Chapter 378: White-Robed Monk
Two weeks later, Chen Ping'an and his group passed by a mountain whose steep slopes resembled a woman's delicate eyebrows. After entering its territory, within the short span of a single incense stick's time along the mountain path, they had already encountered two groups of people. The first group, over a dozen individuals exuding wealth and nobility, mostly from official families, with several attendants and guards all wearing standard-issue long blades, consisted of men, women, old, and young. The second group, six in total, carried a strong aura of the martial world. Four were men around fifty years old, with steady breathing and silent footsteps—undoubtedly first-class martial artists of the Green Luan Kingdom's underworld. The leader, an old man with an aquiline nose and piercing eyes, was accompanied by a round-faced girl. Though not particularly striking in appearance, she had a pair of spirited, clever eyes that shimmered with vitality.
Both groups were heading up the mountain. Earlier, when Chen Ping'an had encountered the official party, he had proactively approached them to inquire about the local customs and people. After their introduction, he learned that atop this Qingyao Mountain stood a Golden Osmanthus Temple, where immortals cultivated the Dao. However, the temple often kept its gates closed to visitors year-round. Last winter, the temple had a woodcutter deliver a message: they planned to accept nine disciples, provided they were under sixteen years old, regardless of background, only depending on fate. Consequently, no fewer than three hundred people, each bringing their children—boys, girls, or infants—had been streaming in an endless procession to Qingyao Mountain.
Chen Ping'an was preoccupied with the True Martial Sword and short blade still placed in the Grand Governor's residence, so he wasn't inclined to join the commotion. Zhang Shanjing and Xu Yuanxia, after two years of traversing mountains and rivers—especially having witnessed the Land and Water Daoist Ceremonies of the Green Luan Kingdom and the Grand Heavenly Sacrifice of the Qingshan Kingdom—had little interest in a mountain opening its doors to accept disciples. As for whether the priests of the Golden Osmanthus Temple were true immortals or false experts, the group paid it little mind.
Within an ordinary country of Treasure Bottle Continent, a Golden Core Earth Immortal was already an unreachable existence. After all, a place as concealed and formidable as the Great Li Dynasty was rare even across the entire Righteous Qi Continent.
As the Great Li Song clan's iron cavalry stepped onto the land not far north of Viewing Lake Academy, aside from the orthodox legitimacy granted by the scholarly academy, the Great Li had effectively encompassed half of a prefecture's territory. The calls for the Great Li to be recognized as the world's tenth great dynasty grew increasingly fervent.
When they encountered the second group, the round-faced girl's eyes never stopped flickering with surprise and curiosity. A young man in a white robe carrying a bamboo box on his back and a vermillion wine flask tucked at his waist; a charcoal-black little girl riding on the back of a yellow ox; a girl with bamboo swords and bamboo knives crisscrossing at her waist and a long sword slung across her back—a stunningly beautiful woman... And also a young Daoist priest and a bearded swordsman. What an odd traveling party. Could these be the so-called "mountain and marsh wild cultivators" her grandfather had once mentioned?
Fortunately, though the old man in black clearly looked no easy adversary, as a seasoned wanderer, he still observed old proprieties. He quickly stopped the girl's unabashed staring and, not only that, even nodded in greeting to Chen Ping'an, presumably to apologize on behalf of the younger generation.
Chen Ping'an responded with a clasped-fist salute and a smile.
Traveling the world, such chance encounters were common. Yet these two groups, otherwise destined to go their separate ways, were brought together by an unexpected torrential downpour.
A rare fierce storm had turned the mountain paths exceptionally muddy and difficult. The spring chill was already bone-piercing, and as the mountain wind howled, the rain was bitterly cold. Pei Qian was directly stunned by raindrops the size of soybeans; her face stung with a fiery pain. Soon her lips turned blue, and she shivered all over. This was after she had begun martial arts training—if it had been before, just this brief exposure to wind and rain would have been enough to leave her bedridden.
