Bolao turned away from Yaoyi and frantically signaled to her with exaggerated winks, but the other party stared back in blank confusion, muttering: “What’s wrong with your eye? It keeps twitching around so nimbly…”
Bolao nearly fainted from indignation. Behind her, Yaoyi had already opened the bamboo tube and retrieved what was inside. Unable to manage things further, Bolao grabbed Xiao Nanhui by the collar and dragged her out through the same window she had entered.
Yaoyi turned back around and looked somewhat puzzled at the half-open window: “What’s wrong with them — why not use the front door?”
Grumbling, he unrolled the item from the bamboo tube — it was the floor plan of the Zou Family’s old residence in Mu Er He, which Xiao Nanhui had borrowed.
He unrolled it to its full length, and there — conspicuous as a slap to the face — was a water stain, threatening to blind the viewer.
“XIAO NANHUI!”
Yaoyi’s roar drifted far from Wangchen Tower, startling a flock of birds from the surrounding trees into a flurry of wings.
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The night had grown deep, and the temple gate stood cold and still.
The noisy pilgrims of the day had long since descended the mountain. The monks in their meditation rooms had completed their evening prayers and extinguished their lights. The entire Yongye Temple was as silent as an empty hall — only a few stray cats scurried past in hurried steps, stirring a dense fragrance of gardenia from the grass.
A month ago, the tea-plum blossoms had been in bloom; now, the gardenias were at their finest.
In the darkness, two figures moved one behind the other past the main hall, carrying no lantern or candle — yet their steps were light.
The great hall blazed with countless candles that burned day and night. A thousand butter lamps were arranged in a pagoda formation, casting the hall’s Buddhist statues in a somewhat mysterious light.
At the center of the hall, a monk in a white cassock was tending to freshly gathered gardenia blossoms. He raised his head at the sound of footsteps, and revealed a face that appeared strangely young — or rather, there was an innocence to his features that made it impossible to guess his age. His eyes in particular were exceptionally clear, as though a single glance could penetrate everything.
The candlelight illuminated the visitor’s brows and eyes, and for a fleeting moment his expression bore an uncanny resemblance to the Buddhist statue above.
“Venerable Yikong.” Zhongli Jing gave a slight bow.
Yikong returned the bow, his tone carrying a note of surprise: “Did the young master not come just last month? By the usual schedule, it is not yet time.”
Zhongli Jing replied evenly: “There is a matter, so I came a little early.”
The two seemed to have a prior arrangement, yet Yikong showed no rush to lift the scripture curtain and invite his guest inside: “Oh, then I must trouble the young master to wait a moment. The temple has a great deal on its hands — two more monks fled yesterday, and now every kind of task falls on me, the abbot. I truly cannot spare my hands.”
With that, he produced a tattered rag from somewhere and began wiping the offering table entirely on his own — the rag going left, then right, while he sighed once to the left and once to the right.
Ding Weixiang watched this bizarre scene and after a long while could only silently tilt his head back and stare at the ceiling of the great hall, pretending to see nothing.
Zhongli Jing had long since come to understand the abbot’s thoughts. He asked mildly: “How has the temple been faring of late?”
Yikong’s brow creased predictably, his expression carrying a certain bleakness: “As you know, Yongye is in a remote and poor region — it cannot compare with the great temples. Most pilgrims who come to offer incense are destitute folk, and the annual incense money is probably not even a fraction of what Dacheng Temple collects. The area near the capital has been unsettled of late — they say people are frequently ambushed on the roads — and so even fewer people come to the temple. The monks who remain are mostly those accustomed to hardship and have no complaints, yet the roofs of both the east and west halls have been leaking for a long time, and old tiles cannot be patched, while new tiles cannot be bought…”
“One thousand taels.” Zhongli Jing ended Yikong’s lengthy discourse with two words.
Yikong paused, then continued: “There are also the few gilded statues in the rear hall that have not yet been gilded—”
“Gold.” Zhongli Jing supplied.
Yikong immediately tossed down the rag and bowed, lifting the heavy scripture curtain: “Young master, please come inside.”
