Chapter 306: The Old Monk Doesn't Like to Talk About Buddha's Teachings
In the early morning, the gate creaked open. The withered little girl instantly woke up, jumped down from the stone lion's back, and crept along the base of the wall, skulking away from the place.
Chen Ping'an had of course "gotten up" even earlier than her. From a distance, he watched the little girl leave, then no longer followed her tracks and returned to his own lodging. Chen Ping'an had rented a side room in a house in the southern part of the capital city. Nearby was Zhuangyuan Lane, a name that carried great weight, but in reality it was even worse than Xinghua Lane back home. Many poor scholars who had come to the capital for the imperial examinations lived there. After failing the spring triennial, they couldn't afford the travel expenses to return home, and since they could discuss scholarship with newly made friends in the capital, they simply settled down.
Chen Ping'an only had a key to his room, not to the courtyard gate. So he timed his return precisely, arriving just as the courtyard gate was opened. He went back to his room, closed the door, and glanced at the stack of books on the table and the bedding on the bed. Both had been disturbed—tiny traces that were glaringly obvious to Chen Ping'an's eyes. He sighed, somewhat helpless, but at least nothing was missing.
Before this, Chen Ping'an hadn't lived here. He had stayed at an inn, renting a large room where he could freely practice his fist techniques and swordsmanship. Later, when his search for the Daoist temple proved fruitless and his mood grew more and more irritable, Chen Ping'an, for the first time ever, stopped his walking stance practice and sword practice. To save money, he moved here, only occasionally practicing the Sword Furnace Standing Post.
Chen Ping'an lay on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Running around like a headless fly like this wouldn't do.
Benefiting from the persistent dripping-water-wears-stone training on the Sword Qi Great Wall, and later the two great battles at Flying Eagle Fortress—especially the self-detonation of the heretical cultivator in the alchemy chamber, which released spiritual energy like a flood, and Chen Ping'an's counter-current journey that reaped considerable gains—Chen Ping'an's current martial arts fourth realm showed signs of loosening bottlenecks. But he always felt that something was still missing. Chen Ping'an had a vague intuition that the threshold between the fourth and fifth realms was one he could cross quickly if he wanted to. However, Chen Ping'an still hoped to be more solid. If that really didn't work, just as Lu Tai had said back then, he could try his luck at the Martial Sage Temple, or else find a relic of an ancient battlefield to search for heroic spirits and yin spirits of the dead who hadn't dispersed after battle.
He had to find something to do; otherwise, Chen Ping'an was afraid he might grow moldy.
Chen Ping'an decided to stay in this capital of Nanyuan Kingdom until the end of summer. If he still couldn't find that Guan Daoist Temple, he would return to Baoping Continent and focus all his energy on the seventh realm of martial arts. Cui Chan's grandfather was at the bamboo building on Luopo Mountain. Chen Ping'an had great confidence in that. The ten-year agreement with Ning Yao might even be fulfilled a few years early.
But Chen Ping'an was still a bit daunted. He was afraid that the barefoot old man, with his sky-high ambition and invincible fists, would insist on polishing him into some kind of strongest fifth realm or sixth realm.
Back then, the third realm had already been such a huge ordeal. Chen Ping'an was really afraid that the old man would beat him to death alive—or worse, beat him to death from the pain.
Chen Ping'an clasped his hands behind his head and slowly closed his eyes.
He wondered if A Liang, out in the heaven beyond heaven, had truly decided the victor with that legendary invincible Daoist Number Two.
He wondered if Liu Xianyang, on his long journey to the Chen clan of Yingyin, had seen the highest mountains and the largest waters.
He wondered if Li Baoping was happy studying at the Cliff Mountain Academy.
He wondered if Gu Can, at Book Bamboo Lake, had been bullied, or if his little notebook for keeping grudges had gained another volume.
He wondered if Ruan Xiu still liked eating the peach blossom cakes from the shop on Qilong Lane.
He wondered if Zhang Shanfeng and Xu Yuanxia, traveling together, had made new friends with whom they could share life-and-death adventures, slaying demons and vanquishing monsters.
He wondered if Fan Er had met the girl of his heart in Old Dragon City.