Chen Ping'an had Zhu Lian scout ahead to see if there was any shelter nearby. The hunched old man moved like an ape, leaping and dodging among trees and rocks, and soon returned, saying there was a large natural stone cave not far ahead. A group had already settled there and lit a fire for warmth. Chen Ping'an carried Pei Qian on his back, unfurled the parasol with phoenix tree leaves he had brought from the Lotus Flower Blessed Land, and took out a straw rain cape, trying to shield Pei Qian as much as possible from the mountain wind and rain.
Zhang Shanjing could hardly open his eyes. Walking beside Chen Ping'an, he shouted loudly, "This heavy rain is abnormal."
Chen Ping'an nodded. He took out a yellow paper talisman of relatively ordinary material—the lowest-ranked Yang Qi Lantern Talisman from the *True Trace of the Crimson Book*. Whenever encountering mountains, waters, dilapidated temples, or graveyards, Chen Ping'an would use this talisman to clear the way, checking the density of yin and evil energy in the area. He pinched the talisman between two fingers, flicked it lightly, and after infusing it with true qi, it ignited instantly. Fortunately, the lantern talisman at his fingertip burned slowly—far slower than when he had first ventured alone into the City God Temple of the Colorful Garment Kingdom. To be cautious, Chen Ping'an did not extinguish the lantern talisman but held it as a guide, wary of possible traps ahead.
After the encounter at the mountain hollow, not only had he formed a grievance with a Golden Core Earth Immortal, but he might also have attracted the covetous attention of that group of rogue cultivators. He had to be careful.
Not only that, Chen Ping'an also asked the yellow ox if it knew of any great demons holding sway as mountain kings in this area. The ox, though not yet transformed into human form, could speak human language. It shook its head. "In the five hundred years since I awakened my intelligence, not counting the recent two centuries I spent dormant underground, I never heard of any mountain spirits or ghosts causing trouble in the Green Luan Kingdom. However, three hundred years ago, at a Buddhist monastery three hundred li from here, I witnessed a scene of a monk expounding the Dharma and golden osmanthus petals falling like rain—it was very miraculous. At the time, it was said those golden osmanthus seeds that carpeted the entire monastery came from the osmanthus trees on this very Qingyao Mountain."
Xu Yuanxia, adjusting his conical hat, laughed loudly, "Zhang Shanjing and I long ago visited that Buddhist monastery. Its fame is too great to ignore, but aside from the inscriptions on the walls, we didn't see much else. Several famous sites of Buddhist koans had already been cordoned off, forbidding pilgrims from entering. We wandered around for half a day but did witness one scene, which I recorded in my travel journal. At dusk, two young novice monks tasked with moving the donation chest, probably thinking there were no pilgrims and no outsiders, tiptoed and stretched out their hands to grab money randomly. After digging around for a while, one novice who first fished out a piece of silver roared with laughter. The two carried the donation chest on a shoulder pole, and the one who got the silver walked in front. When Zhang Shanjing and I saw this, we found it hilarious. Turns out the donation chest had to be moved to the back, down a long flight of stairs. Naturally, the one in front had the advantage, while the one carrying the rear of the pole suffered."
Chen Ping'an didn't know much about Buddhism. Buddhism wasn't flourishing in Treasure Bottle Continent; in fact, it could be said to have the least incense offerings among the nine continents. As a result, it was only in the Lotus Flower Blessed Land, where he often visited the Heart-Contemplation Temple near Scholar's Lane, that he had come into contact with some Buddhist teachings. Baffled, he asked, "Isn't it said that monks are not to touch money?"
Zhang Shanjing smiled. "There's no such hard-and-fast rule under heaven."
Xu Yuanxia teased, "Hanging around those temples wasn't a waste after all—that remark has some Zen flavor."
The yellow ox rarely spoke unless asked a question. At that moment, it fell silent. Yet it clearly remembered that ancient Buddhist monastery built at the foot of a mountain. At the time, when it was at the Observing Sea Realm, it had been among the dense shade atop the mountain, gazing toward the temple. Not daring to approach too close to the incense of the human world—both for fear of startling mortals and of incurring the displeasure of immortals—it could only watch from afar. A young monk in a snow-white cassock stood under an eave hung with wind chimes. He stretched out his hand, and golden osmanthus seeds fell like raindrops into his palm.
