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Impression Liumutai
Limutai Impression
Legendary tale
The Origin of the Name “Limutai” Limutai was originally called Limuan Tai, a name that conveys the meaning of peace and safety. Nestled deep within a mountainous canyon, it is the only flat expanse in the valley. Around it grow numerous sour pear trees, and in times past, when medical care and pharmaceuticals were scarce, local residents often gathered the fruit from these trees to treat coughs.
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Impression Liumutai
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Detailed introduction
The Origin of the Name “Limutai”
Límùtái was originally named Límù’āntái, a name that conveys the meaning of peace and safety. Nestled in a deep mountain valley, it is the only flat expanse in the gorge. Around it grow numerous sour pear trees; in times past, when medical care and pharmaceuticals were scarce, local residents often gathered these pears to treat ailments such as coughs, colds, headaches, and fevers. According to the “Jìzhōu Zhi,” compiled during the Kangxi era by County Magistrate Zhang Chaozong, “In the eighteenth year of the Kangxi reign, a major earthquake struck; the following spring, a severe epidemic swept through, claiming countless human and animal lives… yet none of the people who had long lived around Límù’āntái fell ill.” This remarkable event was reported to the imperial court by local officials. Emperor Kangxi then ordered the Imperial Medical Bureau to investigate thoroughly. The physicians discovered that the inhabitants near Límù’āntái regularly consumed sour pears—known for their disease‑preventing, antiviral, and cold‑fighting properties—and that this dietary habit had spared them from the calamity. Upon hearing this, the emperor was greatly pleased and bestowed upon the sour pear the imperial appellation “Ānlí,” signifying peace and well‑being. Thus, Emperor Kangxi officially conferred the character “Ān” upon the sour pear, and “Límù’āntái” was renamed “Límùtái,” a name that has endured to this day.
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Imperial Seal of the Kangxi Emperor for Huang Diezi
Legend has it that in the Limutai Scenic Area, the village of Huangmazi was originally not called Huangmazi at all, but rather Huangdiezi. Interestingly, this name was bestowed by Emperor Kangxi of the Qing Dynasty himself.
It is said that during the Qing dynasty, Huangmazi was not yet a village; only a few scattered households lived there. One year, Emperor Kangxi, traveling incognito, passed through the area. It was midsummer, and the mountains were thick with lush forests, streams murmured softly, birds sang, and flowers released their fragrance—truly a most beautiful scene. The emperor strolled through the hills, lingering long after his heart had been won over. Before he knew it, half a day had slipped by, and he felt both weary and hungry. Seeing this, his attendants hurried to find an inn or tavern. But in those remote, rugged mountains, even settled residents were rare—how could there be any shops? Fate seemed to have a tale in store: just as the servants were growing anxious, they spotted a house halfway up the slope. They quickened their pace and went to knock on the door.
The family bore the surname Lu and enjoyed a reasonably comfortable livelihood. The mountain folk were honest and warm‑hearted, always eager to welcome guests. So when Emperor Kangxi and his attendants entered the courtyard, Old Master Lu, seeing their dusty, travel‑worn appearance, knew full well they must have come from afar. He promptly set about scrubbing pots and clearing the hearth, fetching firewood to light the fire and prepare a meal. In those days, the mountains offered no special delicacies or fine wines, yet hospitality was rendered with utmost sincerity. The whole family laid out every mountain delicacy and wild game they had been saving for the New Year and other festive occasions, cooking them up in a rich array of stir‑fries, braises, and deep‑fries. Moreover, to show their respect, they even brought out the yellow‑glazed dishes they usually spared for themselves. Why yellow dishes? Because back then, the flow of goods in the mountains was far from convenient; the plates and bowls used at meals were all handcrafted in local earthen kilns, plain and unadorned, their color a simple, earthy yellow. Yet to the eyes of Emperor Kangxi, these humble, kiln‑fired yellow dishes seemed nothing short of rare treasures. Having grown accustomed to golden cups and jade goblets, he found the yellow plates strikingly novel—and paired with a table laden with mountain vegetables and wild game, fare seldom seen or tasted within the imperial palace. Thus, Emperor Kangxi enjoyed his meal immensely, repeatedly exclaiming, “The aroma of this food is exquisite, and these serving dishes are no less splendid than the royal wares of the palace.”
