As dawn painted the sky, the old wooden gate creaked open. The scrawny little girl instantly awoke, leaping off the stone lion’s back. She tiptoed, crouching low, and fled along the base of the wall, escaping the compound.

Of course, Chen Pingan had “risen” even earlier. He watched the girl leave from a distance and, ceasing his observation, returned to his dwelling. In the southern part of the capital of the Southern Garden Kingdom, Chen Pingan had rented a side room in a courtyard house. It was near Scholar Lane, a street with a grand name, but in truth, it was not as appealing as his hometown’s Apricot Blossom Lane. Many impoverished scholars who had come to the capital for the imperial examinations resided there. Having failed the spring examinations and unable to afford the travel expenses back home, they lingered in the capital, seeking intellectual companionship with newly acquainted friends. Thus, they settled down.

Chen Pingan possessed only the key to his room, not the gate to the courtyard. So, he timed his return perfectly. The gate was already open. Chen Pingan went back to his room, closed the door, and glanced at the stack of books and the bedding on the bed. They had been disturbed. These slight traces, to Chen Pingan’s eyes, were glaringly obvious. He sighed, a hint of helplessness in his expression. Fortunately, nothing seemed to be missing.

Chen Pingan hadn’t been staying here before. He had taken lodging in an inn, renting a large room where he could freely practice his fist techniques and swordsmanship. Later, his fruitless search for a Taoist temple made him increasingly restless. For the first time, Chen Pingan halted his stance training and sword practice. To save money, he had moved here, only occasionally practicing the Sword Furnace Standing Stance.

Chen Pingan lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

“Wandering around aimlessly like this, it’s not a solution.”

Benefiting from the ceaseless forging at the Great Wall of Sword Qi, followed by the two great battles at Flying Eagle Stronghold, especially the self-destruction of the heretical cultivator’s alchemy chamber, where spiritual energy flooded like a torrent, Chen Pingan gained much from his journey against the tide. Now, at the fourth realm of martial arts, some bottlenecks showed signs of loosening. However, he felt he was still lacking something. Chen Pingan had a vague intuition that he could quickly cross the threshold between the fourth and fifth realms if he so wished. But Chen Pingan hoped to build a more solid foundation. If all else failed, he could, as Lu Tai had suggested, try his luck at the Martial Saint Temple, or seek out an ancient battlefield relic, searching for the lingering spirits of the fallen heroes and earth deities.

“I need to find something to do, or I fear I’ll become stagnant.”

Chen Pingan decided to stay in the capital of the Southern Garden Kingdom until the end of summer. If he still couldn’t find that Taoist temple, he would return to the Jasper Bottle Continent and focus all his energy on the seventh realm of martial arts. Cui Chan’s grandfather resided at the Fallen Mountain bamboo building. Chen Pingan was very confident about this. The ten-year agreement with Ning Yao might even be fulfilled a few years early.

However, Chen Pingan was still somewhat apprehensive, fearing that bare-footed old codger, with his sky-high ambition and invincible fist techniques, who swore to forge him into the strongest fifth or sixth realm martial artist.

His experience in the third realm had already been such a great ordeal. Chen Pingan truly feared being beaten to death by the old man, or rather, being tortured to death.

Chen Pingan clasped his hands behind his head and slowly closed his eyes.

“I wonder if A Liang, in that world beyond the heavens, truly achieved victory against that legendary, invincible Dao Second.”

“I wonder how high the highest mountain Liu Xianyang has seen on his long journey to the Yingyin Chen Clan, and how vast the largest river.”

“I wonder if Li Bao Ping is happy studying at Cliff Academy.”

“I wonder if Gu Can is being bullied at Shujian Lake, and whether his little book of grudges has grown thicker.”

“I wonder if Miss Ruan Xiu still enjoys eating the peach blossom cake from the Riding Dragon Alley shop.”

“I wonder if Zhang Shanfeng and Xu Yuanxia, traveling together, have met new friends with whom they can face life and death, vanquishing demons and subduing evil.”

“I wonder if Fan Er has met the girl of his dreams in Old Dragon City.”

Lost in thought, Chen Pingan fell asleep.