As Chen Ping'an, Zhang Shanjing, and Xu Yuanxia talked and laughed, they moved swiftly. Chen Ping'an tucked the remaining half of the lantern talisman into his sleeve. They soon arrived at the cave Zhu Lian had found. It was quite large, like a village ancestral hall, spacious enough to hold thirty or forty people.
Throughout the journey, the Yang Qi Lantern Talisman had burned slowly. The farther they strayed from the main climbing path, the slower it burned. This truly gloomy rain was likely the work of qi refiners targeting the Golden Osmanthus Temple's current disciple recruitment event.
The people who had arrived first at the stone cave were all women—seven or eight of them. The eldest was a white-haired old woman, the youngest a girl just entering her teens. Because of the sudden downpour, the veils they had used to conceal their faces had become burdensome, and they had placed them alongside their conical hats, umbrellas, and rain capes at their feet. They were currently warming themselves by the fire. When they saw Chen Ping'an and his group, their eyes were cold. Several of them shifted positions, moving closer to the fire, clearly unwilling to have much interaction with Chen Ping'an's party.
Chen Ping'an couldn't help but turn his head to glance at Zhu Lian. The latter wore a "naive" smile.
These women, presumably from the same sect, must have entered the cave before the rain started and gathered dry branches early on. Now, with the fierce wind outside capable of tearing roofs off houses and the rain pouring down, Chen Ping'an's group could only stand and stare. Zhang Shanjing, as a qi refiner, though not of high realm, could easily use some basic techniques to start a fire. But casually displaying such skills while traveling was a major taboo for cultivators.
Chen Ping'an helped Pei Qian set up the leather tent, then took out her clean clothes from the bamboo box, letting Sui Youbian help Pei Qian change.
By the time Pei Qian bounced out of the tent, the martial arts group they had encountered earlier had also retreated back and arrived at the cave bedraggled to take shelter.
This rain was so heavy that even the martial heroes had to bow their heads.
Chen Ping'an saw the aquiline-nosed old man and nodded to him first. The latter nodded back, acknowledging the greeting.
Since Chen Ping'an was so polite, Zhu Lian and the other three silently moved to make space.
The round-faced girl, looking like a drowned chicken, had already been surrounded by attendants to block outsiders' gazes. After all, her clothes were soaked through, revealing her figure.
After the martial arts group sat down, the round-faced girl began to size up the women again. Her eyes lit up, and she asked, "Could you all be the wives of the Yanzhi Studio of the Cloud Kingdom?"
Earlier, when the girl had merely glanced at Chen Ping'an a few times, the old man in black had stopped her. But this time, her words were so disrespectful as to be almost provocative, yet the old man just sat with his eyes closed, seemingly indifferent.
On the other side, a young woman with sharp eyebrows angrily turned and shouted, "How dare you!"
The round-faced girl was utterly unafraid, grinning as she retorted, "I'd like to know—how exactly am I being 'daring'?"
This group of women was indeed from the Yanzhi Studio, one of the top martial arts sects of the Cloud Kingdom. Among them, the youngest girl, about thirteen or fourteen, had a delicate chin like an egg and a pretty face. She widened her eyes, curiously examining this bold peer of hers. Few in the Cloud Kingdom's martial world would dare provoke Yanzhi Studio like this. Could she be from some major sect of the Green Luan Kingdom or the Qingshan Kingdom?
This pointed-chin girl unconsciously ran her thumb over the inscription on a fine short blade at her waist. The scabbard, of yellow bamboo, had a mellow, pleasing luster. Carved on it were the characters "Zui'er."
Her senior sister, the young woman with sharp eyebrows, wore a pair of Mandarin duck knives at her waist. Now she gripped the handle, her face frosty, and said in a low voice, "Then let's test each other's skills—see who's stronger?"
