Semantic Restoration of Snake-Slaying in Chan Buddhist Koan

Abstract

In the Chan Buddhism koan (gong’an 公案) tradition, the act of “slaying the snake” functions as a signature gesture imbued with complex, historically layered cultural meanings. Rather than merely examining its motivations, this paper emphasizes tracing the semantic transformations that this motif has undergone across different historical contexts. It argues that “snake-slaying” operated variously as an imperial narrative strategy reinforcing ruling class ideology; as a form of popular resistance by commoners against flood-related disasters; as a dietary practice among aristocrats and literati seeking danyao (elixirs) 丹藥 for reclusion and transcendence; and ultimately, within the Chan tradition, as a method of spiritual cultivation whereby masters sever desires rooted in attachment to both selfhood and the Dharma. More specifically, first, as an imperial narrative logic, snake-slaying embodied exemplary power: both Liu Bang 劉邦 and Guizong 歸宗 enacted this discursive strategy, with Guizong’s legitimacy in slaying the snake deriving from the precedent set by Liu Bang. Second, as a folk strategy of demystification, snake-slaying acquired a moral aura—since the snake was perceived as malevolent force, their slaying appeared righteous and heroic. Finally, as a mode of self-cultivation among the aristocracy, snake-slaying laid the groundwork for its later internalization. In Daoism, slaying the snake was a means of cultivating the body; in Chan Buddhism, the act is elevated to a higher plane—becoming a way of cultivating the mind. This transformation unfolded naturally, as if predestined. In all cases, the internalization of the snake-slaying motif was not an overnight development: the cultural genes that preceded its appearance in the Chan tradition provided the fertile ground for its karmic maturation and discursive proliferation.

1. Introduction

The snake is among the most paradoxical of all animals—both reviled and revered, inspiring myths even where no snakes exist (Morgan 2008, pp. 2–7). This ambivalence renders it a potent symbolic medium, expressed in the Chan koan tradition, notably in “Guizong slaying the snake” 歸宗斬蛇. This raises a fundamental question: given that Buddhism extols compassion and universal salvation, how can it sanction the killing of a creature like the snake? Such depictions appear to contradict the Buddhist view that animals, like humans, possess moral agency, and that ethical principles—particularly those concerning right to speech, right to action, and right to livelihood—should govern human interactions with all sentient beings (McDermott 1989, pp. 269–80). And yet, in Chan, koans feature not only snake-slaying, but also cat-killing. These recurring acts of seeming violence suggest the presence of a distinctive mode of action embedded within the Chan tradition. Indeed, “snake-slaying” was by no means a novel invention of the Chan school; long before it was codified as a koan, the motif of slaying the snake had already been inscribed in cultural memory as a paradigmatic historical event. Accordingly, from a historical perspective, this paper analyzes the underlying motivations and conceptual frameworks behind “snake-slaying”, as seen from the distinct perspectives of emperors, commoners, and aristocrats, thereby illuminating their influence on the symbolic construction of the so-called “snake-slaying” act within Chan koans.

Previous scholarship has examined the symbolic and doctrinal implications of snake-slaying in Buddhist traditions. Notably, Chen (2019) analyzes snake-killing as karmic retribution and moral purification tied to monastic redemption narratives. In parallel, a substantial body of Chan scholarship has investigated koan literature more broadly. Faure (1991, 1997) has explored the semiotic and rhetorical properties of koans as performative and paradoxical speech acts that destabilize doctrinal fixity, while Heine (2001) has examined the historical construction and reinterpretation of koans in both classical and modern contexts. These works have significantly deepened our understanding of Chan’s discursive strategies and institutional expressions, yet they tend to approach koans either as literary enigmas or as vehicles of religious authority, without fully addressing the symbolic evolution of specific motifs across cultural domains.

Building upon, yet departing from, these foundational studies, this paper adopts a semantic–historical and interdiscursive approach to the Chan koan of snake-slaying—particularly the case of Guizong. Rather than treating snake-slaying as a fixed allegory or merely a moral act, this study recovers its layered semantic transformations by tracing how the motif traverses and is resemanticized across imperial ideology, folk cosmology, Daoist alchemy, and Chan hermeneutics. In doing so, it highlights how Chan appropriates and internalizes inherited symbols, transforming the act of slaying a snake from a gesture of mythic conquest or medicinal practice into a moment of existential rupture and spiritual immediacy. This paper traces the semantic transformations of “snake-slaying” across imperial, folk, and Daoist contexts, with a deliberate focus: illuminating how Chan Buddhism appropriated these cultural motifs—not as discrete fragments but as “raw materials” refashioned to dissolve delusions and reveal the unconditioned reality beyond conceptual projections—for its core soteriological aim of “awakening to what is prior to discrimination” (jian xing 见性). This transformation from earlier socio-cultural strata to the Chan koan context, far from being merely a process of internalization, abstraction, or spiritualization, emerges as a humanistic reflection embedded in temporality—particularly regarding the instinctual nature of human desire and the means by which such desire is transcended.

2. Identity Affirmation: Imperial Snake-Slaying as Prophetic Expression of Dynastic Transition

In the earliest strata of Chinese cultural memory, the act of slaying a snake is closely tied to Liu Bang, who rose from commoner to become Emperor Gaozu of Han 漢高祖 (reigned 202–195 BCE). According to canonical narratives, this ascent began with his slaying of a white serpent—an act imbued with prophetic symbolism. This motif appears in both Han historiography and Buddhist texts such as Danxia Dangui Chanshi Yulu 丹霞澹歸禪師語錄.

The significance lies in the color of the snake: white. Liu Bang’s act established his authority and laid the foundation for his political ambition to vanquish monsters and rivals alike and to contend for supremacy over the Central Plains—a point made explicitly in Ban Gu 班固’s Gaozu Sishuiting Beiming 高祖泗水亭碑銘. Moreover, within the transcendental logic by which the act of snake-slaying serves to reconstruct the discourse of supreme authority, the element of color proves especially significant. In the cosmology of the Five Phases (wuxing 五行), white corresponds to metal, is associated with the West, and is overcome by fire; fire, in turn, is red, and thus Liu Bang, as the “Red Emperor 赤帝”, is seen not merely as slaying a snake, but as slaying the element of white itself. Pushing this interpretation further, the later emergence of the Green Snake as the White Snake’s attendant can likewise be understood through the logic of the Five Phases—Green corresponds to wood, is associated with the East, and is overcome by metal. Thus, the White Snake’s command over the Green Snake subtly reflects the principles of mutual generation and conquest among the five elements.