Chen Ping'an, lost in his thoughts, actually fell asleep like that.
With the flying swords First Fifteen and First Fifteen inside the Sword Nurturing Gourd, Chen Ping'an hadn't been too worried during this journey of roughing it.
The owner of this house was a family of three generations, five people in total. The old man liked to go out to play chess with others; his skill was weak, his sportsmanship even worse, and he loved to make a fuss.
The old woman was sharp-tongued, with a perpetually gloomy expression, easily reminding Chen Ping'an of Granny Ma from Xinghua Lane.
The young couple—the wife did some needlework at home and managed the household, getting scolded by her mother-in-law every day so much that she never lifted her head. According to the local saying in the Nanyuan Kingdom capital, the man was a "bundle peddler," meaning he carried a large bundle on his back, went around buying broken items, tied a small drum at his waist, and shouted loudly as he roamed the streets. If he got lucky, he could pick up valuable antiques at a bargain and then sell them to familiar antique shops, making a tidy profit with a single flip.
The couple was ordinary-looking, but they had a clever, handsome child, seven or eight years old, with rosy lips and white teeth—not like a child from a humble alley, but more like the young master of a wealthy family. He attended a school and was said to be well-liked by the teacher. He often watched his grandfather play chess, squatting for half an hour without a word, truly a gentleman who didn't interrupt the game—a little scholar in the making.
All the neighbors, young and old, were fond of this child and often teased him: which one did he like more—the childhood sweetheart from the next alley or Miss Liu from the school? The child would just smile shyly and continue watching the chess game in silence.
After Chen Ping'an fell asleep.
A little creature emerged from the ground, climbed onto the table, and sat next to the "mountain of books," starting to doze off.
The little lotus person was clearly proficient in earth escape arts, silent and extremely fast.
Before arriving at the Nanyuan Kingdom capital, Chen Ping'an had played with it several times: either galloping on horseback or running at full speed for dozens of li. Whenever he stopped his horse or halted his steps, the little creature would always pop its head out of the ground at his feet and giggle at him.
Whether Chen Ping'an was practicing his walking stance, fist techniques, or swordsmanship, it never disturbed him, always watching from afar. Only when Chen Ping'an beckoned would it come to his side, climb up his Dharma robe like climbing a vine, and eventually sit on his shoulder—the big and the small, enjoying the scenery together.
As for that Snow Flower Coin, it was temporarily left with Chen Ping'an.
Chen Ping'an only rested for a short while before being woken by the commotion in the courtyard: the old woman's nagging, the woman's timid replies, the old man clearing his throat, the child reciting the contents of his elementary book, while the young man should still be fast asleep.
Chen Ping'an sat at the table, gently picking up a book. The little creature also slowly woke up, looking dazed and staring blankly at Chen Ping'an.
Chen Ping'an smiled and said, "Go back to sleep."
The little thing smartly got up, ran over to Chen Ping'an, and helped him flip to a new page.
Chen Ping'an was used to it. The books on the table were all purchased after leaving Lu Tai and Flying Eagle Fortress. At that time, Lu Tai said that only by reading first-class books could one hope to become a second-class person. In reading, one shouldn't seek completeness; greed leads to indigestion. It's best to read intensively, chew carefully, and truly digest all the subtleties of a classic, turning those beautiful images, penetrating insights, and the spirit hidden between the lines into one's own. That's what's called reading. Otherwise, you're just flipping through books. Even if you flip through ten thousand volumes, at best you're a two-legged bookcase.
When Chen Ping'an heard that, it was like a revelation. If Lu Tai hadn't reminded him, he really might have bought every good book he saw, and he would have read them all carefully and slowly. But the sea of books is boundless, and human life is limited. Chen Ping'an had to practice fists and swords, and also search for the Daoist temple. With only a little leisure time left, he should indeed use it to read the best books.
Lu Tai had given him a reading list, but Chen Ping'an treasured that piece of paper and didn't buy books according to the list. Instead, he bought the classic texts of the Confucian Secondary Sage.
Unfortunately, books by the Literary Sage old scholar were simply unavailable on the market.
Chen Ping'an wanted to read "Three-Four," comparing them.