Ding Weixiang stood to one side, gaping at the scene, feeling for the first time that he had never truly seen through this monk.
Behind the scripture curtain, the sutra recitation platform offered an entirely different world — it was Yikong’s private place for cultivation and seated meditation.
Ding Weixiang cast a glance inside and saw there was only a single sleeping platform, and his expression turned rather awkward.
“Master, shall I have someone bring in another sleeping platform? The way things are now seems a bit… inconvenient.”
Yikong’s ears twitched subtly — he seemed to have heard — and looked toward Ding Weixiang with a smile, his tone utterly sincere: “Guard Ding, that is not quite right. In the exchange of Buddhist teachings, one must naturally face each other heart to heart — too much distance breeds estrangement.”
Ding Weixiang glanced at Zhongli Jing, and the latter said: “It’s fine. This is how it’s always been before.”
“Then your subordinate will stand watch outside the hall — Master need only call.” Ding Weixiang said, casting a cool look over Yikong before bowing and withdrawing.
The scripture curtain fell, partitioning the rear of the main hall into a solitary space. The hall was open and still, with the high ceiling soaring above. Though the light was dim, it was not oppressive. At the very center of the roof there was a small square skylight, through which a crescent moon could be seen hanging in the night sky.
Yikong and Zhongli Jing sat across from each other on the platform, separated only by a small table. A pot of tea was brewing on the table — the timing was just right — and Yikong lifted the pot and poured a cup for each of them.
“Young master, no rush — allow me first a sip of tea. Once we begin, there will be no drinking.”
Zhongli Jing accepted the cup with easy grace: “Of course.”
Yikong’s gaze passed over Zhongli Jing’s wrist and discovered the problem at once.
“Young master — one of your prayer beads is missing.”
Zhongli Jing raised his teacup; his wide sleeve concealed whatever lay in the depths of his eyes.
“If nothing were missing, why would I come to find you ahead of schedule?”
Yikong was clear-eyed and composed, knowing something must have happened, and did not press further. He simply refilled the emptied teacup with fresh hot tea.
“Forgive me, young master — I thought perhaps you had grown further in your inner cultivation and deliberately removed one bead to test yourself.”
Zhongli Jing set down the teacup, the corner of his mouth curving slightly: “For a man of cultivation, you have a sharp tongue.”
Yikong pressed his palms together, his eyes clear and untroubled: “It seems my Chizhou dialect is still not quite refined enough — I must have given the young master the wrong impression.”
This was a wolf meeting a fox — when it came to the art of speaking with barbs, they had always been evenly matched.
The two held each other’s gaze for a moment, then by mutual tacit agreement both looked away, as though nothing had happened.
“The hour is not early. Let us begin.”
Yikong said no more. From a box, he retrieved a bundle wrapped in red cloth — a tattered ancient scripture — and brought over one of the nearby butter lamps to place on the small table, then spread the scripture open.
The palm-leaf pages bore ancient script tiny as a fly’s head, written in the original language of Buddhist teachings. Coiled within the length of the scripture was another object: a black metal ritual vajra pestle, carved with images of malevolent demons and judges of the underworld — a rather fearsome sight.
Zhongli Jing looked at that dark ritual implement. Though he saw it every time, it still unsettled him somewhat.
“Must you always keep a weapon nearby to frighten me?”
Yikong smiled and placed the vajra pestle within easy reach: “I have seen what the young master is capable of. Though there has never been an error before, it is still better to be safe.”
The man was silent for a moment, and then — unusually — said nothing further. He removed the string of prayer beads from his wrist and placed it on the table before him.
Yikong opened the first chapter of the scripture and began to speak in an unhurried tone: “Before we begin, I wish to trouble the young master with a few words. The young master has worn those twenty-one sarira beads for many years. Losing one will inevitably have some effect.”
The man closed his eyes: “My heart is my own to keep. Naturally I can manage it.”
Yikong placed his hand on the crown of the man’s head: “I am only giving a reminder. Whether the heart remains steady is something only the young master himself can know.”
A low chanting voice rose. The ancient Buddhist sutras echoed and spiraled and rose through the great hall, finally drifting through that small skylight window out into the pitch-black night.
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