In the “Wude Yi” 五德議 by Gao (1958, p. 3665) of the Northern Wei dynasty, it is stated: “Those who espouse the virtue of fire draw upon the omen of the Red Emperor slaying the serpent, casting off the tyranny of Qin and choosing good over evil, not through bloodline, but through virtue. Hence, they saw the Han as inheriting the fire virtue from the Zhou”1. It is evident that the snake was highly active in chenwei (prognostic omen) 讖緯 activities during the Han dynasty, ascending even to the political center of power. Even though the snake signified a vanquished past, it nonetheless bore the mysterious capacity to shape the course of history. Hence, Miao (1983, p. 2033) of the Tang dynasty remarked in “Xiangyaodui” 祥妖對: “When a sage receives the Mandate, dragons and phoenixes emerge as auspicious signs; thus Gaozu’s slaying of the snake was a verified omen of Qin’s inevitable fall”.

Unquestionably, such interpretations bear traces of the irrational. As Schaffer (1973, p. 146) remarked, “It is evident that even the subtlest poem or the smoothest tale confuses myth with history, legend with fact, pious hope with rational belief. In doing so, it expresses commonly held opinions about the ancient and supernatural worlds”. In the Song dynasty, Hua (2006, p. 110) critiqued this mythologizing in his “Xihan Lun” 西漢論: “Given the illustrious achievements of Emperor Gaozu, it was natural that he would ascend to rule the realm. Yet earlier historians, focusing exclusively on tales of snake-slaying, astral portents, and auspicious omens, rendered a portrayal of his accession that was partial”2. This reveals from another perspective the potent, transcendent, and obsessive force with which the snake-slaying mythos permeated cultural imagination. Over the centuries, the color white underwent further ideological transformation, eventually becoming the rallying banner of rebel forces. Wright (1959, p. 104) pointed out “Buddhist symbolism, mingled with elements from Confucianism and popular Taoism, is to be seen in the ideologies and rituals of the secret societies which figured so largely in Chinese life from the twelfth or thirteenth century onward. Witness the frequent recurrence of the term for “white”—the symbolic color of the Maitreya cult—in the names of such societies as the Pai lien chiao (White Lotus Society) and Pai yun hui (White Cloud Society)”. Unlike yellow, which proclaimed the imperial authority, or red, often appropriated by peasant uprisings, the color white was typically associated with Maitreya devotion. This observation draws our attention to the infusion of real-world social critique into the symbolic use of “white” in The Legend of the White Snake. The “white” in the phrase “At the rooster’s crow, the whole world turns white” (xiong ji yi chang, tian xia bai 雄雞一唱天下白) unmistakably carries profound political significance.

As a numinous being and totemic symbol—one that even evokes the mythic lineage of Fuxi 伏羲 and Nüwa 女媧—the snake signifies ancestral origin and cosmic legitimacy. To slay it, therefore, is to inaugurate a new social identity and signal its rightful ascent onto the historical stage. The Chinese bureaucratic discourse system, rooted in the ideal of harmonious unity under the monarch and ministers, forms the fundamental backdrop of ancient Chinese culture, with political discourse as its soul. Snake-slaying astutely captured this essence, subtly intertwining philosophical insights with the prognostic symbolism (chenwei) of political power. This represents an inheritance of cultural genes that transcends classes and even social identities. Both Liu Bang’s snake-slaying and Guizong’s snake-slaying engaged in cultural innovation with a radicalist attitude. In political narratives, the snake symbolizes a transfer of power; in Chan koans, it symbolizes inner afflictions. While one pertains to the collective body and the other to the individual mind, both essentially address the issue of awakening. The “snake” in Chan is no longer a political adversary, but the very habit of clinging to rigid labels and hierarchical distinctions that obscure one’s inherent Buddha nature. Guizong’s act thus transforms the imperial “rupture for power” into a radical pedagogy: to “slay the snake” is to step beyond fixed political narratives, awakening to the unlabeled reality of one’s own mind.

3. Weighing Interests: Commoner Snake-Slaying as Practical Rationality in Seeking Fortune and Avoiding Misfortune

The snake, or sarpa in Sanskrit, is listed among the fifteen deities in the Life-Prolonging Ksitigarbha Sutra 延命地藏經. However, as Kelsey (1981, pp. 83–113) observes, such deities in reptilian form are more likely to harm mortals, whereas those in human form tend to be benign. In traditional Chinese society, the snake has long been perceived as a harbinger of danger, seduction, malevolence, and anomaly—an archetypal force of negativity. Studies show that humans are biologically predisposed to associate snakes with fear; for some, merely seeing a snake is enough to provoke fear (Deloache and Lobue 2009, pp. 201–7; Isbell 2009, pp. 78–81)—an instinct that reinforces their negative cultural symbolism in local traditions. As sentient beings, snakes are equal to humans, possessing their own natural attributes, and there is no need for them to bear the moral judgments imposed by human society. The physiological fear aroused by snakes stems from humanity’s own delusions. In many narrative traditions, the snake signifies not only danger, but also a rupture in the normative order, serving as an omen of hidden disturbance. Over time, such omens evolve into personalized forms—the yao (妖)—which trace a trajectory from state-level disorder to intimate manifestations of the uncanny (Huntington 2003, p. 310). The snake thus mediates between nature and society and registers shifting scales of fear, from individual anxiety to collective crisis.

The snake also served as a metaphor for thieves. Qin (2006, p. 59) of the Northern Song dynasty, in his essay “Daozei” 盜賊, observed the following: “Barbarians are like tigers; thieves are like snakes and rats. Tigers cannot be driven away with incense or drowned in water; snakes and rats cannot be repelled with bows or pikes. Thus, the methods for subduing thieves differ from those used to repel barbarians”3. Scholars have further observed that such beings were believed to assume human form and engage in parasitic relationships with humans, enhancing their supernatural powers (Balivet 2020, p. 44). This imagery underpins associations of snakes with malice and cunning. Liu Kezhuang 劉克莊 of the Southern Song writes in a 1230 inscription: “Alas! Inhumanity in the world stops at thievery, and yet there are those more inhumane than thieves. Poison in the world stops at snakes, and yet there are those more poisonous than snakes! (K. Liu 2006, p. 233)”.

Yet, evil beings often reflected not metaphysical forces, but inner human conflicts. In the Qing dynasty, Shu (1985, p. 5), in his “Chunqiu Yongshi Yuefu: Neiwaishe” 春秋詠史樂府·內外蛇, wrote the following: “Han Gaozu slays the snake with a three-foot sword; Song Wu shoots a serpent with a single arrow. These snakes surely existed, but demons arise from human hearts unknown even to themselves”4. However, the challenge lies in understanding how “demons arise from human hearts”—specifically, what is encompassed in the notion of “human hearts”? Shu Wei provides no explicit answer. Nevertheless, this line of thought, at the very least, redirects reflections on the snake and the act of slaying the snake from aimless dispersal, returning the inquiry to the human self.

It is worth noting that in the Dirgha Agama 長阿含經, the phrase “snake-slaying” appears a mere three times across scrolls three and four. One such passage reads “Upon hearing these words, the Buddhist monks were overcome with shock. Bewildered and stupefied, they threw themselves to the ground and cried aloud: ‘How swift is this! The Buddha has entered parinirvana! How grievous! The Eye of the World is extinguished! We are now in utter decline!’ Some monks wailed and thrashed about, writhing in agony, like a snake being cut, twisting and flailing, not knowing where to turn (The Research Institute of Buddhist Culture of China 1999, p. 46)”5. What is foregrounded here is the form of the slain snake. The true locus of “snake-slaying” thus lies within the emotional interiority of the Buddhist monks, serving as an embodied metaphor of grief.