Emotionally, Chen Ping'an certainly favored his master Qi's teacher, that old scholar who loved to drink and talk drunkenly. But liking, admiring, and respecting a person is fine. If you then think that everything that person says and does is completely right, that would be a big problem.
Was the Literary Sage old scholar's knowledge high? Of course it was high. According to young Cui Chan, it was once so high that all scholars felt it was "like the sun at high noon."
So did Chen Ping'an have the right to think that the old scholar's principles weren't the most reasonable?
On the surface, it seemed like an ant trying to shake a tree, ridiculous and overestimating oneself. But actually, he did have that right, because there was a Secondary Sage, and the classics left by the Secondary Sage.
Chen Ping'an had once said to Ning Yao's parents, "Truly liking someone means liking the things that are not good about them."
He had also instructed the blue-clad child and the pink-skirted girl, "If I'm wrong, remember to remind me."
But deep down, Chen Ping'an certainly hoped that after reading the scholarship of both sides in the Three-Four Controversy, he would sincerely feel that the Literary Sage old scholar was more correct.
Then next time he drank with the old man, they'd have something to talk about.
Chen Ping'an sat upright, reading very slowly, his voice very soft. Whenever he reached the end of a page, the little lotus person would quickly and nimbly turn to a new page.
Then it would sit back down between Chen Ping'an and the books on the table, mimicking Chen Ping'an's upright posture, pricking up its ears and quietly listening to the sound of reading above it.
To the courtyard outside, full of the smoky, mundane atmosphere of the market, Chen Ping'an, in his white robe with a sword on his back and a gourd hanging from him, was like a strange figure from afar—not getting close when he arrived, not lingering when he left.
Just as long as he paid.
Near Zhuangyuan Lane there were taverns and brothels, as well as temples with lingering Buddhist chants. Though they were close, it was as if they were as far apart as two different worlds.
Chen Ping'an often saw monks walking out with their alms bowls. Though their bodies were thin, most had serene faces. Even without wearing kasayas, they could be distinguished at a glance from the common folk.
On the other side, in the entertainment districts, it was usually bustling at night, with the whole street flowing with a thick scent of rouge and powder, not quieting down until the early morning hours. Although the people there—whether the patrons buying drinks or the women serving them—were mostly dressed in silk and satin, once the revelry ended, their faces were often haggard. Chen Ping'an several times saw those women send off the guests from the brothels, then go back to remove their makeup. As dawn broke, they would walk out the side gate of the brothel to a small alley crowded with vendors, sit down to drink a bowl of rice porridge or wonton soup. Some women, as they ate, would fall asleep on the table.
A moment of spring night is worth a thousand gold—it's like borrowing money from the heavens; it has to be repaid.
Some vendors who were familiar with those brothel women loved to tell risqué jokes. Some women didn't mind and would brush them off with a few words to save a few coppers. Others, who should have been used to being meek and ingratiating, would curse openly. The vendors would then cower, and after the women left, they would call them nothing but filthy goods selling their flesh, who had no face to pretend to be virgins.
The next day, the brothel women who had cursed would still come, and the vendor who had been cursed the day before would still sneak peeks at their small white hands exposed from their sleeves—white like the pork on the chopping board. Compared to his own sallow-faced wife, it was like heaven and earth. He really wondered how these soft, delicate women could be born. But thinking that just to touch their breasts would cost him nearly half a year's hard labor, he could only sigh.
Nanyuan Kingdom had been at peace for hundreds of years, with no wars. Generation after generation of kings ruled by non-action, with neither virtuous nor evil reputations.
Thus, the capital had no night curfew. Heroes of the jianghu swaggered about with swords and sabers, in fine clothes and on fine horses, and the government never bothered them. If they met on the road, whether on horseback or on foot, they would exchange polite greetings. Those on good terms would go drink together nearby. Some would talk about the frustrating promotions in officialdom, others about the thrilling duels of experts in the jianghu. Once they got going, two or three catties of wine would definitely not be enough.
To find that Guan Daoist Temple, Chen Ping'an roamed the capital every day, witnessing the myriad aspects of market life and also encountering some strange things hidden among the common folk.
As long as they didn't actively provoke him, Chen Ping'an didn't want to bother with them.
