Chapter Forty-Nine: Commentary on the Great Cloud Sutra (Part Two)

Shanglin Quarter, Yiyang Princess’ Residence—Quan Ce was deeply aware of his own unfilial nature.

His parents were never warm people, their emotions rarely shown. Yet, in the end, he was their flesh and blood, their legitimate firstborn. Seeing his miserable state, Quan Yi was thrown into utter disarray, ordering all the servants and attendants out of the house, summoning doctors and medicines. In his panic, a few servants, not quick enough in their tasks, were beaten to death.

From the moment the Princess Yiyang saw him, she was unsteady, trembling whether seated or standing, her eyes rimmed red, covering her nose and mouth to muffle her sobs. She did not allow herself to cry aloud, but sat at his bedside, holding his hand, lips quivering yet unable to speak.

Quan Ce could not speak either. As mother and son, father and son faced one another, it was always the parents whose gaze drifted away. They dared not look, could not bear to see, and were filled with guilt—though Quan Ce could not understand why.

The first group of doctors arrived. The one in front was young, his goatee striking, his presence stern. He checked Quan Ce’s pulse, then methodically probed and massaged his bones and flesh. Once again, he took the pulse, sighed, shook his head, and left. As soon as he crossed the threshold, every part of Quan Ce’s body he had touched throbbed with pain like needles, his insides churning, his organs seeming to shift places. Yet Quan Ce felt relieved—at last, he no longer needed to pretend. His whole body convulsed with pain, cold sweat soaking the bedding.

The next group of physicians, noting his condition, grew all the more cautious. Colleagues are always rivals; none wished to seem less skilled. They checked his pulse and tongue, bustled about, exchanged alarmed glances—according to their diagnosis, blood and energy flowed in reverse, the internal organs showed signs of exhaustion. They shook their heads, refused all fees, and took their leave.

The second batch of doctors displayed better teamwork, consulting at length but finding no answer. Only one, with a bristling moustache, worked alone, examining and massaging Quan Ce for a long time until all pain vanished from his body. Quan Ce gave the doctor a complicated look.

Even so, the doctor maintained his composure, shook his head with a sigh, and departed.

The next day, his aunt, Princess Gao’an, sent several physicians from Chang’an, including two imperial doctors. Before they arrived, Quan Zhong led in a bearded country doctor. In these desperate days, any doctor was welcomed. The newcomer reached to check the pulse, to massage, and Quan Ce complied, tense with anticipation. As expected, the familiar agony returned.

Even the imperial doctors from Chang’an debated at length to no avail. The grey-haired imperial physician, moved by pity, stroked Quan Ce’s face: “In all my years, I have never seen such an illness, nor such strength of will. Even in this weakness, the title of General suits you well.”

“Indeed,” another added, “the General’s filial piety and determination move heaven and earth. I always thought the phrase ‘one’s organs burning with grief’ was mere figure of speech. Never did I imagine the ancestors’ words would prove so apt here.”

Hearing that her eldest son was beyond saving, yet enduring such torment, Princess Yiyang broke down, wailing as she clung to Quan Ce, fainting from grief. Quan Zhu and Quan Luo wept aloud, and Daisy tried to dash herself against a pillar, only to be seized by Pomegranate. The bedchamber filled with cries of sorrow.

In the courtyard, Quan Yi’s mind replayed scene after scene—his timid son, his heroic son, his rebellious son, his inscrutable son, and now, his dying son. He collapsed to his knees, gazing skyward, his parched lips trembling.

Zheng Zhong knelt beside him, knocking his head to the ground dozens of times in ritual obeisance.

Seeing this, even those in the know—Quan Zhong and Shazha Fu—could not remain unmoved. They bowed their heads, kneeling behind.

“Ping’an?” Third Aunt Zhu cried out, only to see little Ping’an, just learning to walk, totter over and kneel beside Shazha Fu, the person he was closest to.

Sobbing, Third Aunt Zhu could only cover her mouth and weep. “Heaven, open your eyes! The eldest is such a good child, he does not deserve this suffering.”

As night fell, Quan Li rushed back in haste from the countryside outside Luoyang, having sought out a village healer rumored for ten miles around for his skills.

The man, though disheveled and filthy, was welcomed with utmost respect—desperate times called for desperate measures. He went through the familiar routines: pulse-taking, massage, turning Quan Ce this way and that. At last, he finished, leaving behind a cryptic remark: “Read more strange tales in the future,” and strode off.

By now, the family was so accustomed to this procession of doctors that their gloom had not yet solidified when Quan Ce opened his eyes and called out, with effort, “Mother, Father.”

“My son, my son is awake!” Princess Yiyang’s emotions surged wildly; she nearly lost control, and her legs gave way. Quan Ce, attempting to rise and support her, was too weak after days of illness, and the two collapsed together.

Though the illness had passed, Quan Ce still needed time to recuperate. He kept to his small courtyard. With a thousand cavalry from the Northern Barracks arriving in Luoyang, he could no longer avoid appearing. Forcing himself to rally, he settled them as Empress Wu decreed, at Xuanwu Gate, ordering all routines and drills to continue as before.

On the return journey, weakened, he rested at an inn and there met again the doctor whose treatments had brought him such agony.

“Your subordinate, Astrologer, greets his lord,” the man said, shedding his disguise—he was not yet thirty, neat and clean.

“So you don’t really have a beard,” Quan Ce chuckled. “Every time you appeared, your facial hair changed. Amusing. You’re so young, yet so skilled—does this run in your family?”

“I traveled with my master since childhood,” Astrologer replied sheepishly. “I never learned true healing, but picked up plenty of tricks to harm others. In fact, I’ve even surpassed my teacher at that—he didn’t like it and drove me away.”

Quan Ce laughed heartily, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re quite the oddity. But remember—sometimes, the tricks that harm can also save lives. Sometimes, you save far more people than those who only heal.”

Astrologer nodded vigorously, his face beaming with the joy of recognition.

The winds turned back toward Chang’an. Quan Ce’s brush with death had been real; even the imperial doctors were powerless. All suspicion of feigning illness vanished, and the powerful families of Chang’an were soon distracted by more pressing matters. Xue Huaiyi gathered nearly a hundred monks from both capitals to expound the Great Cloud Sutra, making a grand spectacle of it.

But what was the Great Cloud Sutra? For a while, paper was worth its weight in gold in Chang’an as the sutra sold out repeatedly. Yet anyone with sense, after a casual glance, could see the truth—though all remained silent.

It was Princess Taiping who first broke the silence, visiting Princess Gao’an and, in the name of both aunts, bestowing generous gifts of medicines and tonics for their nephew’s recovery.

Afterward, Wu Chengsi sent his eldest son, Wu Yanji, to the Eastern Capital to pay respects to the Cavalry General, gifting Princess Yiyang a thousand taels of gold and two hundred thousand strings of cash.

Quan Ce smiled. His ruse had fooled the Li family—they would not seek revenge over the Great Cloud Sutra, but might even be moved by his supposed suffering. The Wu family, having gained their share, would be busy appeasing him for now. Even the Buddhist and Daoist communities would steer well clear. Empress Wu was pleased. All were satisfied.

His goal was achieved. Though much of it was less than honorable, and though he exploited the love of parents, friends, and elders, he had no regrets. He had to show some measure of cunning; he could not allow all parties to squeeze and force him. Otherwise, he would be pushed over the edge, damned forever.

To live well—that was the greatest justice.

He wiped his face; his hand came away wet.

Tears—the most useless thing in this world.