In the natural world, the goose is the snake’s chief enemy, second only to humans. In 1097, Su (2006, p. 214) recorded in his “Ji Qiantang Sha’e” 記錢塘殺鵝: “The goose not only guards against thieves but also repels snakes; its droppings can even kill them. In Shu, people raise geese in their gardens, and snakes dare not approach”6. As a result, snakes rarely intrude into human domestic life. Of course, those who keep snakes are often regarded as sinister. For instance, Sun (2006, p. 91) wrote the following: “The sorcerer Wang Sicong, consorting with a witch and keeping a serpent, gathered men and women day and night to practice witchcraft and sorcery. The lord declared, ‘Heterodox practices that delude the populace are the seeds of disorder.’ He ordered the snake slain, branded Wang, and exiled him to a distant land. Thereafter, all the licentious people within the borders ceased their wicked acts”.

The most effective way to eliminate the snake’s baleful power was to slay it. In folk belief, the gravest calamities associated with snakes were not poisons or bites but floods. In June 1119, Song official Li (2006, p. 175) recorded in “Shiyi” 釋疑: “In the summer of the first year of the Xuanhe 宣和 reign, the capital was overwhelmed by floodwaters. To the west of the imperial city, all was lake and river—no shore in sight. …Grain transport ceased, and the surrounding regions suffered. Before the flood, heavy rain brought forth a strange creature, shaped like a dragon or serpent. It was caught and slain, and those versed in interpreting omens regarded it as an auspicious sign. In the aftermath, the floodwaters indeed subsided”7. The so-called “favorable winds and timely rains” (feng tiao yu shun 風調雨順), “winds rising and waters surging” (feng sheng shui qi 風生水起), and “gathering vital energy by storing winds” (cang feng ju qi 藏風聚氣) all, when grounded in practical reality, reflect humanity’s enduring need to harness and control water. Ever since the myths of primeval floods, the control of waterways has been regarded as a great national enterprise. “Indeed, virtually all the protagonists in the flood saga—Gun, Yu, Gong Gong, and Nü Gua—have names indicating aquatic origins as snakes, fish, frogs, or related creatures, and they are described as having the bodies of snakes or being transformations of dragons” (Lewis and Lewis 2006, p. 121). These mythological figures, often depicted as tamers of the flood, share symbolic attributes commonly associated with snake spirits—fluidity, transformation, and the power to mediate between destruction and regeneration.

Folk traditions frame snake-slaying as a defense against external threats, rooted in the projection of fear onto the natural world. Chan internalizes this impulse: the “snake” here becomes the mind’s tendency to grasp at illusory dangers, born from delusional attachments. When Guizong slays the snake while hoeing, he turns the folk urge to “ward off harm” inward: the true “danger” lies not in the snake itself, but in the practitioner’s habit of projecting fear and constructing an adversarial relationship with reality. This reframing transforms folk cosmology into a pathway to awakening—recognizing that threat arises from mental clinging, not the intrinsic nature of things.

4. Seeking Elixirs: Aristocratic Snake-Slaying as a Medicinal Material for Cultivation

The complexity of the snake lies in its dual nature; though fearsome, it is also a source of medicinal materials, a symbol of cultivation and ascetic practice, and even an emblem of transcendence. Distinct from official narratives and folk concerns, the snake held unique significance for the aristocracy—especially for reclusive literati. Since the snake was regarded as an ingredient in the elixirs aimed to “refine raw ingredients found in nature and thus to discover the ultimate and fundamental element, the seminal essence of the world, which, once absorbed within our bodies, might confer immortality (Schipper 1993, p. 175)”, reverence for it naturally entailed the desire to capture and slay it.

The snake’s innate spirituality rests on its close kinship with the dragon and its extraordinary capacity for metamorphosis. It is often considered a simulacrum of the dragon. Southern Song writer You (2006, p. 391), in his “Daoyu Ci” 禱雨詞, reflects “Today’s snakes are no different from green bamboo—harmless, unafraid of human touch, even capable of drinking wine. Though their forms are the same, their natures differ vastly. Could they be the descendants of dragons? From antiquity to the present, sages and fools have often appeared indistinguishable—only through interaction is true nature revealed. Might not the same be said of serpents? Though belonging by nature to the venomous species, this serpent displays a gentleness and benevolence that commands both admiration and wonder”8. This perspective offers a powerful theoretical foundation for affirming the serpent’s legitimacy, spirituality, and transcendence.

A popular pre-Qin ballad, “Long she ge” 龍蛇歌, proclaims the following: “The dragon ascends to heaven. Five serpents follow. When the dragon rises into the clouds, four snakes return to their dens. One remains in resentment, having found no resting place (Jie 1958, p. 30)”. Similar imagery appears in Shiji 史記, Yuefu Shiji 樂府詩集, and Shiji Qianji 詩紀前集. It is evident that the snake enjoys a privileged position within the ideological discourse of the ruling class, serving as the dragon’s indispensable aide in its dominion over the world. At times, serpents are even imbued with a kind of free will, enabling them to independently choose their modes of action and survival, to the point where the dragon and serpent become indistinguishable. Naturally, such autonomous “free will” may also veer entirely toward malevolence; otherwise, the expression “rampaging boars and snakes” (feng shi chang she 封豕長蛇) would not have arisen. As Zhang Gang 張綱 of the Eastern Han remarks in his “Shangshu he Liangji” 上書劾樑冀, Liang Ji “embodied the very excesses of rampaging boars and snakes, indulging in greed, delighting in the hoarding of wealth, fostering sycophancy, and bringing harm to the loyal and upright” (G. Zhang 1958, p. 743).

Why could the snake serve as the dragon’s steed or substitute? Zhang Huan 張奐 of the Eastern Han offers a compelling explanation in his twin memorials. He writes the following: “I have heard that wind serves as command, and living creatures respond through the circulation of qi 气 (H. Zhang 1958, p. 822)”. The snake possesses the innate ability to coil and uncoil, so it can “appear and vanish like the dragon” (yin xian si long 隱顯似龍) and “accompany the dragon in its rising and hibernation” (pei long teng zhe 配龍騰蟄). From the late Spring and Autumn period through the Two Han dynasties, the ascendance of qi-based cosmology not only popularized the conceptualization of wind, but also prompted a reinterpretation of animal nature through the lens of “communicating qi 通氣”. The snake’s capacity for contraction and extension was thus seen as a visible manifestation of the circulation of qi, rendering it akin to the dragon and naturally qualified to serve as its companion.