With the flying swords, Initial and Fifteen, residing within the Sword Nourishing Gourd, Chen Pingan wasn’t too worried about the hardships of his journey.

The owners of this courtyard house were a family of five, spanning three generations. The old man liked to go out to play chess with others, but his chess skills were poor and his character even worse. He loved to bluster and make a fuss.

The old woman was sharp-tongued and always wore a gloomy expression, easily reminding Chen Pingan of Granny Ma from Apricot Blossom Lane.

The young couple consisted of a wife who did needlework and household chores at home, constantly being scolded by her mother-in-law until she couldn’t even lift her head. According to the old saying in the capital of the Southern Garden Kingdom, the man was a “bundle carrying vegetarian,” meaning he carried a large bundle on his back, buying junk everywhere. With a small drum hanging from his waist, he walked the streets and alleys, loudly hawking his wares. If he was lucky, he might find a valuable old object and sell it to a familiar antique shop, making a good profit.

The couple were plain in appearance but had a handsome son, seven or eight years old, with rosy lips and white teeth. He didn’t seem like a child from a poor alley, but rather a young master from a wealthy family. He attended a private school and was said to be well-liked by the schoolteacher. He often watched his grandfather play chess, squatting for half an hour or more, without saying a word. “Observing chess silently is the mark of a true gentleman,” he had the demeanor of a little scholar.

Everyone in the neighborhood, young and old, was fond of this child, often teasing him, asking him whether he liked the green plum girl from the neighboring alley or Miss Liu from the school more. The child would usually just smile shyly and continue to watch the chess game quietly.

After Chen Pingan fell asleep.

A little thing emerged from the ground, climbed onto the table, and sat beside the “mountain of books,” beginning to doze off.

The Little Lotus Person was clearly skilled in earth遁 techniques, moving silently and with great speed.

Before coming to the capital of the Southern Garden Kingdom, Chen Pingan had amused himself with it several times, either riding wildly on horseback or sprinting with all his might for dozens of miles. When he stopped his horse or his steps, the little fellow would always pop its head out of the ground beside his feet, giggling at him.

Whether Chen Pingan was practicing his stance training, fist techniques, or sword practice, it never disturbed him, always watching from afar. Only when Chen Pingan beckoned to it would it come to his side, climbing up the gold threads of his robe and eventually sitting on Chen Pingan’s shoulder, the big one and the little one, enjoying the scenery together.

As for that snowflake coin, it was temporarily kept with Chen Pingan.

Chen Pingan only took a short nap and was soon awakened by the noises in the courtyard: the old woman’s incessant babbling, the woman’s mumbling, the old man’s practicing his singing, and the child reciting the contents of his elementary school books. Only the robust young man was probably still fast asleep.

Chen Pingan sat at the table and gently picked up a book. The little thing also slowly awoke, still dazed, and stared blankly at Chen Pingan.

Chen Pingan smiled and said, “Go back to sleep.”

The little thing quickly got up, ran to Chen Pingan’s side, and helped him turn a page of the book.
Chen Pingan was used to it. The books on the table were all newly bought after leaving Lu Tai and Flying Eagle Fortress. At that time, Lu Tai said that only by reading first-rate books could one hope to become a second-rate person. One should not seek perfection in reading, nor should one try to swallow too much at once. It was best to read carefully, chew slowly, and truly absorb the essence of a classic. One had to transform the beautiful imagery, insightful reasoning, and the vital energy hidden within the sentences into one’s own. This was what it meant to read. Otherwise, it was just flipping through pages. Even if one flipped through thousands of volumes, one would only become a walking bookcase.

Chen Pingan felt enlightened at the time. If Lu Tai hadn’t reminded him, he might have bought every good book he saw and read them all carefully. However, the sea of books was boundless, and human life was limited. Chen Pingan had to practice his fists and swords, and also search for a Taoist temple. The little spare time he had should indeed be used to read the best books.

Lu Tai had given him a book list, but Chen Pingan treasured that piece of paper and didn’t buy books according to the list. Instead, he bought the Confucian sage’s scriptures and classics.

