More importantly, William Grant was well aware that his own father, Henry Clark, prided himself on being a great master of Neo-Confucianism and was especially averse to matters of Buddhism and Daoism. Once, during a military affair between the imperial court and the Yunmeng Empire, the emperor summoned a Daoist priest to inquire about omens, but Henry Clark immediately admonished him and even rebuked the priest in court: “Charlatans pretending to be mystical, trying to influence the state and control sacred artifacts—this is simply absurd.”

In such an environment, William Grant had no way to come into contact with Daoist priests. What’s more, ordinary Daoists, in order to refine elixirs and burn mercury, would always seek the favor of the powerful. With William Grant’s status as an insignificant concubine’s son, no extraordinary person would bother to approach him.

“There are many methods of cultivation in the world, but the goal is nothing more than to transcend life and death. Broadly speaking, there are two main categories. One focuses on refining the spirit and soul, known as ‘immortal arts.’ The other focuses on refining the physical body, known as ‘martial arts.’ The cultivation of immortal arts is essentially about training one’s own thoughts, with many methods, but ultimately there are just ten realms: calming the mind, out-of-body, night roaming, day roaming, controlling objects, manifesting form, possession, seizing bodies, thunder tribulation, and yang spirit. As for the realms of martial arts, I do not know them. Lady Carter herself is a master of boxing, and she can explain a thing or two to you.” Elder Foster.

“After calming the mind, one can be still; after stillness, one can be at peace. This is the principle for scholars. Since cultivating the spirit is the first step in immortal arts, calming the mind is indeed necessary. When reading or writing, the first step is also to quiet the mind and gather one’s thoughts, so as to be fully focused. If your thoughts are scattered and your mind is restless, you won’t be able to do anything well.”

William Grant listened to these new things, combining them with the principles of scholarship, and pondered them quietly.

“As for matters of cultivation, they are as numerous as the stars in the sky and can’t be explained all at once. In my humble abode, I actually have quite a few books on cultivation. I brought them out when the Great Chan Monastery was destroyed years ago. You may browse through them, sir. There are many things I still don’t understand and need you to explain.”

“Hmm? Mr. Foster has a collection of books?” William Grant was taken aback and looked around, only to find that to the south of the secluded valley, there was a stone cave with flickering lights inside.

“Of course I do. In prosperous times, great classics are collected. Now, in our Great Qian Dynasty, it is an unprecedented era of prosperity—even ordinary wealthy families have hundreds or thousands of books. Naturally, we must follow suit. In fact, the reason I invited you here is half to teach these children, and half to have you help organize our books. Sort them into categories—classics, history, philosophy, and literature—so that when these children grow up, it will be easier for them to read. Otherwise, with everything in disarray, it’s truly a headache.”

Mr. Foster put on a pained expression.

Chapter Six: The Secret Canon of the Great Chan Monastery

“Hmm? It’s getting late, I need to go back. Mr. Foster, have a chat with the young scholar today. He seems to be a trustworthy man of letters, and you can let him organize the collection.”

Lady Carter looked up at the sky, then suddenly stood up. With a leap, she was thirty paces away, and after a few more leaps, she disappeared into the mountains and forests.

Lady Carter actually left as soon as she said she would, without the slightest hesitation—clean and decisive.

“Truly a sword-immortal heroine.” William Grant watched Lady Carter’s movements and praised her aloud, but grew ever more curious about this woman’s mysterious identity.

“Sir, you should take a look at my collection.” Mr. Foster seemed eager to show off his books. After chatting for a few sentences, he immediately invited William Grant into the stone cave to view his collection.

The stone cave on the southern side of the valley was clearly the foxes’ dwelling. The cave was large and spacious, at least five or six hundred paces in circumference and five or six people high. Walking inside felt like entering a grand hall, not the least bit confining.

Many small holes had been chiseled into the stone walls, each holding a lit oil lamp. No one knew what kind of oil it was, but it gave off a faint fragrance and produced no smoke. The light was bright and steady, with no flickering.

All four sides of the cave were lined with wooden bookshelves, each filled with books of all kinds—large volumes, small volumes, handwritten manuscripts, stone-printed editions, woodblock prints. The paper varied as well: bamboo paper, sandalwood paper, silk books, sheepskin scrolls, and even cinnabar books and iron certificates!

Beyond the dozens of large bookshelves along the four walls, countless yellowed paper books were piled in the corners. There were incomplete ancient texts and scriptures.

This entire stone chamber, conservatively estimated, held at least a hundred thousand volumes.

Even the “Langhuan Book House” of Henry Clark’s mansion, famous for its collection, could not compare. William Grant had only visited the “Langhuan Book House” at Henry Clark’s mansion when he was a child and his mother was still alive. He was amazed at the number of books there, but after his mother died, he never had the chance to go again.

As for William Grant, he usually read by either saving up money to buy books or borrowing them from others and copying them by hand.

However, good books were rarely available in bookstores, and even harder to borrow. Now, seeing so many books at once, his face immediately showed the expression of someone who had entered a treasure trove. He even forgot to wonder why a den of foxes would have such a vast collection.

“The Tripitaka? Avatamsaka Sutra? Amitabha Sutra? Why are most of these Buddhist scriptures?” William Grant walked up to a large bookshelf, pulled out a book, and opened it. It was a Buddhist scripture, woodblock printed, with an ancient seal on the back reading “Great Chan Monastery”—an old edition that would fetch a good price in a bookstore.

He flipped through a few more books, and on the back of each was also the seal of “Great Chan Monastery.”