Lu Tai had once said something that didn't strike him deeply at the time, but now, the more he chewed on it, the more flavor it had.
Once you go up the mountain and cultivate the Dao, you feel that the goblins, demons, and yin creatures in the world seem to keep increasing.
Chen Ping'an closed the book. An hour had passed like that. He prepared to go out and continue his wandering.
Although his mood had been growing more and more irritable during his search for the temple, Chen Ping'an hadn't been completely unable to calm his mind. In fact, he had made many efforts: he had gone to various large and small temples, burned incense and worshiped the Buddhas, walked alone in quiet paths and shaded groves, and recorded each temple he visited on bamboo slips. He visited the small temple beside Zhuangyuan Lane most frequently. The temple wasn't big—counting the abbot, only about a dozen people. Over time, he became a familiar face. Whenever Chen Ping'an's heart was unsettled, he would go there to sit. He didn't necessarily talk to the monks. Even just sitting alone under the eaves, listening to the tinkling of wind chimes, could while away a sweltering summer afternoon.
Nanyuan Kingdom revered Buddhism and disparaged Daoism. The capital and the provinces were filled with temples, with incense burning brightly. Daoist temples were rare, and there wasn't a single one in the capital.
Recently, a shocking secret had been causing an uproar throughout the capital. One of the four great temples of the Nanyuan Kingdom capital, Baihe Temple, had been involved in a tremendous scandal. Baihe Temple had always been famous for its abbots' profound Buddhist teachings and living arhats with golden bodies. For generations, eminent monks who had passed away could leave behind incorruptible bodies or burn sharira relics. The other three temples felt inferior in this regard.
This was also seen as clear proof that Buddhism in Nanyuan Kingdom was flourishing, far surpassing its neighboring countries.
But not long ago, an eminent monk who had been staying and practicing at Baihe Temple was elected abbot the year before last, enjoying boundless glory. Yet one day, he ran out of the temple and went directly to the Court of Judicial Review to file a complaint. After hearing him out, the Chief Minister of the Court and the other officials looked at each other in astonishment. It turned out that this old monk was accusing Baihe Temple of poisoning his food and plotting to inject his corpse with mercury after his death. Not only that, but he also exposed the temple's monks as being deeply sinful, including swindling wealthy capital ladies who sought sons at any price—a total of six major crimes.
This case was so shocking that it directly alarmed His Majesty, the Emperor of Nanyuan Kingdom, who ordered a full investigation. As a result, more than half of the three hundred monks of Baihe Temple were imprisoned, and the rest were expelled from the capital, stripped of their monastic registries, and forbidden from ever becoming monks again.
The other three temples remained detached and aloof, as they were deeply rooted. But many lesser-known temples were implicated, such as the Xinxiang Temple beside Zhuangyuan Lane, which had seen a noticeable drop in visitors recently.
The abbot of Xinxiang Temple was an old monk with a strong local accent, kind-faced and tall and big. He had been in the capital for thirty years, yet he still hadn't lost his accent. He also didn't like to talk at length about the subtlety and profundity of Buddhist teachings; mostly he chatted about everyday family matters. Every time Chen Ping'an went to the temple to sit idly, he had to put in a lot of effort to understand him. Chen Ping'an had a good impression of this old monk, though he observed but didn't speak out: the old abbot was a cultivator, but hadn't yet reached the middle five realms.
Chen Ping'an left the alley and headed for Xinxiang Temple, planning to sit in meditation there and practice the Sword Furnace Standing Post.
It was only about two li away, and on the way he passed a martial arts hall and an escort agency. Especially the high wall of the martial arts hall, which bore a plaque reading "A Spirit That Moves Mountains and Rivers." Every time he passed by, a bunch of men were inside "heh-heh-ha-ha," presumably practicing fist forms. On the street outside the escort agency, there were often clusters of escort carts. Young men and women were all arrogant and high-spirited, while the old-timers were much more taciturn. When they occasionally saw Chen Ping'an, they would nod in greeting. At first, Chen Ping'an would return the nod with a cupped fist salute. Later, he would take the initiative to greet them. But unexpectedly, after a few exchanges, the old-timers lost interest and simply stopped looking at Chen Ping'an.