Unfortunately, the books of the Literary Saint, Old Showcai, were simply unavailable on the market.

Chen Pingan wanted to read the “Three-Four Controversy” and compare them.

Emotionally, Chen Pingan was, of course, most inclined towards Qi Xian’s teacher, that Old Showcai who loved to drink and talk nonsense. However, there was nothing wrong with liking, admiring, and respecting someone. But if one thought that everything that person said and did was absolutely right, there would be a big problem.

Was the Literary Saint Old Showcai’s learning high? Of course, it was very high. According to the young Cui Chan, it was once so high that all scholars felt it was “like the sun in the sky.”

Then, did Chen Pingan have the right to think that Old Showcai’s reasoning was not the most reasonable?

It seemed like an ant trying to shake a tree, ridiculous and overestimating oneself, but in fact, he did have the right, because there was a Sage, and there were classics left by the Sage.

Chen Pingan had once told Ning Yao’s parents that truly liking someone was to like their imperfections.

He had also instructed the Blue-Clad Boy and the Pink-Skirt Girl, “If I am wrong, remember to remind me.”

However, deep down, Chen Pingan still hoped that after reading the scholarship of both sides of the Three-Four Controversy, he could sincerely feel that the Literary Saint Old Showcai was more correct.

Then, next time he drank with the old man, he would have something to talk about.

Chen Pingan sat upright and read slowly, with a light voice. Whenever he reached the end of a page, the Little Lotus Doll would deftly turn to the next page.

Then, she would sit back at the table between Chen Pingan and the books, imitating Chen Pingan’s upright posture. She perked up her ears, listening quietly to the reading voice above her head.

To the courtyard full of the mundane air of the market, Chen Pingan, dressed in white robes, carrying a sword and a gourd, was like a strange figure from a distant land, neither close when he came, nor missed when he left.

Paying was enough.

Not far from the Scholar Lane, there were wine shops and brothels, as well as temples with lingering chants, which were close, yet as far away as two different worlds.

Chen Pingan often saw monks going out with alms bowls. Although they were thin, most of them had peaceful faces. Even if they didn’t wear robes, one could tell the difference between them and the common people at a glance.

On the other hand, the brothels and wine shops were often bustling with noise at night, and the whole street was filled with a strong smell of powder. They usually didn’t quiet down until the early hours of the morning. Although the people there, whether the customers drinking wine or the women toasting, were mostly dressed in silk and satin, once the joy ended, they often looked haggard. Chen Pingan had seen those women send the guests out of the brothel several times. After they went back to remove the makeup on their faces, they would walk out of the side door of the brothel at dawn and go to a small alley full of vendors, sitting there to drink a bowl of rice porridge or wontons. Some women would fall asleep on the table while eating.

A moment of spring night was worth a thousand gold, like borrowing money from heaven, which had to be repaid.

Some vendors who were familiar with those brothel women liked to tell vulgar jokes. Some women didn’t care and would say a few perfunctory words in order to pay a few less copper coins. Some were particularly serious. They should have been used to being submissive and accommodating, but they would directly curse. The vendors would shrink back and wait until the women left before starting to scold them for being dirty goods who made a living by selling their bodies. What face did they have to pretend to be virgins?

The next day, the brothel women who had cursed would still come, and the vendor men who had been cursed yesterday would still steal glances at their white little hands that were exposed from their sleeves, as white as the pork on the chopping board. Compared to their own yellow-faced wives, they were really like heaven and earth. They really didn’t know how these beautiful women were born and raised. Just thinking about touching their chests would cost them half a year’s hard work, so they could only sigh.

The Nan Yuan Kingdom had been without war for hundreds of years. The country was peaceful, and generations of monarchs had ruled without doing anything, without virtuous names or evil names.

Therefore, there was no curfew in the capital. Heroes of the martial world swaggered with swords, dressed in fine clothes and riding spirited horses. The government never cared. When they met on the road, both sides would greet each other politely. If they had a good relationship, they would drink together nearby. You would talk about the helpless promotions in the officialdom, and I would talk about the exciting duels between masters in the martial world. Before they knew it, two or three catties of wine would definitely not be enough.