Back then, the emperor’s word was law, so from that time on, this place came to be known as “Huang Diezi.” Later, as the story spread by word of mouth, its meaning shifted, and through a play on words it became “Huang Miezi”—a name that has stuck to this day.
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Heavenly Seam Hidden Library
Within the Limutai Scenic Area lies the “Heaven‑Gate,” a narrow fissure that geologists also refer to as the “One‑Line Sky Rift.” This crack plunges straight downward, appearing almost perpendicular to the ground. If you climb upward along its length, looking up through a sliver of sky, the sheer cliff face rises like a wall, piercing the clouds—so evocative of ascending to heaven that it is known as the “Heaven‑Gate.” Its formation stems from the vertical tectonic fractures that slice through gently layered, steeply inclined quartz sandstone, causing massive rock blocks to split apart while the adjacent rocks remain in near‑parallel alignment. Such dramatic one‑line‑sky landscapes are a striking testament to the immense power of extensional forces within the Earth’s crust.
But did you know? Hidden right within this heavenly rift lies a mysterious celestial tome.
Legend has it that long ago, eight like-minded mortals attained immortality on the nearby Eight Immortals Mountain. Invited by the Jade Emperor to the Heavenly Palace, they began to live lives of divine bliss. Their ascension filled many ordinary people back in the mortal realm with envy, and they eagerly sought to follow their example. Soon even the demons and spirits dwelling deep in the mountains grew envious, devoting themselves to rigorous cultivation in the hope of one day achieving enlightenment and becoming immortals. Yet, as is often the case with such beings, their wild natures proved hard to tame, making true immortality elusive. One year, on this very mountain, a thousand-year-old centipede spirit also dreamed of attaining immortality. But unlike the Eight Immortals, who devoted themselves to earnest study and self‑cultivation, it pursued crooked paths and unorthodox methods, its heart ever bent on shortcuts.
It happened on that very day: the Eight Immortals, on a journey through the mortal realm, descended to this place. The old friends, revisiting their former haunts, were overjoyed, gathering around the table and drinking heartily—soon enough, each of them was pleasantly tipsy. Emboldened by wine, the immortals began to spar, showcasing their unique treasures; the atmosphere was uproarious. Little did they know that their revelry roused a centipede spirit, which had been sleeping hidden beneath the table. Stretching lazily in its hiding place, it listened for the sounds outside. At first, it thought the noise came from some idle mountain folk, amusing themselves with wine on a stone table. But upon closer hearing, it realized it was the Eight Immortals arriving. Its heart leapt with excitement: “At last, after searching high and low, I’ve found what I sought without lifting a finger!” It had been hoping to seek guidance from these celestial beings, to curry favor and learn the path to immortality—yet here they were, appearing right before its eyes. With such thoughts, its joy only grew; it rubbed its eyes, stretched its legs, and with a swift “whoosh,” emerged from the crack in the rock. Alas, it was already too late. Once outside, it saw that the eight immortals, having eaten their fill and drunk their fill, had already mounted their auspicious clouds and ascended to Heaven.
Having missed such a golden opportunity, the centipede spirit was consumed with regret, pacing anxiously around the Eight Immortals’ table in circles. As it turned and turned, its eyes suddenly lit up: there lay a book on the table. It must have been dropped by those immortals—what a heavenly scripture! Surely, once one had read the celestial text, becoming an immortal would be assured. Overcome with excitement, the centipede spirit snatched the book up, its eyes gleaming as it stared at the characters—but after staring for what felt like ages, it couldn’t make out a single word. If you can’t even read a book, isn’t it just as good as having none at all? Dejected, it flung the book back onto the table and was about to slip back into the stone crevice to resume its slumber. But then, upon second thought, it realized something was amiss: if it couldn’t read, it could always find a teacher—there were so many scholars in the human world; why not ask them to instruct it? With that, it reached out, seized the book, and tucked it safely into its bosom.