When Chen Ping'an later figured out the reason, he couldn't help but laugh.
Probably they had initially taken him for a formidable newcomer, but after checking his residence, they looked down on him. His overly "polite" manners had led the old hands of the escort agency to conclude that he was just a showpiece.
Chen Ping'an found it quite amusing.
In the capital, there were many martial arts halls and escort agencies. Those famous jianghu sects liked to set up branches here, with grand courtyards and gates that rivaled the mansions of princes and nobles, without worrying about breaches of ritual protocol. On the other hand, there were very few rumors about Qi refiners. Even the national master was only a martial arts grandmaster.
But the most interesting thing was the people in an unremarkable house. Almost everyone coming and going was a martial artist—trained fighters of the jianghu—but they deliberately concealed their identities, dressed plainly, and were unsmiling. Chen Ping'an once even saw a person who was very likely a sixth-realm martial artist, followed by a young woman wearing a hooded veil. He couldn't see her face clearly, but her figure was graceful—she should be a beauty.
Unconsciously, Chen Ping'an had begun to view this world with a different perspective.
Arriving at Xinxiang Temple, the temple now had sparse visitors, mostly elderly locals. So the monks and novices all looked worried.
The main reason Chen Ping'an had been visiting more frequently recently was that he felt the old abbot's time was near.
Today, the old monk seemed to know that Chen Ping'an was coming. He was waiting early in the corridor of a side hall.
He had set out two round reed cushions, and the two sat facing each other.
Seeing Chen Ping'an's hesitant expression, the old monk got straight to the point with a smile, "Among the successive abbots of Baihe Temple, there have indeed been those with true golden bodies. It's not as the outside rumors say, that they're all frauds. No need to beat the whole thousand-year history of Baihe Temple to death."
Seeing good is fine.
But the precondition is that the old monk first saw evil.
The old monk smiled again, "But after I die, I had originally thought to burn a few sharira relics to add some incense for this temple. Now it seems difficult, and I'll still have to deliberately conceal it for a while."
Chen Ping'an asked doubtfully, "Does this also count as Buddhist cause and effect?"
The old monk nodded, "Naturally. In a capital like Nanyuan Kingdom, Baihe Temple and Xinxiang Temple have never interacted. On the surface, the cause and effect seems vague, but in reality it's not. In the Buddha's teachings, heaven and earth, big and small, are all interconnected by countless threads."
This was the first time the old monk had spoken of "Buddha's teachings" in front of Chen Ping'an.
After a moment's hesitation, the old monk smiled again, "Actually, there is also cause and effect between the two temples, but it's too subtle, too... small. I'm not confident enough to explain it clearly. The benefactor will have to experience it himself."
They chatted casually, without any formality. The old monk had often been interrupted by the young novices before, as they talked about trivial temple matters, leaving Chen Ping'an aside. Chen Ping'an would also sometimes bring a few bamboo slips or a book, reading and carving characters, and he never felt slighted or offended.
Today, Chen Ping'an hadn't brought a book, only a slender bamboo slip and a small carving knife.
Chen Ping'an never disliked old things; the carving knife was still the one given as a gift by the shopkeeper when he bought the jade pendant.
The old monk was in a very talkative mood today. When it came to Buddhist teachings, he only touched on them lightly and didn't dwell. Most of the conversation was like before—random talk about music, chess, calligraphy, painting, emperors and generals, peddlers and porters, the Hundred Schools of Thought—just casual chatter, like family gossip.
Time passed leisurely.
The old monk asked with a smile, "Can a great traitor or a notorious scholar-official, whose name stinks for ten thousand generations, still write beautiful characters and popular poems?"
Chen Ping'an thought for a moment and nodded, "Yes, he can."
"Can a famous scholar or general who has gone down in history have hidden secrets and flaws that people don't know about?"
"Yes."
The old monk smiled, "That's right. Don't go to extremes in everything. When reasoning with people, the worst thing is 'I must monopolize all the truth.' The worst thing is that once you become enemies with someone, you completely ignore their good points. In the court, factional struggles—even those regarded by later generations as struggles among gentlemen—why do they still leave long-lasting harm? Because even the gentlemen and sages do wrong in these matters."