"Testing skills" was a relatively elegant form of sparring in the martial world—more like a civil contest, less likely to draw blood. Because if the loser bled, it was still considered a disgraceful victory, not something to brag about.
The round-faced girl made a funny face at the woman. "Relying on being older, with decades more martial arts practice, bullying a junior—where's the chivalrous lady in that?"
The young woman was furious. She wasn't even thirty yet. What did she mean by "decades more martial arts practice"?
The white-haired old woman, dignified and composed, said softly to the woman beside her, "Why bother getting angry at a junior? If your skill at cultivating your nature isn't up to par, your martial arts accomplishments won't amount to much."
The young woman clearly held the old woman in high regard and immediately lowered her head. "I understand."
Not far away, the round-faced girl cooed, "That old granny sure knows her manners."
It was actually another "compliment" that stung.
Chen Ping'an kept himself out of it. He could only think that this round-faced girl's knack for needling people was considerable.
The old woman didn't take offense at the insult. She shifted her gaze to the aquiline-nosed old man. "Are you perhaps Old Gang Leader Zhu of the Great Marsh Gang?"
The old man in black opened his eyes and smiled. "I haven't been out of my home for nearly thirty years. Someone still knows my name?"
The old woman smiled faintly. "Even after another thirty years, the martial world will still remember Old Gang Leader Zhu's prestige."
After the old woman revealed his identity, the women of Yanzhi Studio all slightly changed expression.
The old demon Zhu Fengxian of the Great Marsh Gang was infamous. Thirty years ago, he had delighted in riding a bright red carriage, traveling far and wide, galloping through the martial circles of several countries, spilling countless bloodshed. No fewer than eighty righteous martial artists had died by his hands. Zhu Fengxian also had eight disciples, known as the Eight Palace Yama Kings, who dominated the Green Luan Kingdom. However, thirty years ago, the Great Marsh Gang suffered a heavy blow. Zhu Fengxian entered seclusion, half of his eight disciples died, and the gang's original five to six thousand members scattered like birds and beasts. In the last thirty years, the once dominant leader of the Green Luan Kingdom's martial world had faded into silence.
Just as Zhu Fengxian was about to close his eyes again and compose himself, the old woman, who had given an impression of great grace, suddenly said, "But times have changed. Compared to thirty years ago, the waters of the martial world have deepened. When you're not on your own turf, it's best to offer more toasts and show less arrogance, to bow more and speak less."
The round-faced girl's eyes widened abruptly. She felt this was the funniest joke under heaven. She stared hard at the white-haired old woman, wondering if this old crone had gone mad.
Zhu Fengxian said calmly, "If I remember correctly, since your Yanzhi Studio's founding master over two hundred years ago, you've always been a second-rate sect in the Cloud Kingdom, living a rather ignoble existence. So, in these thirty years, have you women found someone to support you upstairs?"
Chen Ping'an felt a headache coming on. How could a simple shelter from the rain lead to such inexplicable grudges? Earlier, Pei Qian had complained that after leaving Bee Tail Ferry and traveling so far, they had only encountered that yellow ox and hadn't met any more spirits or ghosts.
Now Pei Qian was listening intently. This was the martial world! She would walk it herself one day, so she needed to watch and learn now.
Zhu Lian nodded inwardly. This Zhu fellow's words had plenty to chew on.
The old woman sneered. "Barring any surprises, Old Gang Leader Zhu intends to send this little girl to the Golden Osmanthus Temple to study immortal arts, right? Then does Old Gang Leader Zhu know that the temple master of the Golden Osmanthus Temple is an old acquaintance of our Yanzhi Studio? Among the nine disciples, our Yanzhi Studio has already secured one spot in advance, and that was at the old immortal's own initiative. So this mountain climb is merely a formality. That said, if this sharp-tongued little girl by Old Gang Leader Zhu's side does have some aptitude for cultivation and the old temple master finds her agreeable, she might have a chance to call our Qingcheng 'Senior Sister.'"
The egg-faced girl from Yanzhi Studio blushed shyly.