Just then, the Eight Immortals returned. It turned out that the book had been dropped here by Cao Guojiu, one of the immortals. Halfway back, Cao Guojiu realized the heavenly scripture he’d tucked into his bosom was missing and hurried to search for it. Seeing the Eight Immortals come back, the centipede spirit knew they were after the book, turned to make a run for it, but was seized by Lan Caihe, who moved with lightning speed and grabbed him by the neck. Cao Guojiu asked him gently whether he’d seen a book on the table. The centipede spirit wriggled free from Lan Caihe and protested that he hadn’t. But Tieguai Li, quick-tempered as ever, spotted at once that the centipede’s chest was bulging—there was no doubt the book was hidden there. To take someone else’s property and then deny it outright—what a shameless fellow! That was enough to set Tieguai Li off; he swung his iron crutch and came down hard on the centipede spirit. Now, the centipede spirit had lived for a thousand years and possessed some measure of cultivation; seeing Tieguai Li in earnest, he dared not slacken his guard and immediately drew upon his secret arts to clash with the immortal.
One immortal and one demon began to clash in the mountains, leaping from one ridge to another. Gradually, the centipede spirit could no longer hold its ground. When they reached yet another towering peak, the centipede spirit transformed once more, revealing its true form. Seizing an instant when Tie Guai Li was off guard, it slipped with a swift “whoosh” into a crevice in the rock and vanished without a trace. Unable to find the centipede spirit or retrieve the Heavenly Scripture, Tie Guai Li grew ever more enraged. He swung his iron staff in wide arcs and brought it crashing down upon the mountain—“clang!” With a deafening roar that seemed to split the earth and shatter the heavens, another piercing scream pierced the air. The centipede spirit had been crushed, and the mountain itself split open, revealing a deep, vertical fissure. The Heavenly Scripture lay embedded within, but no matter how hard the Eight Immortals tried, they could not pry it loose. They had no choice but to leave it for future generations to behold. Even now, from afar, the Heavenly Scripture remains set into the cliff face, its characters still legible. Yet what it truly says remains a mystery; only the Eight Immortals, it seems, can hope to decipher it.
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The Legend of the Eight Immortals’ Well
Within the Limutai Scenic Area stands an ancient well known as the “Well of the Eight Immortals.”
Legend has it that long ago, there lived a family—a husband, a wife, and a young boy. The father was often away on business, leaving his wife and son to tend the home; the boy was named Qiwang. The three of them led a comfortable, peaceful life. But fate had other plans: when Qiwang turned eight, his mother fell ill and passed away. With no woman left in the house, their world seemed to crumble. To care for Qiwang, not long after his mother’s death, his father remarried and took a stepmother into the family. Less than a year after she came aboard, she gave birth to another son, whom they named Qili.
To make ends meet for the family, when Qiwan was only a few months old, his father went off again to earn a living, leaving his stepmother to raise the two children and keep the household running. As it turned out, this stepmother was far from kind-hearted; once her husband left, she began to watch Qiwan closely, always plotting. She figured that with her own biological son now in the picture, if she kept Qiwan around, the two boys would end up dividing the family estate, and her own son, Qili, would be at a serious disadvantage. So she started hatching wicked schemes—plans to get rid of Qiwan.
One night, the stepmother falsely claimed that Qili’s maternal grandmother was ill and that she would take Qili to stay with her for a few days, while asking Qiwan to live with his grandmother for a while. At the mention of going to his grandmother’s house, Qiwan was overjoyed and skipped merrily out the door with his stepmother. Not long after they set off, they came upon a well by the mountain path. The stepmother said to Qiwan, “I’m thirsty—let’s go draw some water from the well.” Qiwan happened to be thirsty as well, so the stepmother picked up Qili and sent Qiwan to the well platform to fetch water. With cheerful eagerness, Qiwan dashed up to the platform, bent low, grabbed the rope, and prepared to draw water. Just then, the stepmother sprang onto the platform in one bound, seized the hem of Qiwan’s trousers, and shoved him down with all her might. Caught completely off guard, Qiwan tumbled headfirst into the well with a loud splash. Seeing that Qiwan had fallen in, the stepmother didn’t dare linger; clutching Qili, she fled in panic back to their home.
