reading people—speak human language to humans, ghost talk to ghosts. He was a master of respect, subtle and sharp as a blade. With a few taps on his phone screen, the map navigation lit up, showing the destination.

Wang Xiaoqiang’s face instantly clouded. “Master Daoist,” he said, voice tinged with hesitation, “you’re heading out of the city—almost to the provincial border. That’s over four hundred kilometers. Taking a ride like this? It’ll cost you a fortune.”

The Daoist waved a hand dismissively. “No matter. Just tell me how much.”

Wang Xiaoqiang tapped his fingers together mentally. “I’ll drive you there, but I’ll have to come back empty-handed. So, cover my return fuel and toll fees—add it all up, about nineteen hundred yuan. Not enough, and I won’t go.”

The Daoist blinked slowly, eyes glinting. Then, with a grand wave of his hand: “Fine. But make sure you get me there.”

Wang Xiaoqiang nearly bit through his own tongue. His heart sank—he’d just run into a real big spender. He regretted every word he’d spoken, wishing he could slap himself across the forehead. But words were out. He straightened his spine and said, “Don’t worry, Master Daoist. I’m a man of integrity. If I don’t deliver you safely, you can file a complaint. Come on, let me help you with your luggage.”

He popped open the trunk and reached for the Daoist’s carry-on. The old man lifted it effortlessly and handed it over. Wang Xiaoqiang caught it—and nearly dropped it. His arm plunged downward under the sudden weight.

*Damn. Fifty kilos at least.* Airline baggage fees would be astronomical. Luckily, he worked out regularly—had some serious muscle. He gritted his teeth, steadied the bag, and slid it smoothly into the trunk. The Daoist raised an eyebrow, eyeing him with quiet curiosity.

Wang Xiaoqiang opened the rear door. “Please, sir.” As he stepped in, the heavy vest strapped across his chest clanked with each movement—*clang, clang*—like loose lead bars rattling inside.

The Daoist glanced down at the bulging fabric beneath the oversized sports jacket and chuckled. “Young friend, afraid of muggers? You wearing body armor?”

Wang Xiaoqiang laughed nervously. “Ah, Master Daoist, you’re too kind. I just enjoy working out. But driving’s my job—no time to hit the gym. So I wear this weighted vest to build strength.”

The Daoist nodded slightly. “That thing’s not light. Don’t strain yourself.”

“Twenty pounds or so,” Wang Xiaoqiang shrugged. “Not bad.”

The Daoist raised his eyebrows again, said nothing more.

The car turned left, smoothly merging onto the highway, speeding toward the distant horizon.

Once aboard, the Daoist closed his eyes, meditating. From the rearview mirror, Wang Xiaoqiang stole glances. Suddenly, the Daoist snapped his eyes open—sharp, piercing, like a blade slicing through fog. Xiaoqiang jolted, nearly veered into the median. Heart pounding, he steadied himself and focused on the road.

Then the Daoist spoke, voice calm. “What’s wrong? Why keep looking at me?”

Wang Xiaoqiang grinned. “Sorry, Master Daoist. Truth is, I’ve driven for over three years—picked up tens of thousands of passengers from all walks of life. Real monks, fake monks, nuns too. But you? First time I’ve ever picked up a Daoist. Please don’t take offense.”

The Daoist waved it off. “Just a few less customers. Nothing special.”

Wang Xiaoqiang arched his brows dramatically. “You know, our job’s like a barometer for the economy. Who rides, who doesn’t—it tells you everything. There’s real wisdom in it. They say, ‘In prosperous times, Buddhism thrives; in chaos, Daoism rises.’ Now, with wars breaking out all over the world… could we be entering another age of turmoil?”

He glanced sideways at the Daoist through the mirror. The man looked eastward, silent for a long moment, then said quietly, “I’m just returning home to visit family. You’re imagining things, young man. Haha.”

For some reason, hearing that made Wang Xiaoqiang exhale—relief washing over him like warm water.

The Daoist continued, “Last time I came here, no highways. Now look at this place—everything’s changed in a blink.”

“Yeah,” Wang Xiaoqiang replied, “it’s grown fast. But we’re still grinding every day—eating less than pigs, working harder than oxen, sleeping later than dogs, waking earlier than chickens.”

He sighed. “Meanwhile, you’re living in peace, cultivating inner stillness. Eating organic food, breathing fresh mountain air, drinking pure spring water. We’re stuck inhaling exhaust fumes all day. Honestly? I envy you.”

The Daoist burst into laughter—loud, sharp, almost shrill. “You’ve been watching too many stories. True cultivation isn’t easy. Far from the dreamy picture you paint.”

And so they chatted—offhand, casual, drifting from daily chores to global conflicts. Wang Xiaoqiang’s endless stream of anecdotes flowed freely, a testament to his gift for rambling conversation.

Fifty kilometers from the destination, they exited the highway. The road became national route, then rural roads. Thanks to Skyrealm Nation’s deep infrastructure push, even country lanes were now paved concrete. The road wasn’t bad—but narrow. Passing oncoming traffic meant finding a wide spot, stopping, waiting. It took patience.

Another ten kilometers in, signs of civilization faded. Mountains rose on all sides, dense forests stretching endlessly. The road turned to dirt, narrower still, bumpy and uneven.

Wang Xiaoqiang cracked the window. A breath of crisp, pine-scented air rushed in. He inhaled deeply—awake, alive. The Daoist exhaled sharply, as if tasting something long forgotten.

“City air,” the Daoist murmured, “isn’t exactly fresh.”

There was a teasing edge to it. Wang Xiaoqiang scratched his head, unsure what to say. Guilty conscience flared—he was part of the problem, after all.

Six more kilometers ahead, they reached a forest trail fork. The Daoist pointed. “Here’s fine. No need to go further.”

Wang Xiaoqiang parked. He opened the trunk, pulled out a large duffel bag, and handed it over.

As the Daoist turned to leave, a thought struck him—bold, sudden. He stepped forward, called out:

“Master Daoist! Wait!”

The man turned.

Wang Xiaoqiang swallowed hard. “I love working out. I’ve read tons online—learned a lot. I even tried the *Yi Jin Jing*. Historical records say it’s a Daoist internal art passed down through generations. I’ve practiced it for years. But honestly? Feels just like morning calisthenics. No real change. I wonder… could you give me a little guidance?”

The Daoist stared at him—surprised, then thoughtful. He held his gaze for two full minutes. Wang Xiaoqiang squirmed under it, feeling like ants swarmed under his skin.

The Daoist raised his left hand, silently forming a series of finger mudras. His lips moved, whispering incantations only he could hear. Then he turned eastward, silent for a long while.

Finally, he spoke. “Daoist arts aren’t taught lightly. You’re not in my sect—by rules, I shouldn’t teach you. But… there’s some connection between us. Very well. I’ll perform the form once. How much you absorb depends on your destiny.”

Wang Xiaoqiang stepped forward immediately, bent his body 90 degrees, hands clasped in salute. “Thank you, Immortal Master, for your teaching.”

The Daoist snorted, grinning. “You’ve called me ‘Master Daoist’ all the way here. Now suddenly ‘Immortal Master’?”

Wang Xiaoqiang bowed deeper. “When a man pushes his limits beyond mortal reach—that’s immortality. When the path of the immortal leads to godhood… you’ve already walked that road. I’m forever grateful for your wisdom.”

The flattery was thick, almost absurd. But the Daoist laughed—hard, loud, his voice high-pitched, his grin wide, almost lecherous.