The round-faced girl looked at her and giggled. "Your name is Qingchen? I'm Wanshang."
Zhu Fengxian smiled faintly. "The temple master of the Golden Osmanthus Temple is a rare true immortal. That's why I was willing to emerge from retirement for this disciple recruitment. But the Green Luan Kingdom has more than just the Golden Osmanthus Temple as an immortal estate. I could kill all of you first, then take my granddaughter to seek immortals elsewhere, or simply leave this place. I have my Great Marsh Gang disciples secretly escort your women up the mountain, so that your girl may cultivate with peace of mind."
The old woman's face darkened. She sneered, "Seek immortals elsewhere? Easy to say! Why do you think the old immortal of the Golden Osmanthus Temple set an age limit? Do you, Zhu Fengxian, not understand? If we delay another two or three years, what immortality will your granddaughter cultivate? Even if, out of respect for the Great Marsh Gang, she gets into an immortal estate, she'll likely end up as a servant or maid, right? The path of immortal cultivation is most heartless—do I need to teach you that lesson, Zhu Fengxian?"
Zhu Fengxian's face grew dark.
Even the seemingly "naive" round-faced girl turned black-faced.
She was not a pure martial artist but a third-realm qi refiner.
Though the old woman's eyesight was poor and she couldn't see that, the girl knew it herself. On the path of cultivation, the younger one was, the more a delay of two or three years could cost decades to make up for after reaching the Middle Five Realms.
According to her grandfather Zhu Fengxian and the strategist of the Great Marsh Gang, she was a rare talent for cultivation once in a hundred years. Unfortunately, the Great Marsh Gang's martial library contained only one immortal cultivation manual that could help one reach the Middle Five Realms—a decent quality one, but it didn't record how to become an Earth Immortal who feasts on clouds and drinks dew and rides the wind for thousands of miles. That manual, from a bygone immortal sect in the history of the Green Luan Kingdom, was likely only a cultivation method for inner disciples; only direct heirs could learn the secret techniques of their mountain or the lineage hall inheritance.
Pei Qian squatted beside Chen Ping'an, listening with great relish. She found this verbal sparring the most entertaining—even more fun than watching women scratch each other in the streets of the Southern Garden Kingdom's capital when she was little.
Chen Ping'an was worried. Neither side seemed easy to deal with, and he feared they might come to blows over a disagreement. The cave was small, with nowhere to hide. Blades had no eyes. Did he have to now speak up and tell the Great Marsh Gang and Yanzhi Studio parties to step outside and fight?
Chen Ping'an sighed. He stood up, walked straight between the two groups to the mouth of the cave, and with two fingers retrieved the half-burnt lantern talisman from his sleeve. He lit it again. A small golden flame, even in such a violent storm, swayed as gently as grass in a spring breeze. Then Chen Ping'an turned his head and smiled. "This rain is strange. This extraordinary yin and evil energy has been continuous since it started—very likely the work of some qi refiner lurking in the shadows. It seems the immortals of the Golden Osmanthus Temple haven't yet intervened. So when you all climb the mountain to the Golden Osmanthus Temple, be careful on the road. Put aside your grudges for now. Ultimately, the cultivation paths of these two young ladies are more important. This climb is practically the first step on the path of immortal cultivation."
Chen Ping'an looked at each of the two girls in turn and said slowly, "Why make the path under your feet narrower? If you two can't stand the sight of each other, the Great Way is wide enough for each to go her own way."
Zhu Fengxian nodded with a smile. "This young master speaks well. I hope you'll visit my Great Marsh Gang one day. Zhu will certainly prepare a grand welcome feast."
Though these were polite words, coming from the old demon Zhu Fengxian himself, they carried weight—at least in the Green Luan Kingdom's martial world—equal to real gold and silver.
The white-haired old woman glanced at the yellow paper talisman in Chen Ping'an's hand and smiled. "This young master's wise words will surely be remembered by our Qingcheng."
The egg-faced girl smiled at Chen Ping'an.