It was also fate that the seventy thousand, though they shouldn’t have died, fell into the well yet didn’t sink; after a few flails, they floated to the surface. The boy was quite clever—he knew full well that his stepmother had driven him into the well. So down there, he kept silent, sitting quietly and waiting for dawn. Around midnight, the seventy thousand suddenly heard voices by the well’s edge. Listening closely, he realized it was the Eight Immortals. One of them said, “Let me tell you something new: not far from here, in a certain town, the young lady of a wealthy landlord has fallen ill with a strange malady. Many doctors have been summoned, but none have been able to cure her. Now they’ve posted a public notice: whoever can heal her will win her hand in marriage. In truth, her ailment is quite easy to treat.”
“Is that so? What method shall we use?” the immortals all asked in unison.
The immortal went on, “Not far from here, in Qing Shanling Village, there stands a thousand-year-old locust tree. Beneath it lies a large basin of water, and inside that basin swims a carp. If you stew that carp in the water from the basin, the young lady will be cured. Moreover, if a mute eats the fish’s flesh, he will gain the power of speech; if a blind person eats it, his sight will be restored. One might say it can banish all ailments.”
Having said this, the immortals departed. Yet Qianwan committed every word to memory without a single omission.
At daybreak, Qiqian clung to the cracks in the well’s stone walls, inching his way out bit by bit, and headed straight for Qingshan Ridge. When he reached the village, sure enough, there stood a towering locust tree, which filled him with joy. He broke into a light jog to the town, had the yellow notice posted, and went to the wealthy landlord’s house, declaring, “I can cure the young lady’s illness.” As he spoke, he made his way into her chamber. Seeing a mere child, the landlord looked down on him and refused to let him enter. “Very well,” said Qiqian, “then let us take your pulse by means of the rope.” Gripping the rope’s end, he felt the young lady’s pulse, then told the landlord, “Just a hundred paces from here stands a great locust tree. Go fetch someone to uproot it—bring along a basin and a dipper when you dig.” The landlord, finding Qiqian’s words both plausible and precise, no longer hesitated. Summoning his servants, they went to the locust tree and, with a few swift strokes, felled it. Digging beneath its roots, they unearthed a water basin—and inside lay a huge carp. Overjoyed, the landlord used the water from that basin to stew the fish; once cooked, he served it to the young lady. After eating the fish and drinking the broth, she felt instantly refreshed and clear‑headed, donned her shoes, stepped out into the fields, and was as healthy as ever.
Qiwang then asked the wealthy landowner whether there were any blind or mute people in the village. The landowner sent men to fetch a few; they, too, ate fish and drank soup, and miraculously showed immediate results. Overjoyed, the landowner promptly fulfilled his promise and took Qiwang on as a son-in-law by marriage.
Not long after that, Qiwan’s father returned from out of town. Upon arriving home and finding his eldest son, Qiwan, missing, he urged his second wife to hurry and search everywhere. The stepmother, guilt-ridden and unable to move, stood by as a fire suddenly broke out in the house; in no time at all, the entire structure was reduced to ashes. With no roof over their heads, the family of three had no choice but to wander from door to door, begging for scraps to stay alive.
That day, a family of three, begging for food, arrived at the wealthy landlord’s estate. The stepmother caught sight of Qiwan standing in the courtyard and trembled with fear, crying out, “There’s a ghost! There’s a ghost!” Qiwan’s father refused to believe it, but when he went over to the landlord’s house, he indeed found his own son, Qiwan. Upon seeing each other, father and son burst into tears, pouring out their longing and grief. The father asked how Qiwan had come to be there; Qiwan explained that he had slipped and fallen into a well, only to hear the words of a celestial being in the middle of the night, after which he had been transported to this place. Hearing this, the stepmother grew consumed by jealousy and declared she wanted to try it too. Qiwan objected, asking what if she really did fall into the water. But the stepmother insisted, saying, “Let’s take a chance.” Unable to persuade her, Qiwan and his father lowered a stone mill into the well, laid a mattress on top, and had the stepmother sit upon it. By sheer coincidence, that very night the Eight Immortals happened to pass by. They were still vexed that their conversation had been overheard, and as soon as they reached the well, they stopped in their tracks and resolved to fill it up. One by one, they tossed stones and handfuls of earth, quickly sealing the pit. Poor Qiwan—the stepmother had been buried alive inside—was long gone by the time Qiwan and his father arrived the next morning. Such was the just retribution: evil begets evil, and good begets good. From then on, whenever people saw that well, they thought of the Eight Immortals and this tale, and so they named it the “Well of the Eight Immortals.”