The old monk continued, "But if you're weak in court factional struggles and preach this great principle, you'll most likely die horribly. It's really not fair to blame those scholar-officials. So, can it be said that all my talk just now is just a bunch of nonsense? Why say it at all?"
Chen Ping'an shook his head with a smile, "An old gentleman told me a similar principle. He taught me to think about everything, even if thinking about it a full circle brings me back to the starting point. Though it's tiring and effortful, in the long run, it's still beneficial."
The old monk nodded approvingly, "That gentleman has great learning."
Chen Ping'an stroked the jade-green bamboo slip with his finger and said softly, "Once, the old gentleman was drunk, with blurred eyes. He seemed to be asking me, but probably he was asking everyone. He said, 'How many books have you read to dare say the world is "just like this"? How many people have you seen to dare say that men and women "are all that kind"? How much peace and suffering have you witnessed with your own eyes to dare judge others' good and evil?'"
The old monk sighed, "That gentleman must have lived a hard life."
Chen Ping'an suddenly remembered something that had always puzzled him, and asked curiously, "Does Buddhism really advocate the idea of 'laying down the butcher's knife and becoming a Buddha on the spot'?"
The old monk smiled slightly. "Before answering, I have a question first. Do you find this saying both startling and refreshing, yet when you chew on it, you always feel it's a shortcut, not the right path?"
Chen Ping'an scratched his head, "I haven't even read ordinary Buddhist scriptures, so how would I know if it's the right path or not."
The old monk laughed heartily. "'Laying down the butcher's knife and becoming a Buddha on the spot'—the world only sees the shortcut, finds it incredible. Little do they know that the real mystery lies in realizing that 'the butcher's knife is in my hand,' which means 'knowing evil.' In the myriad forms of the world, many people do evil without knowing it, and many know it's evil but still do it. In the end, they all have a blood-drenched butcher's knife in hand, differing only in weight. If they can truly lay it down and turn back from then on, isn't that a good thing?"
The old monk then spoke a bit more distantly, "In Zen, there is the 'shock and shout' method. Outsiders still find it strange, but in reality, the hard work done before the awakening from shock and shout is simply invisible to ordinary people, or they see it but are unwilling to do it. Is it difficult to become a Buddha? Of course it is. Knowing the Buddha's teachings is one difficulty; upholding, protecting, and transmitting them are even harder. But..."
The old monk suddenly stopped his words and sighed, "There is no 'but.' Since I, a monk devoted to Buddhism, can't even do it myself, why should I speak such distant truths to you?"
Chen Ping'an smiled, "No harm in speaking. Even if the truth is far away, even if I don't go there, just knowing it's there is a good thing."
The old monk waved his hand, "Let me rest a while, have a cup of tea to moisten my throat. It's almost smoking."
The old monk called out. In a nearby meditation hut, a young novice who had appeared to be reciting sutras but was actually dozing suddenly opened his eyes. Hearing the old monk's words, he quickly fetched two bowls of tea for the abbot and the guest.
Not far away, there was a towering tree with dense shade, where a little oriole perched, pecking here and there.
Chen Ping'an drank his tea quickly; the old monk drank slowly.
Chen Ping'an smiled and handed his empty bowl back to the novice. The old monk hadn't even finished half his bowl. Chen Ping'an lowered his head and picked up the bamboo slip, noting faint marks on both ends that were hardly noticeable.
Chen Ping'an looked at the left end, then the right end.
The bamboo slip was like a small ruler.
The old monk finished his tea and turned his head to look out. In the scorching summer heat, the blazing sun grilled the mortal world, making it hard for people to find coolness. He spoke intermittently, with emotion.
"In the End Dharma Age, the people of the world are like grass in a drought year, all withered and without moisture."
"Truths still need to be spoken."
"The Buddha's teachings are the truths of monks. Ritual propriety is the truth of Confucian scholars. Daoist principles are the truths of Daoists. None of them are really bad. Why be constrained by sectarian boundaries? What's right, take it, and digest it into your own belly."
Chen Ping'an lifted his gaze from the bamboo slip, looked up, smiled, and nodded, "That's right."