The Yang Qi Lantern Talisman at Chen Ping'an's fingertip had burned out, the golden flame extinguished. He rubbed his fingertips together and laughed. "Someone once said, 'When walking the world, the highest fist is not used. When becoming an immortal, the highest technique is not wielded.'"
The round-faced girl asked with a smile, "May I ask which great person said that?"
Chen Ping'an replied, "A friend."
The round-faced girl, who called herself "Wanshang," gave a thumbs-up. "I'm convinced!"
The girl named "Qingcheng" was curious about this young man's identity.
Zhu Fengxian and the Yanzhi Studio old woman exchanged glances. Both were seasoned wanderers—everything went without saying. This minor conflict, compared to their juniors' cultivation, was insignificant. Even if they harbored resentment, until they successfully climbed the mountain and entered the Golden Osmanthus Temple, they needed to keep to their own business, or even cooperate and help each other if danger arose on the road.
Chen Ping'an turned to look outside.
The rain still raged with shocking intensity.
He wondered what season it was now in the Lotus Flower Blessed Land.
And who were the current top ten figures there? No doubt National Master Zhongqiu, Lake Mountain Sect Leader Yu Zhenyi, and Bird's Eye Peak's Lu Fang were all on the list.
He wondered if the gate of that house on that alley had been pasted with new door gods and spring couplets.
Chen Ping'an sighed softly.
Having taken off his bamboo box, he now carried only the "Sword Immortal"—the half-immortal sword that the Fu family of Old Dragon City had compensated him with, via Fan Junmao.
Chen Ping'an lifted his head, gazing into the pitch-black heights of the rain curtain.
Back then, in his ignorance, he remembered a certain fellow wearing a conical hat and leading a donkey, who "boasted" that his swordsmanship, even in heavy rain, could keep every drop out.
Now even he, Chen Ping'an, could do that.
He just didn't know when he would become a true Sword Immortal.
Thinking of this, he took down the Nourishing Sword Gourd and took a big gulp of wine.
But he forgot that the wine in the gourd was not Osmanthus brew or Well Immortal wine—it was the medicinal wine Fan Junmao had roughly refined. Chen Ping'an shivered violently, his face flushing red. He coughed uncontrollably. He had to cover his mouth with the back of his hand, turned around, and with a somewhat embarrassed look, shuffled back toward Pei Qian.
For a moment, his immortal demeanor evaporated completely.
---
White Water Temple was located in the south-central part of the Green Luan Kingdom. Inside the temple, a spring rose from the ground, its bubbles like rolling pearls—the best water for brewing tea. This often drew literary figures from the Cloud and Qingshan Kingdoms to make special trips to draw water and drink tea. The temple's incense was also flourishing, which was to be expected. Hence, it was renowned alongside North Mountain Temple in the capital. However, compared to the active presence of North Mountain Temple's eminent monks both in court and among the people, the monks of White Water Temple seemed less fond of showing their faces. Moreover, in the last hundred years, no particularly brilliant Zen masters had emerged, risking the charge of resting on past laurels.
Therefore, in this grand debate between Buddhism and Daoism, North Mountain Temple was in the spotlight, while White Water Temple, with its thousand-year heritage, had yet to produce a single monk publicly announcing attendance at the grand assembly that would determine the order of the three teachings.
Recently, spring rains had been continuous. Each temple in the Green Luan Kingdom stood amidst the misty rain. At dusk that day, a young monk in a snow-white cassock walked slowly within White Water Temple.
White Water Temple had closed its mountain gates for over a month, disappointing the faithful pilgrims.
The young monk's face was cold. Along the way, old monks and young novices greeted him. The young monk in the striking white cassock paid them no heed—everyone was used to it.
The young monk came to a railing beside a small pond of dark green water. This unremarkable pond was honored with the name "Dragon Pool," for rumor had it that a giant turtle lived in its deep, seemingly bottomless waters. It had been released by the monks who built White Water Temple. Whenever the monks of White Water Temple expounded the Dharma to a wonderful point, the old turtle would emerge and appear. This was recorded in detail even in the official histories of the Green Luan Kingdom, and no one doubted it.