This naturally brings into focus the snake’s nature of huasheng (transmutation) 化生. The snake’s most explicit divinity manifests precisely in its mutability. Dongfang (1999, p. 259) of the Western Han dynasty composed the Poem of “Jiezi Shi” 戒子詩, in which he writes “The dao (way) 道 of the Sage is that of the dragon and the snake: form is visible, spirit is concealed, in accordance with the transformations of things; adapting to what the times require, they have no fixed abode”9. The transformations of the dragon and snake, while distinct from the early Buddhist notion of impermanence (anitya; wuchang 無常), nonetheless approximate the early Buddhist conception of impermanence as governed by the principle of time (kāla; shifa 時法). On the one hand, this temporality of impermanence does not imply instantaneous arising and ceasing; rather, it proceeds with a sense of appropriate timing (yishi 宜時), thereby allowing for the persistence of things even amidst constant transformation. In this dual movement of concealment and manifestation, change unfolds along parallel tracks without conflict, presenting a more embodied and substantial form than the purely momentary vision of impermanence. On the other hand, and more critically, it constitutes a negation and deconstruction of the doctrine of permanence (chang 常), tracing the ebb and flow of phenomena, much like the subtle line of a serpent in the grass, its hidden pulse stretching unseen across a thousand miles. In any case, as a symbolic emblem of the principle of transformation, the snake provided fertile soil for the introduction and subsequent Sinicization of Buddhist thought in China.

Beyond the well-known koan of Guizong, other Chan stories feature snake imagery, such as “Xuefeng Observes the Snake” 雪峯看蛇 in Biyan Lu 碧巖錄, Case 22: “Xuefeng said to the assembly, ‘On Mount Nan, there is a snake with a tortoise-like nose. You all must look carefully!’ Changqing said, ‘Today, many in the hall will lose their lives.’ When a monk reported this to Xuansha, he said, ‘Only Elder Ling can handle it. But even so, I would not do it that way.’ The monk asked, ‘How would you do it?’ Xuansha said, ‘Why bother with Mount Nan?’ Yunmen thrust his staff before Xuefeng and made a gesture of fear (Yuanwu 2011, p. 127)”10. This stands in sharp contrast to Guizong’s act of slaying the snake. The snake slain by Guizong represents the deconstruction of negating desires, whereas the tortoise-nosed snake presented by Xuefeng embodies the authentic self-nature of one’s original face. What, then, is the snake? Or what does it signify? Within the context of koan in Chan Buddhism, its meaning is by no means fixed.

What, then, is the nature of the color white? In the year 880, Lu (1983, p. 8409) composed a piece titled “Gao Baishe Wen” (A Proclamation to the White Snake) 告白蛇文, in which he writes “Among living beings, those born white are limited to dogs, chickens, oxen, and horses. As for the rest, whiteness comes only with age—wolves, foxes, rabbits, deer, sparrows, swallows, pheasants, turtles, and snakes alike. When a person grows old, their hair turns white, their faculties wither and dim, and they can no longer recall the names of their descendants; their form decays and their spirit scatters—thus do they come to this state. In all creatures, when aged, scales, bristles, feathers, and armor turn entirely white. Only after becoming white do they acquire numinous potency”11. Whiteness is not congenital, but marks the beginning of transformation, the sign of decline, a supposition of tongling (spirit communion) 通靈, and, simultaneously, a metaphor for the realm of cultivation.

Daoism long upheld snake-slaying as part of medicine-making. In “Cuixu Chen Zhenren De Fa Ji” 翠虛陳真人得法記 (Master Chen of Cuixu’s Attainment of the Dao) by Bai (2006, p. 255) of the Southern Song, it is recorded that a Daoist whom the adept Chen Nan encountered once said the following: “How foolish you are! Cultivating virtue for yourself alone, yet unable to benefit others—such a person is not accepted among the immortals. Thus did Zhang Zhengyi battle demons in Xichuan, and Xu Jingzhi slay serpents and administer medicine; these deeds have been transmitted from ancient times to the present and cannot be dismissed as falsehood”12. Another mode of human–snake interaction was capture. In 814, Liu Zongyuan 柳宗元, while residing in Lingling, Yongzhou, Hunan, composed the renowned essay Account of “Bushezhe Shuo” (a Snake-Catcher) 捕蛇者說. In this essay, snake-catching is depicted as a crucial means of livelihood, for snakes were used as medicinal materials: “They can cure severe wind disorders, contractures, fistulas, and leprosy, and remove necrotic flesh...”. Of particular note is the following passage: “Of those who once lived with my grandfather, scarcely one household in ten remains; of those who lived with my father, scarcely two or three in ten; of those who have lived with me for twelve years, scarcely four or five in ten. Either they have died or fled—but I alone have survived by catching snakes (Z. Liu 1983, pp. 5897–98)”13.

At this juncture, the opposition between Buddhism and Daoism emerges in stark relief. The outcome of this contest often hinges on how one positions oneself within the framework of body–mind dualism. The internalized mode of snake-slaying in the Chan tradition does not entail constructing an entirely new set of doctrines or introducing an unfamiliar logic; rather, it merely requires a conceptual reversal of Daoist positions, thereby capturing the strategic advantage afforded by the turn toward interiority. Daoist aristocratic traditions frame snake-slaying as a practice of procuring medicinal materials, where the snake—valued for its association with alchemical essences—is processed into elixirs to nourish the body, a cultivation rooted in tangible substances and hierarchical access to rare ingredients. Chan’s reworking of this motif does not dismiss the pursuit of transcendence, but reorients its terrain: the “snake” here ceases to be a material to be harvested, and instead symbolizes the delusion that enlightenment depends on external resources or elite practices—obscuring the inherent awakening that requires no such means. “Slaying” thus shifts from gathering ingredients for physical refinement to dissolving the presumption that awakening lies beyond one’s own mind. What aristocratic Daoism pursues through “elixir cultivation” becomes, in Chan, the realization that “the mind itself holds the treasure; no need to search elsewhere”—echoing Bodhidharma’s teaching that enlightenment arises not from external elixirs, but from awakening to one’s own nature.

5. Judgment of Human Nature: Chan Snake-Slaying as a Rational Interrogation of Desire

Myths and cult practices surrounding animals, such as snakes, formed part of the cultural diffusion accompanying human migrations; over time, such symbols were often lost or transformed into new ritual or ideological expressions (Mundkur 1983, p. 55). Snake-slaying, as a special medium, transcends different groups of people. Understandings of snake-slaying—from emperors to commoners, and from commoners to literati and officials—have been incorporated into Chan koans in a nearly dramatic manner. In other words, Chan Buddhism has absorbed the value appeals of various social strata regarding snake-slaying. For Chan practitioners, desire is the true enemy—to slay the snake is to slay desire. The desire symbolized by the snake is not general, but arises specifically from greed, anger, and delusion, leading to attachments to the self and to dharma-graha. The purpose of slaying the snake is to penetrate to the true nature of time itself.