The old monk looked at the temple courtyard beyond the corridor railing. "This world has always wronged good people. Right and wrong, how could they not exist? It's just that we're not willing to delve deeply into them. We can avoid talking about them, even deliberately confuse right and wrong, but we must have a clear conscience. Unfortunately, there are many things in life that leave us helpless. Clever people are becoming more and more numerous. Those with hearts and minds as full of holes as a lotus seedpod often like to mock pure and honest people, deny sincere goodness, and despise the genuine enthusiasm of others."
"Chen Ping'an, how you look at this world is how the world will look at you."
Then the old monk, as if repeating himself needlessly, said, "You look at it, and it also looks at you."
Chen Ping'an thought it made sense but didn't dwell on it.
Today, the old monk had spoken quite a lot, and Chen Ping'an was someone willing to think things through carefully, so for the moment, he hadn't followed the old monk to such distant places.
The old monk suddenly beamed brightly, "Benefactor Chen, how well did this old monk speak his truths today?"
Feeling a pang of sadness, Chen Ping'an smiled and said, "Very well."
The old monk asked with a smile, "Before, I heard you speak about 'first and later,' 'big and small,' 'good and evil.' I'd like to hear it again."
Chen Ping'an's first attempt had been clumsy and obscure, but truth and heartfelt words always become clearer the more they are spoken, like a mirror that is wiped from time to time, becoming brighter as the dust is removed.
Right and wrong have a sequence: first sort out the order, don't skip ahead just to talk about the truth you want to say.
Right and wrong also have size: use one, two, or even multiple rulers to measure size. These rulers can be all the world's righteous methods and good methods—Legalist laws, Confucian rituals, the calculations of the School of Calculation—all can be borrowed. The law at the baseline, high morality, local customs, precise calculations—all will be involved. One cannot treat them all the same. Studying them in detail is extremely complicated and laborious, both mentally and physically.
Only after all that is the final determination of good and evil.
Invisibly, the Three-Four controversy over whether human nature is good or evil thus ceases to be an insurmountable obstacle for scholars, because it becomes a matter to be discussed at the end, not the first thing that needs to be decided at the beginning of study.
Finally, there is the character "行" (action).
Educating the masses, spreading the Dharma with a compassionate heart, cultivating oneself alone to achieve purity—each can follow his own preference. It's up to him.
The old monk looked serene. After listening to Chen Ping'an's explanation, he put his palms together, bowed his head, and said, "Amitabha."
Chen Ping'an looked at the little oriole perched on the flying eaves of the temple. It was watching the young novice sweeping the temple grounds.
Chen Ping'an withdrew his gaze. The old monk smiled faintly, "If the temple is gone, the monks remain. If the monks are gone, the scriptures remain. If the scriptures are gone, the Buddha remains. If the Buddha is gone, the Buddha's teachings remain. Even if Xinxiang Temple loses a monk and not a single scripture remains, as long as someone still has the Buddha's teachings in his heart, Xinxiang Temple still exists."
The old monk turned his head again to look at the quiet courtyard, where only the rustling sound of the novice sweeping could be heard.
The old monk's vision blurred. He murmured, "It seems the old monk sees a lotus blooming in the mortal world."
Chen Ping'an was silent, speechless.
The old monk lowered his head, his lips moving slightly. "I go."
In the distance, the young novice looked toward the corridor, hugging his broom, and complained to the old monk, "Master, the sun is so strong. Can I sweep later? I'm about to die of heat."
Chen Ping'an turned his head and pointed to the old monk, who seemed to be napping soundly. Then he raised a finger to his lips and made a "shush" gesture.
The young novice quickly fell silent, then secretly rejoiced: Haha, I love to slack off, and it turns out Master loves to sleep too.
He tiptoed over to the shade under the main hall to cool off. The little oriole mustered up its courage and flew onto the young novice's shoulder. The novice was startled for a moment, then deliberately turned his head and made a face at it, scaring the oriole into flapping away. The lonely young novice rubbed his bald head, feeling a bit guilty.
In the corridor, on the round reed cushion, the dead old monk remained in his loose, relaxed sitting posture.
But it was as if he had raised a spirit for this small corner of the world.
Chen Ping'an was suddenly reminded of a saying by Lu Tai.
Death is a great sleep for man.