The young monk continued his aimless stroll. He walked along a corridor on one side behind the Mahavira Hall, climbing step by step. Under the eaves hung strings of delicate bells. As he ascended the stone steps, each "wind horse under the eaves"—spirits that dwelled within the bells—flew out, their transparent wings flapping, setting the wind chimes swaying. The young monk seemed to dislike this harmonious atmosphere of tinkling chimes and deepening temple stillness. He frowned.
The tiny spirits immediately retreated into their bells.
The young monk turned his head, gazing down at a small square behind the Mahavira Hall. This was the site of White Water Temple's historical "Eminent Monk Preaching, Heavenly Maiden Scattering Flowers." He remembered that day many golden osmanthus seeds had fallen. Both the preaching monk and the listening monks had sat in piles of osmanthus seeds. The one preaching, unaccustomed to the fragrance, had even sneezed a few times. The listeners, taking it to heart, thought they understood and came up with various interpretations—all of which were later inscribed on stone tablets at White Water Temple.
After ascending the stairs, he reached the top, passed by the scripture library, and headed to the abbot's quarters. Next to it, a half-man-high yellow mud wall enclosed a small space. Inside was a well, with a stone table and stone stools beside it.
The young monk pushed open the bamboo fence gate, walked to the well. The mouth of the small well had been sealed for many years.
A famous Buddhist koan had once occurred here, said to be known even in the Central Divine Continent. That was why White Water Temple, despite producing no eminent monks in the last hundred years, still stood unshaken. For centuries, there had been disputes over this koan: debates within White Water Temple, among temples across the Green Luan Kingdom, between Buddhism and Daoism, and among literati who studied Buddhism and Daoism across generations—all fierce. On the temple walls alone, over forty eminent monks and literary laymen from various places had inscribed their interpretations of this koan.
White Water Temple's scripture library was the richest, with the finest and most complete rare editions and excellent manuscripts in the Green Luan Kingdom. But this young monk, standing by the well in a daze, loathed that place more than any other—he had never once set foot inside.
To deviate even one character from the scriptures was to speak as a demon.
That was just bedecking the Buddha's head with dung.
He sat down on the sealed well mouth, which was as round as a stool. For years, he had been tormented by a question.
He remembered a Buddhist sutra: a future Buddha, an arhat, was threatened by Mara. The arhat's heart was filled with terror, so he went to the Buddha, who then imparted a true Dharma, dispelling Mara.
When the young monk first read this passage, he didn't think deeply. But one day, he was suddenly jolted awake, then plunged into endless pain.
A fixation had taken root in his heart.
"Why is it that I, a minor monk from a small temple, am confident that, were I to encounter Mara, I would not lose my composure so disgracefully? Yet this great arhat, destined to become a Buddha, a disciple at the Buddha's feet, was terrified and panicked? How is he different from an ordinary man who has never studied the Dharma? Where is his wisdom? Where is the Dharma he has learned? Where is the Dharma the Buddha transmitted? And if such an arhat becomes a Buddha, how high and far can the Dharma he then transmits truly reach?"
The young monk, unable to resolve his doubt, sat alone on the well mouth, tears streaming down his face.
As a youth, when he had first awakened, he vaguely remembered that it was here that he had killed a cat—cut it in two with a single blow and thrown it into the well.
Over the many years, the young monk had spoken little. But at White Water Temple, he was diligent in his labors, so his hands and feet were thick with calluses. Every winter, they cracked with frostbite, bleeding.
He slapped the sealed well mouth repeatedly. His palms gradually turned bloody and raw, but he seemed unaware.
The young monk spoke hoarsely, his voice choked with tears. Still he slapped the well mouth violently. "Wrong, wrong—you're all wrong again. The Dharma is right here... I'm also wrong. Zen cannot be spoken—the moment you speak, you're wrong. But if you don't speak, isn't that wrong too? We're all wrong... how can we ever be right..."