A fundamental question arises: how can the snake-slaying acts in Chan Buddhist koans coexist with the Buddhist precept of non-killing? The answer lies in the distinction between ethical literalism and symbolic expression. Non-killing is a principle grounded in the lived reality of ethical conduct—a negation of actual, intentional violence directed at sentient beings. It constitutes an enduring attitude toward beings encountered in the realm of empirical experience. Snake-slaying in the Chan tradition, by contrast, belongs to the symbolic logic of action: like the famed slaying of the cat, it is not a literal transgression, but a performative gesture, an enacted metaphor. What appears as a negative act in form is a positive affirmation in intent—a concrete stance against abstract desire and conceptual attachment. In this light, there is no inherent contradiction between the ethical precept of non-killing and the Chan gesture of snake-slaying. The former governs the logic of daily life; the latter signifies a dimension of spiritual belief. They may coexist, even converge, in the life of a single monastic subject. Historically speaking, the snake-slaying episode in Chan literature is best understood as an act of semiotic transposition—an intentional “relocation” of real-world violence into the dramatized domain of faith. It is a performance. Clearly, Guizong did not spend his days lying in wait for serpents to appear, nor was his act meant to be repeated as a ritual. His snake-slaying was a singular event—an abstract, spontaneous rupture, a deconstruction in the moment, an expression delivered in response to circumstance, a vivid scene of embodied instruction. It was a drama of awakening, not a doctrine of violence.

As a symbolic act, a noteworthy detail of snake-slaying is that it is performed through hand movements—a kind of gesture evolved from the culture of mudras. In fact, many actions in Chan koans are propelled by hand movements, not only snake-slaying, but also flower-offering and moon-pointing. The gestures themselves are not only semantically precise, but also embody a rich and profound embodiment. This tendency has formed a profound tradition of Chan practice since the time of Huineng. One of Huineng’s significant contributions to the Sinicization of Buddhism lies in how the secularization and daily life integration of Chan diluted tense power struggles and even violent conflicts. The bloodiness of snake-slaying was precisely cleansed in light-hearted banter. What were once called radicalist strategies ultimately evolved into an urging toward moral awakening.

The koan of “Guizong slaying the snake” appears in multiple volumes of the Wudeng Quanshu (Comprehensive Record of the Five Lamps) 五燈全書. Volume 38 records it in connection with Chan Master zhaogao 照杲禪師 of Fayun monastery in Dongjing, a Dharma heir of Chan Master Wen 文禪師 of Baofeng Temple; Volume 53 mentions it within the lineage of Chan Master Mengchuang Siqing 夢窗嗣清禪師 of Shouguo monastery in Mingzhou, a Dharma heir of Chan Master Yan 琰禪 of Jingshan; Volume 64 includes it under Chan Master Miyun Yuanwu 密雲圓悟禪師 in Mingzhou, a Dharma heir of Yumen 禹門; Volume 70 cites Chan Master Lingyin Wen靈隱文禪師 in Anshun, Guizhou, of the thirty-fifth generation of the Nanyue line 南嶽下 of the Linji School 臨濟宗; and Volume 120 attributes it to Chan Master Guxue Tongzhe 古雪通喆禪師 of Cuiyan, whose lineage is unclear.

The tale of “Guizong slaying the snake” recounts the following episode: One day, as Guizong was hoeing weeds, a monk approached. Just then, a snake slithered past, and Guizong struck it with his hoe, cutting it in two. The monk said, “I have long heard of Guizong’s name, but it turns out you are nothing more than a coarse-mannered sramana!”. Guizong replied, “Who is coarse, you or I?”. The monk asked, “What is coarseness (cu 粗)?”. Guizong raised his hoe. The monk then asked, “What is subtlety (xi 細)?”. Guizong made the gesture of slaying a snake. The monk asked, “So should one follow and act accordingly?”. Guizong replied, “Where did you see me slay the snake?”. The monk was left speechless. A few notable details merit attention. This brief story is rich in symbolism. First, Guizong slays the snake not on some abstract plane, but within the concrete domain of everyday life—amid labor, in the fields, where “a day without work is a day without food”. This suggests that Guizong did not deliberately summon a snake as a demonstrative object to make a point; rather, the snake came as it did, and he responded as he did. Significantly, the instrument he used to slay it was a farming tool, not a legendary sword like Emperor Gaozu’s Yitian Changhong.

Second, Guizong defines the act as “subtlety.” In Buddhist doctrine, “subtlety” denotes true rationality—a mastery over desire, not through deliberation, but as a situational response. From the perspective of paratantra (dependent origination; yi ta qi 依他起), the act resembles parinispanna-svabhava (self-perfectedness; yuan cheng shi xing 圓成實性). Guizong’s slaying of the snake is not based on some transcendent, absolute principle detached from the contingent reality of dependent arising; rather, it is grounded in the mundane world of human experience—in the everyday lives of sentient beings—and embodies a momentary transcendence of that very world. This is precisely why Guizong dares to ask, “Where did you see me slay the snake?”. Philosophically, the snake pertains to inner mental activity—invisible; phenomenally, it is something that arises and perishes in the moment—extinguished without leaving a “corpse” behind. There is nothing to slay, and no snake to be found. The questioning monk is well-versed in doctrinal texts, yet unconsciously entrenched in habitual patterns of conceptual interpretation. Guizong’s act constitutes a dual transcendence—beyond right and wrong, coarse and subtle, as well as beyond the very dichotomy of existence and nonexistence, whether of language or of fact. As Wheatley (1971, p. 418) observes, “In fact, it might even be said that the pre-established harmony of the Chinese universe, which was achieved when all beings spontaneously followed the internal necessities of their own nature, and which led Chinese philosophers to seek reality in relation rather than in substance, represented the most sophisticated expression of astro- biological concepts ever attained by any people”. This cosmological orientation further deepened the intellectual appeal of Chan thought, aligning with its relational logic and paradoxical language.

The hoe in Guizong’s hand, if placed in another context, would naturally find its substitute. In Wudeng Huiyuan 五燈會元, Chan Master Zhaogao of Dongjing Fayun says “He picked up his staff and said, ‘Guizong could slay a snake, and Heshan knew how to beat the drum; the myriad phenomena and the whole cosmos—all proceed from here.’ He then threw down the staff and said, ‘Return to the hall and have tea.’ (Puji 1984, p. 1150)”14. To raise the staff is not to lift a hoe, but rather, like pointing to the blackboard while referencing the koan, it is a gesture of action; to cast it aside is not to reenact the slaying gesture, but to disengage from action altogether—it is simply to return to the hall for tea. In this context, “action” and “non-action” refer not to slaying or not slaying, but rather to speaking or not speaking—each responsive to the immediate situation. Time itself is integrated into the case, unfolding into values and meanings that are dynamically attuned to the present moment.

