《沖虛至德真經四解》Vol. 14

During King Mu of Zhou's westward expedition, he crossed the Kunlun Mountains but turned back before reaching Mount Yan. On his return journey to the Central Plains, a tributary state presented a master craftsman named Yanshi. Summoning him, the king asked, "What skills do you possess?" Yanshi replied, "Your Majesty may test me as you wish. I have already created something—please observe it first." The king said, "Bring it another day, and we shall examine it together."

(Lu Zhongxuan's commentary: Divine craftsmanship manifests not only in sound but also in sensory experiences like color, fragrance, and taste. This chapter illustrates the pinnacle of sculptural artistry.)

The next day, Yanshi presented his creation. The king asked, "Who is this accompanying you?" Yanshi answered, "This is an artificial performer I crafted (a 'chang' refers to a singing and dancing entertainer)." To the king's astonishment, the figure walked and bowed exactly like a real person. Moving its chin made it sing in perfect rhythm, raising its hands prompted it to dance in time, with endless variations at will. The king initially mistook it for a living being and even summoned his favorite consort Shengji (the beauty recorded in The Travels of King Mu) and palace maidens to watch.

Near the performance's conclusion, the artificial figure shockingly winked at the king's concubines. Enraged, the king ordered Yanshi executed. In terror, Yanshi immediately dismantled the figure—revealing it was assembled from leather, wood, glue, lacquer, and pigments. Upon close inspection, the king found internally crafted organs and externally simulated sinews, bones, and hair—all meticulously replicated yet fully functional. When reassembled, it restored its lifelike movements.

The king conducted experiments: removing the "heart" rendered the figure speechless; extracting the "liver" made its eyes blind; taking out the "kidneys" left its legs immobile. (Lu Zhongxuan explains: This resembles how mechanisms fail when their central gear is removed, just as human organs affect limbs when diseased. The internal liver, heart, and lungs sustain external sight, hearing, and movement—all governed by the Shen (spirit). Without this spiritual command, functionality ceases.)

This passage recounts the story of the ancient master craftsman Yanshi creating mechanical puppets, along with reflections on human ingenuity "rivaling nature's craftsmanship."

When King Mu of Zhou witnessed Yanshi's wooden automaton moving like a real person, he exclaimed in amazement: "Human skill can actually equal the Creator's work!" He then brought Yanshi to his palace in a secondary carriage. The text mentions that some modern thinkers mistakenly attribute human spirituality to mechanical constructions. The Creator's formative power is exquisitely subtle, capable of generating all things, while human craftsmanship remains crude, merely imitating external forms. Even at its pinnacle, human skill only approaches—never equals—the work of creation.

Examples are given: Lu Ban (Ban Shu) created cloud ladders capable of besieging cities, while Mozi (Mo Di) crafted wooden birds that could fly for three days without landing. Yet when their disciples heard of Yanshi's skill, they dared no longer boast of their craftsmanship for the rest of their lives, humbly adhering to established methods instead. This demonstrates Yanshi's art had reached the sublime level of resonating with the Creator's work, while Lu Ban and others merely mastered mechanical techniques.

The author elaborates further: The true wonder of creation lies in integrating diverse components into an organic whole—seeing, hearing, speaking, walking, and bowing like a living being, as if these actions were innate, with no visible operator. This realm constitutes genuine "skill rivaling nature." Yanshi's creation indeed attained parity with the Creator's work.

Finally, the text employs symbolic mountains: Kunlun (representing stillness) and Yan Mountain (where the sun sets). If one reaches Kunlun without attaining Yan Mountain, though desiring to return from motion to stillness, one cannot truly arrive. This metaphor suggests that pursuing technical skill alone without comprehending the underlying Dao ultimately fails to grasp creation's true essence.

This scripture elucidates the essence of Daoist cultivation and skill mastery through two parables.

The first story recounts how King Mu of Zhou encountered a lifelike wooden puppet crafted by an artisan named Yanshi. The puppet could sing, dance, and move with such natural grace that the king mistook it for a living being. In truth, it was merely an ingenious assembly of leather, wood, lacquer, and pigments. The text uses this to illustrate that while such craftsmanship is already extraordinary, how much more profound must be the attainment of those who truly comprehend the Dao (the Way) and grasp the fundamental nature of all things?