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The Story of Mother-and-Child Rock
Mother-and-Child Rock stands at the entrance to the Limutai Scenic Area, facing the Northern Qi Great Wall on the mountain opposite. From afar, amid the verdant trees, a pair of figures—mother and child—lean close together, their faces turned toward one another, as if sharing a secret or, perhaps, a young mother tenderly recounting to her son the tale of his father.
Speaking of the Mother-and-Child Stone, there’s actually a heartrending legend behind it.
According to legend, during the Northern Qi dynasty over a thousand years ago, this place was known as Chuanchangkou Pass and served as a strategic military stronghold in the conflict between two states. Soldiers tasked with guarding the Great Wall were stationed both on the mountain and at its foot.
That year, with the frontier wars growing increasingly fierce, the soldiers guarding the city stood watch day and night, never laying down their armor or unhorsing their steeds; even in their brief moments of sleep, they kept their weapons firmly in hand. Within the military camp there was a young general surnamed Zhou, a native of the south. His wife had just given birth to a son when, less than three days later, an imperial edict summoned him from the capital to the border, stationing him atop the city wall.
In the blink of an eye, half a year had passed. On the battlefield, the two armies faced off, with the enemy pressing forward step by step, showing no sign of retreat. General Zhou longed for his wife and children, yet the dozen or so letters he had sent home never reached their destination. It turned out that the emperor, fearing that the soldiers at the front might be distracted by thoughts of home and thus lose focus in battle, had ordered all correspondence to and from the camps to be confiscated—neither leaving nor entering.
As for General Zhou’s wife, ever since she learned that her husband had set out for the frontier, she spent each day consumed by longing and each night unable to sleep. With their young son already calling out “Father,” still there was no word of him. Could it be that he had fallen in battle on the border? Or perhaps he had been wounded? The thought sent her into a restless turmoil; the more she pondered, the heavier her heart grew, until she lost her appetite and wasted away, her once‑robust frame now reduced to skin and bone. Her in-laws watched with hearts full of sorrow. Seeing that their grandson was growing strong day by day, they gathered enough provisions and hired a horse-drawn carriage to take mother and child to the army camp, hoping to visit her husband.
Madam Zhou and her son hurried along in a carriage, pressing on day and night, and reached the foot of the Great Wall at the ship’s entrance in less than half a month. But no sooner had they stepped through the gateway than they heard deafening battle cries and the piercing sound of bugles echoing from beyond the ramparts. Stopping a passing soldier to ask, they learned that hostilities had already broken out along the border between the two states several days earlier. On the mountains and in the valleys, men shouted and horses neighed, while blades and spears gleamed with a chilling sheen, all mingling into a chaotic swirl—so much so that it was impossible to tell friend from foe.
Seeing this, the coachman turned the horses around and urged Lady Zhou to leave the battlefield at once, to return home and wait until General Zhou had finished his campaign before they met again. But Lady Zhou would not be swayed. Weeping, she said, “My son and I have traveled thousands of miles just to see the three of us together—just so our son can call out ‘Father’ once. Only then can we go back, and even in death, we shall have no regrets.”
The coachman, too, was a man of warm heart; he deeply understood the heartfelt longing of a soldier’s wife for her husband, and even more so the hardships endured by the troops at the frontier, who had left their homes and livelihoods to guard the borders. So he found an inn in a nearby village, settled the mother and child there, and waited for news.
After settling into the inn, Madam Zhou could not bring herself to rest easy about her husband, who was fighting at the front. Unable to sit still in the room, she would rise before dawn, clutching her child, and climb to the hilltop opposite the Great Wall, gazing toward the ramparts and straining her eyes until they ached, searching for his figure. Yet, time after time, that familiar silhouette never appeared. So many days passed, and the clamor of battle on the far side of the wall gradually faded. Later, even the banners atop the crenellations were replaced with new colors and patterns. A pang seized her heart; she knew, all too well, that her husband had most likely given his life for the country. And yet, deep down, she refused to accept this cruel truth—refused to believe that her young husband had already left her, leaving behind his precious son, whom he had seen only once. There she stood, dazed and lost in thought, holding her child close, her back pressed against a rock, staring unblinkingly at the Great Wall across the way, hoping against hope that her husband would step down from its battlements, alive and well, and walk straight toward them—toward mother and son.