In interpretations of Guizong’s snake-slaying, Chan koan has introduced another well-known critical phrase: the notion of “an old womanly heart”15 (laopoxin 老婆心). In the Chanlin leiju 禪林類聚, under the entry “Rabbit and Snake,” we read the following: “Xuefeng asked Deshan, ‘What was the true intention behind the ancients slaying the snake?’ Deshan struck him. Xuefeng immediately left. Deshan called out, ‘Hey you with the cloth robe!’ Xuefeng turned his head. Deshan said, ‘Only after he awakens will he understand this old man’s utterly ‘old-womanly’ heart.’” (Lin 2003, p. 432). Clearly, the strike serves as a method of instruction. Its aim is to interrupt Xuefeng’s line of conceptual inquiry, to prevent him from chasing after the underlying intention behind the act of snake-slaying. For there is indeed an intention, but it is neither singular nor plural; it is a fluid, moment-to-moment efficacy, shifting according to time, person, and circumstance. Only by ceasing to pursue meaning in the other and turning inward can one hope to uncover the true mystery. Chan koans consistently tend to extinguish delusions and attachments in dealing with “mental thieves”. Unlike Pure Land Buddhism, the focus of their so-called “inner cultivation” lies more in describing the deconstruction of these mental thieves.

There are already snake-slaying legends recorded in Buddhist texts. One such story recounts that, long ago, when Suzhan Mingzun 素盞鳴尊 was exiled to Yunzhou, he encountered an old man and an old woman sitting with a young girl between them, all in tears. The girl was exceedingly beautiful. Mingzun asked, “Why are you crying?” They replied, “We had eight children; seven have already been devoured by a snake. This one daughter has no means of escape, and so we weep”. Mingzun said, “If you give me your daughter, I will remove this grief”. The parents joyfully agreed. Mingzun then asked, “What form does the snake take?”. They answered, “It has eight heads and eight tails—truly terrifying”. Mingzun prepared eight vats of strong wine and placed the girl atop a mountain so that her reflection fell into all eight vats. The great serpent, seeing the reflection and mistaking it for the real girl, lowered its eight heads to drink. Once fully intoxicated and unconscious, Susanoo drew his ten-hand sword and slew the serpent. When he reached one of its tails, the blade was slightly damaged. Cutting it open, he discovered a treasured sword within. From this story, several points can be observed. First, the snake, as a monstrous supernatural being, is portrayed without gender, and its victims are of no fixed sex. Second, the snake’s eight-headed, eight-tailed form is fearsome in appearance. Third, it is easily intoxicated by alcohol, and luring it into drunkenness proves to be the most effective method of capture. Fourth, the weapon used to slay the snake is typically a sword, and the snake’s very substance may, in turn, be composed of swords. This final detail faintly recalls Emperor Gaozu’s legendary slaying of the white serpent. The first three elements, meanwhile, are all indirectly woven into the narrative genealogy of The Legend of the White Snake. Thus, the reflection of Buddhist themes in snake-slaying legends has a clear textual lineage and is far from being a fabricated invention.

The temporality of “this very moment” is undoubtedly the key to interpreting the snake-slaying case, as well as various other Chan koan. The Qianshanshengren Chanshi Yulu (Recorded Sayings of Chan Master Qianshanshengren) 千山剩人禪師語錄 states the following: “If you wish to understand the meaning of Buddha-nature, you must observe the conditions of time and circumstance. When the time arrives, the principle naturally reveals itself. … When Mazu ascended the hall, Baizhang rolled up his mat and offered a shout; Zhaozhou said ‘Go drink tea,’ or ‘In Qingzhou I made myself a robe weighing seven jin 斤’; Xuefeng said, ‘We already met at Wangzhouting’; Linji shouted upon entering; Deshan struck upon entering; Xiangyan was in the tree; Xuansha spoke of ‘three kinds of sickness’; Muzhou said, ‘The koan is already before you—thirty blows!’; Juzhi raised one finger; Niaochao blew on cotton fluff; Heshan beat the drum; Guizong slew the snake; Yunmen said, ‘A dried shit-stick’—every one of these is nothing other than this very moment. Truly, all the sutras, treatises, Buddhas and Patriarchs are nothing other than this very moment. Even just now, when answering ‘Namo Guanshiyin Bodhisattva,’ that too was this very moment. To recognize this very moment is not only to liberate oneself, but to be able to liberate others as well” (Jingshanzang Editorial Committee 1987, p. 227). “This very moment” (zhege shijie 這個時節) forms the cognitive core of Chan koan, including the case of Guizong’s snake-slaying. It denotes not some immutable eternal duration, nor an Aristotelian triadic sequence of past, present, and future; not a linear narrative stretching from divine creation toward final judgment; and not the cyclical rhythms of agrarian civilization expressed in the seasons and solar terms. Nor is it even the prajna wisdom of momentary arising and ceasing, dependent origination, emptiness of self-nature, or the qualities of bliss and purity. Rather, it is just this moment—when it comes, it comes; when it goes, it goes. It is here when it is here, and absent when it is absent. It appears and disappears in accordance with conditions. “This very moment” is necessarily experiential—it is sand and blossoms, birds and stones, mountains and rivers. At the same time, it is transcendent, embodying the poetry of time beyond the shore of this world. The pivotal phrases in Chan koan are less rational propositions than poetic acts of enlightened provocation. They present the human experience with an esthetic sensibility, inscribing it within the river of history. In doing so, they make this shore no different from the other shore, collapsing sequentiality into a single thought or breath—just like a sudden spring setting thousands of pear trees abloom.

A crucial reason why the snake finds its way into the purview of Chan koan lies in its profound and ancient philosophical resonance—namely, its metaphorical association with the Four Great Elements: earth, water, fire, and wind. According to the Renwang Sutra 仁王經, the formless “consciousness-spirit” (shishen 識神) borrows the vehicle of the four snakes, making them its “pleasure-chariot.” Similarly, the Suvarnaprabhasa Sutra 最勝王經 states the following: The body is composed of earth, water, fire, and wind; according to conditions, it yields diverse results. Though housed together in one place, they are mutually antagonistic, like four venomous snakes confined in a single chest. Of these four venomous snakes, earth and water tend to sink downward, while wind and fire are light and rise upward. Their conflicting tendencies give rise to myriad ailments. The Four Great Elements are ontological constructs originating from heterodox teachings; their metaphorization as snakes not only casts the snake as a vehicle, but also reflects its elusive form. In any case, the potent metaphysical aura borne by the image of the snake aids the groundwork for its later emergence as a pivotal motif in Chan koan.

The snake lies coiled beneath human will, representing the immediate desires of the present. To slay the snake is to sever these present desires—the key lies in cutting away the desires of the moment, not the snake itself. In the Song Dynasty, the monk Shi Zonggao 釋宗杲 remarked in “Shi Qingjing Jushi” 示清淨居士, “Guizong slayed the snake, Nanyuan slayed the cat, and those who study the language of Dao often call this the marvelous use of the moment, or the great function manifesting without adherence to rules. Yet, they fail to realize that this is not the real principle. With true insight, one knows where the action will land as soon as it is raised. Without a clear understanding of the Great Fa (law) 法, when will the action of smashing tiles or drilling the tortoise shell ever be completed? (Zonggao Shi 2006, p. 343)”16. In the face of spiritual beings, of intermediaries, methods are always more numerous than thoughts. However, the purpose of the marvelous use of the moment is to possess a transcendent vision, to know the root and the principle of Dao through the act of release, to grasp the timing of its unfolding, and to awaken to the hidden logic of causality.