The second story revolves around the legendary archer Gan Ying and his disciples, Fei Wei and Ji Chang. Gan Ying never missed a shot—birds and beasts would fall the moment his arrow flew. Fei Wei studied under Gan Ying and eventually surpassed his master. Later, Ji Chang sought to learn from Fei Wei, who instructed him first to master the art of not blinking before advancing to archery. Ji Chang practiced by lying beneath a loom, staring fixedly at the treadle. After two years, he could remain unflinching even if an awl’s tip grazed his eyelid. Yet Fei Wei declared this insufficient—he next had to refine his vision.

Ji Chang then tied a louse to a window with a yak’s hair and gazed at it daily. After three years, the louse appeared as large as a cartwheel, while other objects loomed like mountains. At this stage, he shot the louse with a bow made of Yan’s ox horn and an arrow of northern reeds, piercing its heart without snapping the suspending hair. When Fei Wei heard of this, he leaped for joy, slapping his chest and exclaiming, “You’ve finally grasped the essence!”

The passage teaches that mastery—whether in skill or Daoist cultivation—begins with foundational training, progressing step by step. It demands unwavering focus and persistence to reach the realm of subtlety. Just as Ji Chang first mastered stillness, then vision, and only then achieved unerring precision, so too must cultivation be pursued with unrelenting dedication to attain the state of understanding all things and acting with effortless spontaneity.

Ji Chang, having mastered the archery skills of Fei Wei (an ancient legendary archer), believed only his teacher remained as a potential rival in the world. He thus sought to eliminate Fei Wei—not literally to kill, but to surpass his master's reputation.

When the two met in the wilderness for an archery duel, their arrows collided midair and fell without even stirring dust. Fei Wei exhausted his arrows first, and when Ji Chang had one remaining, Fei Wei deftly intercepted it with a thorn tip. This scene illustrates their archery had reached the realm of perfection—where skill in the Dao of archery cancels out opposing force, and deflecting an arrow with a thorn embodies the pinnacle of refinement.

Finally, they cast aside their bows, wept, and swore a father-son bond on the road, sealing their oath with a blood pact never to pass on their skills. This spiritual transmission surpassed mere technique, echoing what Bohun Wuren (a Daoist sage) once told Liezi: "If the mind is unsettled, external performance falters." When Ji Chang first trained in archery, he practiced not blinking until he could stare at a louse tied to a horsehair until it appeared as large as a chariot wheel—a reversal of Zhuangzi's teaching that "viewing the minute from the grand obscures clarity."

Fan Yingyuan (a Song Dynasty Daoist) remarked: The strength to pierce willow leaves at a hundred paces can be cultivated, but true accuracy lies beyond human effort. Just as teaching archery must emphasize drawing the bow to its full extent (彀), learners should aim for that fullness—because while technique can be mastered, realms beyond human capacity cannot be forced. Fei Wei surpassed his own teacher Gan Ying precisely by following natural aptitude. Within the body, the heart-mind reigns supreme; externally, the ears and eyes perceive. Only when inner and outer harmonize can skill reach its zenith.

This scripture conveys the essentials of mastering skills through two parables. The first recounts Ji Chang learning archery from Fei Wei. Fei Wei instructed Ji Chang that the first step was to train his eyes not to blink, for the spirit (Shen, inner consciousness) resides in the heart, and its movements are often revealed through the eyes. Only when one achieves complete mental focus can external disturbances cause no fear. Yet merely avoiding blinking is insufficient—ancient courage cultivation demanded the higher state of "not shying away from another's gaze." True masters perceive minute objects as clearly as mountains; a tiny insect resting on their eyelashes appears as massive as Mount Song. This level of spiritual observation enables miraculous feats like shooting down flying swallows or piercing a suspended louse.

The second story tells of Zao Fu learning charioteering from Tai Dou. Initially, Zao Fu approached with great humility, yet Tai Dou taught him nothing for three years. Only when Zao Fu's reverence deepened did Tai Dou enlighten him with an ancient proverb: "The son of a master bow-maker first learns to weave baskets; the son of a master smith first learns to stitch leather." For bending bamboo to make baskets and joining hides to sew garments share fundamental principles with crafting bows and forging metal. Tai Dou had Zao Fu practice walking on narrow stakes barely wide enough for his feet until he could dash back and forth without falling—only then did he teach true chariot-driving.