In order to find that Taoist temple, Chen Pingan wandered around the capital every day, seeing the various aspects of the market and some strange things hidden in the city.

As long as they didn’t take the initiative to provoke him, Chen Pingan didn’t want to pay attention to them.

Lu Tai had once said a sentence, which didn’t make a deep impression at the time, but now it became more and more flavorful.

Once you go up the mountain and practice the Tao, you will feel that there are more and more strange spirits and ghosts in the world.

Chen Pingan closed the book, and an hour had passed. He prepared to go out and continue wandering.

Although Chen Pingan’s mood became more and more irritable during the search for the Taoist temple, Chen Pingan had not tried to calm down. In fact, he had made many efforts, going to those large and small temples, burning incense and worshiping Buddha, walking alone in the quiet paths and shade of trees. He recorded each temple he went to on bamboo slips. He went to the small temple next to Scholar Lane the most times. The temple was not big, with only a dozen people including the abbot. Over time, he became familiar with them. Whenever Chen Pingan’s heart was not calm, he would go there to sit, not necessarily talking to the monks. Even if he just sat alone under the eaves, listening to the tinkling of the wind chimes, he could pass a hot afternoon.
In the Southern Garden Kingdom, Buddhism was revered while Daoism was suppressed. The capital and its surrounding regions were adorned with countless temples, their incense burners perpetually aflame. Daoist temples, on the other hand, were a rare sight, with not a single one gracing the capital city.

Recently, a shocking secret had been circulating throughout the capital. White River Temple, one of the Four Great Temples of the Southern Garden Kingdom’s capital, was embroiled in a scandalous affair. The temple was renowned for its abbot’s profound understanding of Buddhist law and his reputation as a living Arhat of golden flesh. It was said that successive generations of high monks, upon their passing, would leave behind incorruptible bodies or relics after cremation, a feat that the other three temples could only admire in envy.

This was regarded as undeniable proof of the flourishing state of Buddhism in the Southern Garden Kingdom, far surpassing that of neighboring nations.

However, not long ago, a high monk who had been residing at White River Temple, and who had been elevated to the position of abbot two years prior, fled the temple one day and directly sought audience with the Dali Temple to file a complaint. After hearing his account, the Minister of Dali Temple and his officials exchanged bewildered glances. The old monk accused White River Temple of poisoning his food and plotting to fill his corpse with mercury after his death. Furthermore, he exposed the temple’s monks for their heinous sins, including luring wealthy noblewomen seeking children for a hefty price, totaling six major crimes.

The case was so sensational that it alarmed the Emperor of the Southern Garden Kingdom, who ordered a thorough investigation. As a result, the majority of White River Temple’s three hundred monks were imprisoned, while the rest were expelled from the capital, stripped of their monastic records, and forbidden from ever becoming monks again.

The other three temples maintained their lofty positions, after all, they were deeply rooted in the kingdom. However, many lesser-known temples suffered as a result, such as the Mind’s Reflection Temple located near the Scholar Alley, which had seen a significant decline in its number of visitors.

The abbot of Mind’s Reflection Temple was an old monk with a thick local accent, a kind face, and a tall frame. He had been in the capital for thirty years, yet his accent remained unchanged. He was not fond of rambling on about the profound depths of Buddhist law, preferring to engage in mundane conversations. Each time Chen Pingan visited the temple for a chat, he had to strain his ears to understand the old monk’s words. Chen Pingan had a good impression of the old monk and understood without needing to be told that the old abbot was a cultivator, albeit one who had yet to ascend to the Middle Five Realms.

Chen Pingan left the alley and headed towards Mind’s Reflection Temple, intending to meditate and practice the Sword Furnace Stance.

In the short distance of two li, Chen Pingan passed a martial arts school and a security escort agency. The martial arts school, with its high walls adorned with the plaque “Strength That Shakes Mountains and Rivers,” always had men grunting and groaning within, presumably practicing their stances. The street outside the escort agency was often filled with convoys of escort carriages, with young men and women strutting about with high spirits, while the elders were much more reserved. Occasionally, they would nod in greeting to Chen Pingan. At first, Chen Pingan would return the gesture with a cupped fist salute, but eventually, he took the initiative to bow. However, to his surprise, the elders gradually lost interest and stopped acknowledging him altogether.