As a fundamental allusion in Buddhist gatha, “snake-slaying” signifies the severing of emotional entanglements, material burdens, and desires—leading ultimately to a state of complete non-attachment. For instance, in “Song Gu Sishiwu Shou” (Forty-Five Gatha Verses on Ancient Cases) 頌古四十五首 by the Southern Song monk Shi Rugong 釋如珙, the following is said: “Snake-slaying is no trifling matter—it is truly to free one from the wheel of suffering. Yet the abbot, though seated in a high hut, still harbors worldly thoughts; how could he carelessly speak such reckless words? (R. Shi 1995, p. 399)”. Here, “snake-slaying” serves as a paradigmatic didactic case for liberating oneself from the cycle of suffering.

The act of “slaying the snake” ultimately aims at “seizing the nature” (quxing 取性), a concept grounded in established doctrinal tradition. According to Volume 3 of the Qingliang Shan Zhi (Gazetteer of Mount Qingliang) 清凉山志, it records a Tang-dynasty figure known as the “Seeker of Nature” (quxing daozhe 取性道者): “Whenever he saw a monk, he would say: ‘Seize the nature, seize the nature—do not aid or correct. In your reflection and dreaming, I take part.’ Each time he entered the mountains, he carried a knife; upon seeing a snake, he would slay it, repeating only: ‘Seize the nature, seize the nature.’ Yet he forbade his disciples from killing. When they questioned him, he rebuked them: ‘This old monk is seizing the nature—when have I ever slain a snake?’” (Zhencheng Shi 1997, p. 117). Here, “snake-slaying” and “seizing the nature” are entirely unified; to slay the snake is to seize the nature. However, it is important to note that for this “Seeker of Nature”, such equivalence was understood as applicable only to himself—not as a universal truth. According to Volume 84 of the Yogacarabhumi sustra 瑜伽師地論, all forms of human desire are likened to “great poisonous snakes” that sages must necessarily shun.

Why must the snake be slain rather than trained? Because the snake is, by nature, a thing to be tamed. It needs to be subdued, and yet, precisely because it is something to be tamed, it can never attain full harmony on its own. In this regard, the snake serves as a metaphor for mindfulness—especially the mindfulness to deep meditation. In Mahaprajnaparamita sutra, Volume 23, there is a well-known analogy “A snake enters a bamboo tube”. It states, “The mind, since time without beginning, is ever crooked and unstraight. But when it follows the course of right mental conduct, it becomes upright—just like a snake, which normally slithers in curves, yet becomes straight when entering a bamboo tube” (Kumarajiva 1991, pp. 159–60). This passage makes the point clearly. The snake is originally twisted, yet when it enters the tube, it becomes straight—just as the cluttered human mind becomes disciplined through deep meditation. However, it is precisely because the snake is guided and disciplined that it cannot realize the fluid spontaneity of full harmony. As The Xutang Heshang Yulu (Recorded Sayings of Master Xutang) 虛堂和尚語錄 notes, a monk asked, “Yangshan said to Xiangyan, ‘The Tathagata Chan you may understand; the Patriarch Chan you have not even dreamed of!’—what does this mean?”. The master replied, “A snake in a bamboo tube” (The Committee for the Compilation of the Foguang Tripitaka 1994, p. 66). Here, “a snake in a bamboo tube” points precisely to a state of dilemma, unable to move freely forward or back.

The Miscellaneous Apadana Sutra recounts a story about a snake that brings about its own demise: “Once there was a snake whose head and tail quarreled. The head said to the tail, ‘I should be the greater.’ The tail replied, ‘No, I should be the greater.’ The head said, ‘I have ears to hear, eyes to see, a mouth to eat, and I lead the way when we move—therefore I should be greater. You possess none of these faculties.’ The tail retorted, ‘It is I who propel you forward; without me, you would go nowhere.’ Then the tail wrapped the body around a tree three times and refused to move for three days. The snake was unable to find food and was dying of hunger. The head finally conceded: ‘Very well, I’ll let you lead.’ Hearing this, the tail released its grip. The head then said, ‘Go ahead, you take the lead.’ The tail began to move forward, but after only a few steps, the snake fell into a deep pit and died. This parable illustrates how sentient beings, lacking wisdom and bound by the ego, ultimately fall into one of the three evil realms” (Sanghasena 2012, p. 213). This is, in essence, is a story about the self. When the fixation on “I” is pursued to the extreme, it leads directly into the snake’s dilemma—if the snake is a metaphor for the self, then can the “I” be divided? Is the head of the snake one self, and the tail another? If contradiction arises within the components of the self, can the “I” still hold? One way or another, the snake stands as the antithesis of the early Buddhist doctrine of anatman (non-self; wuwo 無我), becoming the very emblem of how attachment to the self leads to ruin. It is precisely this emblematic function that makes the snake an indispensable figure in the Chan koan.

The act of slaying the snake serves merely as a symbol, devoid of any fixed referent. In the Wudeng Quanshu, a dialog at the residence of Chan Master Chengchi 澄湜禪師 of Qixian Monastery—descendant of Master Baizhang Heng 百丈恆禪師—includes the question: “What is the meaning behind the ancient slaying of the snake?”. The master replied, “You have yet to know its pain or itch” (Puji 1984, pp. 625–26). This response suggests that the ancients, rather than encouraging inquiry into the specific referent of “snake-slaying”, actively resisted it. For to assign it a singular and determinate referent would confine and restrict it—precisely the kind of fixation the act of “snake-slaying” seeks to cut off: the ever-arising desires of the moment. In a certain sense, the snake is at once continuous—its head and tail unbroken, its movement unceasing—and fragmented, aimless, surfacing spontaneously and without pattern. As such, it is simultaneously knowable and boundless, and any attempt to ask about it merely reveals the ignorance inherent in conceptual grasping.

Outside the realm of Buddhist culture, can the snake still symbolize desire? A glimpse into this possibility is offered by Xu (1983, p. 8758) Yin 徐寅, a late Tang to Five Dynasties figure, whose “Zhanshe Jian Fu” (Ode to the Sword That Slays the Snake) 斬蛇劍賦 includes the following line: “Qin’s poison of excess transformed into a long snake; Han’s virtue of frugality became a divine sword. Excess was overcome by frugality; the snake was slain by the sword”17. In Xu Yin’s interpretation, the sword that slays the snake becomes an emblem of virtue triumphing over vice while the snake comes to metaphorically represent indulgent and unrestrained desire. Notably, this desire is construed not on the level of the individual psyche, but as a collective characteristic of an era or a polity. It is also worth noting that the symbolic opposition between sword and snake resonates not only on the ethical plane, but in the esthetic realm of artistic creation as well. During the Ming dynasty, a scholar named Zheng Shilong 鄭士龍, styled Yunqing 雲卿, and native to Dingjin, Chaoxian, composed a collection of poems that includes one titled “Parting Banquet at Xiyuan—In Response to Wenfu and Xiaozhong”. In this poem, he writes “Force of the brush can lift a cauldron, and poetic edge keen enough to slay a snake. Xu Xun’s verse is ever piercing, and Tongcheng’s governance no less refined”18. In this way, both the figure of the snake and the act of slaying it are metaphorically extended into the esthetic domain.