Both stories illustrate that profound skills must be built from foundational steps, progressing methodically. Like Laozi's analogy of the bellows (tuoyue)—a seemingly simple tool essential to smelting—true mastery lies not in superficial technique but in comprehending the fundamental Dao. The transmission of genuine artistry depends on awakening to this root principle rather than mere outward instruction.

Taizhou (an ancient master charioteer), observing his disciple's rapid progress in chariot-driving, exclaimed: "How swiftly you've learned! Your mastery comes with such speed!" Here, "swift" refers to agility, and "speed" to quickness. Indeed, all arts of charioteering follow this principle.

Lu Zhongxuan (commentator) explains: It's like walking on wooden stakes—distributing your steps as if the stakes were extensions of your feet. As Zhuangzi said, if you dig away all the earth beyond where your feet touch, a person cannot stand firm. The same applies to handling horses—only when the horse's hooves move as nimbly as your own feet can you claim true skill.

Previously when walking, your foot movements instantly registered in your mind. Now when driving, the tension of reins and bits should become as natural as breathing, with rhythm governed by your heart and movements controlled through your palms. When the mind is tranquil, external actions harmonize with the horse's will—then the chariot's advance and retreat become precise as treading a taut rope, and turns conform perfectly to measure. Even long journeys require no exertion—this is true mastery of charioteering.

The essence lies in this: the sensation from the bit transmits to the reins, from reins to hands, from hands to heart. Then you need neither fix your eyes nor wield the whip. With mind serene and posture upright, the six reins remain perfectly ordered, all twenty-four hooves (of six horses) strike with flawless coordination—every turn, advance or retreat executed impeccably, even the chariot bells resonating in harmony.

Having attained this state, your wheels leave no extraneous tracks beyond their path, your horses' hooves occupy no superfluous ground. Whether traversing perilous gorges or open plains, all appears equally effortless. My art is now fully transmitted to you.

When walking, what a person truly uses is merely the space beneath their feet. The unused ground beside one's feet seems daunting because of mental tension and physical stiffness. But with mind peaceful and body coordinated, advances and retreats follow natural rhythm, speed and slowness find proper measure. This subtle principle applies not only to oneself but extends to handling horses. Even with multiple reins and numerous hooves, proper regulation prevents disorder. Thus wheels need no reliance on extra ruts, nor hooves on surplus ground—is this not the very truth?

Lu Zhongxuan further cites Zhuangzi's butcher Ding carving oxen: "Between the ox's joints are spaces, and the blade's edge has no thickness—thus there's ample room to maneuver." This illustrates how understanding principles brings ease. By not fixating on unused ground beyond one's feet, the mind stays focused. With focused mind, footsteps follow the heart's intent effortlessly. Apply this same wisdom to reins and bits—the principle remains identical.

The passage employs the metaphor of charioteering to elucidate that the key to cultivating the Dao lies in grasping fundamental principles through repeated practice, ultimately attaining a state of natural mastery.

The art of charioteering operates thus: When walking across narrow wooden bridges, people precisely calculate their steps, leaving just enough space for their feet. Applying this principle to driving a chariot means leaving no excess wheel tracks beyond the wheels' path and no unnecessary space beyond the horses' hoofprints. Whether traversing perilous mountain valleys or open plains, one moves as effortlessly as walking on level ground. The essential points are: externally, one must harmonize with the horses' nature, using subtle rein and bit control to regulate speed; internally, one must maintain mental precision while mastering rhythmic hand movements. Thus when driving, every advance, retreat, and turn conforms to proper measure, and long journeys require no excessive effort.

A truly masterful charioteer achieves this: needing neither visual confirmation nor whip encouragement, all movements perfectly appropriate as if born with the skill—this is the realm of "expert charioteering." Like Ji Chang learning archery from Fei Wei, where the master first taught him to practice unblinking focus; or Zaofu learning charioteering from Taidou Shi, where the instructor first had him observe rhythmic footwork. These examples all demonstrate that true skill isn't directly taught, but rather guided until one personally apprehends its subtleties.

Cultivating the Dao follows the same principle ("Zhenghe" refers to governing the world's affairs). Without fundamental inner understanding, external actions lose direction; lacking proper guiding principles, practice cannot endure. Therefore Dao cultivation must begin with repeated practice—only upon genuine mastery do these principles become second nature. Just as an expert bowyer's son first learns basket-weaving, or an accomplished smith's son begins with leather-stitching, these are all foundations for developing fundamental skills.