For a long, long time, she neither ate nor drank nor moved, simply gazing and waiting, yearning for her family to be reunited—until she turned into a rock, and even after thousands upon thousands of years, she still remains in that same posture.
This, then, is the Mother-and-Child Stone we see before us.
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General Stone
In the northern mountainous region of Jixian County, towering peaks rise steeply and dramatically, while the rugged ridges boast a wealth of uniquely shaped rocks and formations—geological wonders rarely seen anywhere else in the world. Within the county, there are more than a dozen “General Stones,” yet the one at Limutai Scenic Area is by far the most lifelike; whether viewed from afar or up close, it bears an uncanny resemblance to the statue of the renowned anti-Japanese general Qi Jiguang atop the Huangyaguan Great Wall. To the uninitiated, one might even mistake it for a man-made sculpture.
Why does this General Stone look so much like Qi Jiguang? It turns out that a little-known story is hidden right here.
According to legend, when the renowned anti‑Japanese general Qi Jiguang was stationed at the Huangyaguan section of the Great Wall, he maintained strict military discipline and treated the local people with the same care he would show his own children, earning their deep affection. One year, a severe drought swept across the land: the soil cracked open, nine out of ten rivers ran dry, and in the remote mountains, even a drop of water was as precious as oil. With over a hundred thousand soldiers and their horses struggling to find drinking water, Marshal Qi grew increasingly anxious. He personally led his men over mountains and through rugged terrain in search of a source. When they reached the Chuanhangkou Pass, they came upon an elderly man with a white beard beside a large boulder. It was the height of summer, the sun blazing overhead; the old man lay on the ground, his face pale, his eyes tightly shut, unconscious. Relying on his experience, Marshal Qi quickly concluded that the man had suffered from heatstroke. He ordered his attendants to carry the old man on their backs, set him down in the cool shade of a tree, and helped him sit up against a rock. Then, drawing a water flask from his belt, the marshal carefully dripped the scant half‑full contents into the old man’s mouth. As soon as he finished the water, the old man’s complexion began to regain its color, and he slowly opened his eyes. Seeing that the man had regained consciousness, Marshal Qi finally breathed a sigh of relief. Once fully awake, the old man tried to rise and kowtow in gratitude, but Marshal Qi smiled and gently helped him to his feet. The two exchanged a few words, and before long they had become close friends bound by shared hardship.
After chatting for a while, the white-bearded old man revealed that he was none other than the Dragon King of the Eastern Sea. Having secretly brought rain to the people below, he had been banished from Heaven by the Jade Emperor and sentenced to beg in the mortal realm for three months. But the aged dragon king was frail and decrepit; moreover, having grown accustomed to the luxuries of the Dragon Palace, and being, by nature, inseparable from water, he could scarcely endure such thirst. So after just one day in these mountains, he collapsed from exhaustion—only the timely arrival of Marshal Qi and his men saved him; otherwise, he would have surely perished. Upon hearing the old dragon king’s tale, Qi Jiguang felt deeply moved: here was a venerable figure who had done good for the people below yet suffered banishment and punishment. It seemed to him that Heaven was far from just. A wave of emotion swept through him, and as they talked, their bond grew ever stronger.