Poetic sensibility and philosophical reflection are not mutually exclusive. As Whitehead (1968, p. 174) observed at the end of Modes of Thought, “Philosophy is akin to poetry, and both of them seek to express that ultimate good sense which we term civilization. In each case there is reference to form beyond the direct meanings of words”. The poetic nature of the various critical phrases in Chan koans does not result in epistemological confusion; on the contrary, it constitutes a deliberate challenge to the utilitarian certainties of everyday judgment—it is a poetry of struggle.

The emergence of Chan koans in the Song period was no accident; their elusive, at times unfathomable, critical phrases served as indispensable “passages” or “exits” sought by those in pursuit of a certain existential wisdom. As Wright (1959, p. 87) notes, “The limitations of this Sui and T’ang revival are significant. Confucian learning, it is true, was now the passport to office and wealth, and was imposed on aspiring youths of the literate class. But the new orthodox commentaries were sober, rather pedantic siftings of available interpretations and were in no sense a recasting or updating of Confucian thought as a whole. Thus those who studied for the examinations were rather bored than inspired by their studies, and the examination questions themselves were stilted scholastic or literary exercises rather than challenges to the creative intellect. As a result the focus of intellectual interest remained, until the ninth century, in the alien tradition of Buddhism”. In this context, the vivid, unrestrained, and playfully profound thought embedded in Chan koans functioned not only as vehicles for transmitting Buddhist doctrine, but also as intellectual exercises for scholar officials seeking to contemplate life beyond their aspirations for office. Indeed, the seemingly enigmatic critical phrases of the Chan masters contained philosophical depth that far surpassed the rote knowledge of mere scriptural learning.

The theoretical significance of the “slaying” in Guizong’s snake-slaying ultimately lies in its capacity to sever the chains of desire, thereby crystallizing a fleeting ksana—a singular moment. Stcherbatsky (1962, p. 144) once remarked, “From the standpoint of ultimate reality there is but very little difference between a brief event and a long event, these characteristics are quite relative. But there is a great difference between duration and no duration. The point-instant is for Mr. Russel a mere «mathematical convenience». For the Indian realists of the Nyâya school it is also, we have seen, a mere idea or a mere name. But for the Buddhist it represents transcendental or ultimate reality. As a limit of all artificial constructions of our reason, it is real, it is the reality. There is no other reality than the point-instant, all the rest, whether brief or long, is constructed by our reason, on this basis”. The positing of an existent that transcends the ksana most evidently results in the affirmation of a substantial self, that is, the enactment of ahamkara (ego-attachment; wozhi 我執). Conversely, the temporality operative in Chan koan is, in its logical structure, strikingly akin to the ksana of early Buddhism. Yet it avoids fixation on birth and death, instead embodying a dynamic rhythm of ceaseless becoming—comprehensive in scope, yet without entanglement; mutually illuminating, like facets of polished lapis lazuli.

Guizong’s act, often debated for its “violence”, functions as a radical pedagogical tool to shatter the monk’s attachment to conceptual labels. When accused of “coarseness”, Guizong’s retort—”Where did you see me slay the snake?”—dissolves the monk’s fixation on the idea of “slaying”. The “snake” here symbolizes delusions that obscure one’s inherent awakening, while “slaying” signifies their release. This is not wordplay, but a direct enactment of awakening: by untying the knots of conceptual thinking, Guizong points to the pure awareness that transcends such labels—the very “mind that is inherently Buddha” 即心是佛.

6. Conclusions

The appearance of the snake-slaying episode in Chan koans is not a matter of chance, but rather reflects a certain historical inevitability. As an object of totemic veneration, the snake derives its symbolic authority from the cosmological schema of the Four Symbols (si xiang) 四象; to slay the snake, then, carries with it the political significance of obeying the mandate of Heaven, altering fate, and taking the stage on behalf of the common people. Such political significance, though veiled, is by no means absent in Guizong’s action. As a symbol of malevolent forces and a portent of celestial unrest, the snake evokes a profound and instinctive fear; its slaying thus signifies the pursuit of collective well-being, endowing Guizong’s act with a profound sense of righteousness. Furthermore, as a forerunner of ascetic cultivation, the snake, having “purified” its bodily form, becomes not only a model for the aristocracy, but also a coveted medicinal resource. Guizong’s slaying of the snake, then, may equally be construed as a potent remedy—one that cuts to the very core of human nature. Guizong’s snake-slaying itself carries strong redemptive overtones. Chan koans, in a sense, are precisely texts that instruct all sentient beings. Our revisiting of this topic today aims precisely to restore its epistemological historical origins, and to explore its original meaning and historical continuity.

The imperial, folk, and Daoist layers of “snake-slaying” are not competing narratives, but distinct expressions converging toward a singular truth—the truth being Chan’s “awakening to what is prior to discrimination”. Each cultural motif is freed from its original fixations and refashioned to reveal the unconditioned nature of mind. In this way, multiperspectival analysis illuminates how Chan wove diverse cultural threads into a single fabric: awakening to the inherent Buddha nature that lies prior to delusional projections.

As a result of this study, we demonstrate that the motif of “snake-slaying” in the Chan Buddhist koan literature is not merely a residual mythic or ritualistic gesture, but a resemanticized expression of inner spiritual transformation. By tracing its historical trajectory, we reveal how the act of killing the snake evolves from a performative assertion of sovereign or magical power into a moment of cutting through delusion, desire, and conceptual grasping. In Chan koans, particularly the case of Guizong, the snake no longer represents an external adversary, but an internal affliction arising from the habitual mind. To “slay the snake”, then, is to awaken—to intervene symbolically in the moment where desire arises and to respond with presence, spontaneity, and non-duality. This semantic restoration not only clarifies the doctrinal logic and performative context of an otherwise paradoxical act, but also illuminates a deeper feature of the Chinese intellectual tradition itself: its generative dynamism. The history of Chinese thought and culture has never been static or insular; rather, it unfolds through continuous reconfiguration and timely responsiveness. The inward redirection of “snake-slaying” reflects precisely this spirit—it reveals the courage of Chan masters to appropriate inherited motifs and fold them into living systems of meaning. In doing so, they participate in a long arc of transformation that moves Chinese intellectual history toward increasing fluidity, integration, and a life-affirming esthetics of immediacy. What appears as rupture is, in the end, continuity renewed.