This scripture illustrates the state of "attaining the Dao" and the limitations of worldly hatred through two parables.

The first story tells of the master charioteer Taidou and his art of horsemanship. When first learning to drive, he needed complete concentration to control the reins and adjust speed, with every movement strictly following prescribed techniques. As his skill matured, he gradually reached the state of "unity between man and horse" where the reins' movements corresponded with his hands, his hands' motions connected with his mind, until eventually he needed neither eyes to see nor whip to urge - his mere intention could guide the horses freely, completely transcending technical constraints. This demonstrates how the true "Dao" surpasses formal techniques, achieving a state where one follows one's heart without overstepping boundaries.

The second parable recounts Lai Dan's quest to avenge his father. The Wei state's Hei Luan had murdered Qiu Bingzhang due to personal enmity, and the victim's son Lai Dan swore vengeance. Though burning with rage, his frail body couldn't even wield weapons. Ashamed to rely on others' strength, he vowed to kill Hei Luan personally. Yet Hei Luan possessed extraordinary physical resilience that repelled blades. Lai Dan's friend Shen Ta pointed out: "Hei Luan utterly despises you - how do you plan to take revenge?" Reduced to tears, Lai Dan could only beg for help.

Through these contrasting tales, the scripture reveals how the true "Dao" transcends formal constraints as the supreme state, while worldly hatred traps people in predicaments. Taidou's horsemanship evolves from following techniques to surpassing them, demonstrating the cultivator's ascension from "skill" to "Dao." Conversely, Lai Dan's revenge story exposes the limitations of those blinded by personal grudges.

This tale recounts the legend of three divine swords. Kong Zhou possessed three marvelous swords named Hanguang ("Embracing Light"), Chengying ("Catching Shadows"), and Xiaolian ("Night Forge"). The first sword, Hanguang, was completely invisible to the eye—its presence couldn't be felt when swung, left no trace upon objects, and items it sliced wouldn't even register being touched. The second, Chengying, revealed only faint silhouettes when observed against light at dawn or dusk, emitting soft whispers upon contact yet causing no harm. The third, Xiaolian, cast shadows by day without revealing its form, glowed at night without showing its shape, and passed through objects instantaneously, leaving wounds that healed immediately—swift yet never scarring. These three blades had been passed down through thirteen generations, never once used to harm anyone, always kept sheathed in their cases.

Lai Dan (a character in the story) insisted on borrowing the most ordinary of these swords to seek revenge. Kong Zhou returned Lai Dan's wife and children to him, instructing him to observe seven days of purification (Zhaijiao) before kneeling at dusk to receive the blade. Lai Dan used it to strike his enemy Hei Luan three times across the neck and waist while the man lay drunk—yet Hei Luan remained oblivious. Believing his foe dead, Lai Dan departed, only to encounter Hei Luan's son whom he likewise thrust at three times—as if stabbing empty air. The son even laughed, saying, "Why are you waving at me so foolishly?" Only then did Lai Dan realize this sword couldn't kill. Sighing, he withdrew. Later when Hei Luan sobered up, he merely complained to his wife about catching cold while drunk, feeling throat pain and back stiffness. His son mentioned someone making strange gestures at him, completely unaware of being pierced by a sword.

Through the swords' extraordinary properties, this passage illustrates the Daoist principle that "the most refined essence (Jing) and the highest Dao harm nothing." Like precious artifacts that never truly injure, while common tools may cause harm, these three divine swords—the more marvelous they were, the less actual damage they inflicted—embody the Daoist wisdom that "great skill appears clumsy" (Da qiao ruo zhuo).

There was a man named Lai Dan who called at my gate three times, causing me physical discomfort and stiffness in my limbs. Was he showing contempt for me?

Lu Chongxuan (Tang Dynasty Daoist master) explains: Those who have truly attained the Dao do not harm all beings, and all beings cannot harm them. Therefore, poisonous insects will not sting them, and fierce beasts will not attack them. Even the most subtle phenomena cannot cause them harm. Laozi said, "Their Shen (spirit) does not injure people," which is why sages most value those who understand this principle—they comprehend the way of non-harming.