The Old Dragon King asked Marshal Qi why he had come all the way to this desolate, remote mountain range. Marshal Qi sighed, then recounted at length how the drought had left the people desperately short of water, and how the soldiers and horses in his camp were on the brink of perishing from thirst—how, with no other choice, he had led his men out in search of water. Upon hearing this, the white-bearded old man stroked his beard, pondered for a moment, and said softly, “At present, I am burdened by guilt; I cannot summon rain nor save all living beings. Yet I cannot fail to repay your life‑saving kindness. Very well, let me grant you a spring of pure, clear water.” With that, he plucked a silver hairpin from his coiffure, held it up to the breeze, and in an instant it transformed into an iron staff. Gripping the staff tightly, he drove it into the pile of jagged stones beneath his feet and gave it a vigorous shake; forth gushed a steady stream of crystal‑clear spring water, soon pooling into a deep pool whose liquid was both limpid and sweet. Gently withdrawing the staff, he blew on it, and it reverted to a hairpin, which he slipped back into his hair. Then, with a faint smile, he cupped his hands in a respectful bow toward Marshal Qi, bid him farewell with a simple “Farewell,” and in the blink of an eye vanished beneath the waves. The entire sequence unfolded in the space of a single instant, as if by magic. Marshal Qi and his band of soldiers stared in awe, only coming to their senses after a long while. Jubilantly, they rushed to the edge of the pool, scooping up the water with their ladles until each was quenched and refreshed. Thanks to this spring, Marshal Qi’s army was delivered from its plight and once again brimmed with vigor.
Little did they know, the good times were short-lived. Before long, the Japanese pirates and their spies hidden in these mountains set their sights on the pond, plotting to poison its waters, kill the Qi family’s army, and then exploit the chaos to storm into China. That night, several traitors crept to the pond’s edge, pulled poison from their bosoms, and were just about to scatter it into the water when they suddenly heard a sharp command from above: “Stop!” Startled, the conspirators shuddered; turning toward the voice, they saw only a general standing atop the hillside, sword in hand, clad in silver armor and a black cloak billowing in the wind.
Oh my! Isn’t that Marshal Qi Jiguang? If he catches you, there’ll be no mercy—run for your life! The few spies didn’t dare linger; they took to their heels, wishing they’d been born with a few more legs. Like rabbits, they bolted into the woods and never dared show their faces again.
Seeing those few spies flee, the old Dragon King on the mountain was so delighted that his whiskers trembled with joy. Yet once he had laughed his fill, he feared that others might come to desecrate this pond again. A sudden inspiration struck him; he reached out and pointed at a large boulder, and instantly a lifelike stone statue of Qi Jiguang stood beside him.
Later, when the Old Dragon King had served his punishment and returned to the Dragon Palace of the Eastern Sea, General Qi also retired and went back to his hometown, leaving the frontier behind. Yet the General’s Stone and this deep pool remained forever. People, fondly remembering General Qi, came to call the pool “General’s Pond” as well. According to local villagers, over the years the water in this pond has never once dried up—perhaps it is connected to the Eastern Sea after all.
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Lü Dongbin Battles the Pangolin
The Limutai Scenic Area boasts remarkable geological landscapes and is part of the Jixian National Geopark’s quartzite peak‑forest canyon zone. Here, you’ll find Archean rocks dating back roughly 2.6 to 3.5 billion years. These ancient formations not only display a dazzling array of shapes and colors but also hold intriguing legends, sparking boundless imagination. Among them is the tale of Lü Dongbin’s epic battle with the pangolin.
Legend has it that in ancient times, the mountains of Limutai were lush with trees, yet they lacked the finishing touch of blossoms. One day, the Fairy of All Flowers descended to earth and passed by, only to find that amid the verdant woods not a single flower could be seen. She alighted upon a cloud, took out seeds of every bloom from her bosom, and scattered them among the green grass—seed after seed, until half a day had slipped away without her realizing it. Exhausted and drenched in fragrant sweat, she sought out a smooth, flat rock to sit and rest. Watching the seeds she had sown quickly take root, sprout, and burst into radiant flowers, filling the hills and valleys with a riot of colors and waves of sweet fragrance, the Fairy of All Flowers was overjoyed. Wiping her brow with her handkerchief, she was about to rise and continue sowing when suddenly she noticed a massive pangolin crouching in the grass across from her, staring at her with a predatory gaze. Startled, the Fairy of All Flowers turned to flee—only to have a red‑faced man seize her from behind. With a lewd grin, he clung tightly to her, yanked her slender waist around, and pressed his large mouth against hers, ready to kiss.