Annotations from the Zhenghe era (Emperor Huizong of Song) further clarify: The Han Guang Sword (legendary formless blade) inherits light without being dazzling; the Cheng Ying Sword (half-illusory blade) dwells in shadows yet never moves; the Xiao Lian Sword (physical blade) manifests substance in darkness. The Han Guang Sword is completely formless—invisible, intangible, passing through objects without sensation. The Cheng Ying Sword exists between being and non-being—its shape unclear yet its sound audible. The Xiao Lian Sword, being substantial, casts shadows by day and emits light by night.

At the level of the Dao, the formless and imageless is supreme, the seemingly existent yet non-existent is secondary, while attachment to physical form is the lowest. Thus among these three swords, Han Guang represents the highest grade, Cheng Ying the middle, and Xiao Lian the ordinary. Lai Dan likely obtained the Xiao Lian Sword. Yet none of these three swords achieves victory through slashing—all belong to the category of divine blades.

The true constant victory of the universe lies in unimpeded direct movement and frictionless operation that naturally brings all under heaven to submission—why resort to killing? Therefore, Zhuangzi considered decapitation and disembowelment mere commoners' swordplay. Unfortunately, Lai Dan didn't understand this principle. He sighed when his sword failed to kill, never comprehending what true constant victory means.

Fan Yingyuan (Song Dynasty Daoist) adds: Hei Luan (the intended target of revenge) symbolizes returning to the ultimate darkness of the Dao, while Bing Zhang represents manifesting the ultimate brightness. The name Lai Dan itself signifies extreme yang energy. Seeking vengeance for his father, he went to Kong Zhou of Wei to obtain swords. Those who truly possess the prized swords of Qian Yue treasure them carefully, never using them lightly—such is the most precious treasure. The application of the Dao operates similarly—moving directly without obstruction, having neither ceiling above nor foundation below, operating without friction, capable of severing floating clouds and cutting through earth veins with effortless ease. Lai Dan obtained swords from Kong Zhou yet used them only for revenge, thus striking when Hei Luan was drunk...

This scripture explores the limitations of human cognition through two miraculous objects.

When King Mu of Zhou campaigned against the Western Rong tribes, they presented two treasures: a short sword that could cut jade like mud (Kunwu Sword), and a cloth cleansed by fire (Fire-Wash Cloth). When cast into flames, the stains on this cloth would reveal its true color, and upon removal, it would emerge white as snow. The crown prince dismissed these items as nonexistent, mere rumors. But Xiao Shu countered, arguing that this was the prince’s overconfidence leading him astray from truth.

The author uses this to illustrate a principle: that metal cannot cut jade does not mean the tool lacks sharpness, and that cloth resists fire does not make it ordinary. Among the myriad things of heaven and earth, some can be explained by common sense, while others transcend it. Just as hard jade still has properties that allow carving, and iron swords possess edges capable of cutting. If the sharpest sword meets the most carvable jade yet fails to slice, it only means the sword is not sharp enough—not that the jade cannot be cut.

The text further cites wondrous phenomena in nature: volcanic rodents thrive in fire, wind-born creatures depend on air currents, humans need breath, and fish require water. Though the Fire-Wash Cloth shares a name with Chinese textiles, its material and fire-resistant nature resemble the fur of those volcanic rodents—why should this be strange? Stubborn insistence on one’s own views only reveals the limits of one’s understanding.

Finally, it points out that people often take what they’ve seen as real and dismiss the unseen as false. But how can one deny the existence of things in the vastness of heaven and earth simply because they haven’t witnessed them? A blade that slices jade and a cloth that withstands fire are plausible in principle—those confined by personal experience naturally fail to comprehend them. Placing this passage at the end serves to affirm that all preceding accounts are factual.

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of Perfect Virtue in the Empty Womb) records the most fundamental principles of Daoist wisdom, far removed from empty rhetoric or intimidating falsehoods. It expounds concrete, supreme truths of the highest order.

The term "Chongxu Zhide" (Perfect Virtue in the Empty Womb) refers to attaining the ultimate state of emptiness and perfected De (Virtue/Power). The "Four Explanations" present this scripture's profound meaning through four distinct interpretive perspectives. The fourteenth scroll further explores these core tenets, guiding practitioners toward deeper comprehension of the Dao (the Way).