Faced with this sudden outrage, the Fairy of a Hundred Flowers was both mortified and enraged. She wrenched herself free from the man’s embrace and, as she ran, cried out for help. But after only a few steps, that giant pangolin once again blocked her path, transforming itself into the red‑faced man who leapt forward with a smug grin, reaching to embrace her. Seeing this, the Fairy grew even more furious; snatching the hairpin from her head, she thrust it toward the man’s face. He jumped aside, yet continued to pester her. In her panic, she suddenly remembered that her dear friend, one of the Eight Immortals, was cultivating in the nearby mountains. Raising her voice, she shouted, “Eight Immortals, save me!” Before the words had died, a gentle breeze swept past her—turning to look, she saw that it was Lü Dongbin, one of the Eight Immortals, come to her rescue. Hastily stepping back, she took shelter behind him.
There the pangolin was indulging in a sweet dream of marrying a celestial maiden when, seeing Lü Dongbin suddenly interfere, it flew into a rage. Foolishly underestimating its opponent, it lunged and kicked, launching into a fierce brawl with Lü Dongbin. One immortal and one monster thus waged a brutal battle atop the mountain. Though the pangolin had lived for centuries deep in these mountains and even mastered a few unorthodox, sinister arts, it ultimately stood no chance against the divine Lü Dongbin. With just three moves and a couple of strikes, Lü Dongbin cleaved it in two; its tail flapped a few times before it collapsed among the jagged rocks, motionless. Yet the blood spurted far and wide, staining a vast swath of the cliff face before it. Even now, that section of the cliff remains a dark crimson—stained by the pangolin’s blood.
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Treasure Hidden in the Stone Sea
Within the Limutai Scenic Area lies a sea of stones. Though called a “sea,” its expanse is far from vast—more like an ordinary pile of rocks. As the saying goes, “A mountain need not be high; it becomes sacred when inhabited by immortals.” What makes this stone sea truly remarkable is its ethereal aura. Moreover, local lore holds that Sun Dianying, the notorious Eastern Mausoleum thief, once secretly buried the treasures he had looted from the Eastern Mausoleum here—but when he returned to claim them later, all traces had vanished. Many others, including petty thieves and fortune‑seekers, have come to dig for or probe for hidden riches, yet none have ever found what they sought. And so, this stone sea has grown all the more enigmatic.
According to legend, after Sun Dianying successfully looted the Eastern Mausoleum, he turned over part of the stolen treasure to the state and stashed a small portion for himself. Yet, as it was an imperial tomb, the burial treasures were said to be imbued with a supernatural aura. From the moment he concealed his loot, Sun lived in constant fear; at night, whenever he closed his eyes, he would see undead specters and malevolent spirits clad in Qing‑dynasty official robes, baring their teeth and glaring as they demanded the return of their rightful possessions. To make matters worse, his superiors suspected him of hoarding precious artifacts and kept a close watch on him. Harassed from within and without, he could endure it no longer. On a pitch‑black night, he slipped into the Limutai Gorge alone. Slogging forward in the darkness for more than ten miles, he chose a spot thickly wooded, pulled a few cherished items from his bosom, buried them beneath a large boulder, and marked the site nearby.
Having hidden his treasure, Sun Dianying did enjoy a few days of peace. Yet he could not bring himself to part with it; with time running short, he returned to the mountains to retrieve it. But when he followed his instincts into this grove, he was startled to find that the towering tree he had marked lay toppled on its side, and the massive boulder he’d used as a marker was gone without a trace. Before him stretched a vast expanse of jumbled stones—each one smooth‑edged, as if worn by floodwaters. Looking around, there was no sign of any collapsed mountain face. Could it be the work of spirits or demons? Already guilt‑ridden for having desecrated an imperial tomb, Sun Dianying grew fearful at the sight of these stones. He turned and fled the canyon, never daring to return. Later, some reckless souls, driven by greed rather than caution, heard of the tale and slipped into the mountains, hoping to clear away the rocks and uncover the treasure. But the stones seemed to spring up like water: the more they cleared, the more piled up behind them, leaving no way to reach the bottom. Moreover, those who ventured to dig found themselves either bruising their fingers or straining their backs and legs—always ending up injured in some way. One after another, the venture proved too perilous, and soon no one dared touch that heap of stones again. In short, this sea of stones remains an enigma, beyond the grasp of all who seek to unravel it.
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