It was only later that Chen Pingan understood the reason and chuckled to himself.

They probably initially mistook him for a powerful outsider, but after discovering his residence, they looked down on him. His overly “polite” gestures further convinced the seasoned veterans of the escort agency that he was nothing more than a pretty face.

Chen Pingan found it amusing.

The capital was teeming with martial arts schools and escort agencies. Many famous martial arts sects liked to establish branches here, with grand courtyards that rivaled the residences of princes and dukes, without having to worry about violating any rules of etiquette. However, information about Qi cultivators was scarce, and even the Imperial Preceptor was merely a martial arts grandmaster.

But the most intriguing were the figures within an unremarkable residence. Almost everyone who entered and exited the house was a martial artist, a practitioner of the martial arts world, but they deliberately concealed their identities, dressed plainly, and rarely smiled. Chen Pingan once saw a master who was likely at the Sixth Realm of martial arts, accompanied by a young woman wearing a veiled hat, whose face was hidden but whose figure was graceful, suggesting that she was a beauty.

Unconsciously, Chen Pingan began to view the world through a different lens.

Arriving at Mind’s Reflection Temple, he found that the number of visitors was sparse, mostly elderly neighbors from nearby streets, causing the monks and novices in the temple to wear gloomy expressions.

The main reason Chen Pingan had been visiting more frequently lately was that he sensed the old abbot’s impending demise.

Today, the old monk seemed to know that Chen Pingan was coming and was waiting for him in the corridor of a side hall.

Two round reed cushions were placed, and the two sat facing each other.

Seeing Chen Pingan hesitate, the old monk cut to the chase and said with a smile, “Among the past abbots of White River Temple, there were indeed those who achieved true golden bodies. It’s not all a hoax as the outside world claims. Don’t condemn the entire thousand-year history of White River Temple.”

He had seen the good.

But that was only because the old monk had seen the evil first.

The old monk smiled again, “It’s just that after I pass away, I originally hoped to produce a few relics to add to the temple’s incense offerings, but now it seems difficult. I’ll have to deliberately conceal things for a while.”

Chen Pingan asked in confusion, “Is this also considered Buddhist karma?”

The old monk nodded, “Of course, it is. Situated in the capital of the Southern Garden Kingdom, White River Temple and Mind’s Reflection Temple have always had no interaction. Although the karma seems vague, it is not. In Buddhist law, the heavens and the earth are vast, and everything is interconnected by threads.”

This was the first time the old monk had spoken of “Buddhist law” in front of Chen Pingan.

The old monk hesitated for a moment and then said with a smile, “Actually, there is also karma between the two temples, but it’s too mysterious and subtle, too… small. I don’t have the confidence to explain it. You’ll have to experience it yourself, Benefactor.”

The two chatted casually, without the need for formality. The old monk used to be interrupted by the young novices, who would discuss trivial matters of the temple, leaving Chen Pingan to the side. Chen Pingan would often bring a few bamboo slips or a book to read and carve, without feeling neglected or impolite.

Today, Chen Pingan did not bring a book, but he brought a slender bamboo slip and a small carving knife.

Chen Pingan never discarded old items. The carving knife was a gift from the store when he bought the jade pendant.

The old monk was in high spirits today, touching briefly on Buddhist law before moving on, preferring to chat casually as before, discussing music, chess, calligraphy, painting, emperors, generals, merchants, scholars, and various schools of thought, like a casual conversation about everyday life.

Time flowed by.

The old monk asked with a smile, “Can a literary figure or official who is extremely wicked and infamous write beautiful calligraphy or popular poetry?”

Chen Pingan thought for a moment and nodded, “Yes, they can.”

“Will a famous scholar or general who is historically renowned have their own unknown secrets and flaws?”

“Yes, they will.”
The old monk chuckled, “Precisely, all things should avoid extremes. When reasoning with others, the worst is wanting to claim absolute righteousness, completely overlooking their merits once a feud begins. Look at the court, the factional strife, even those viewed as the battles of gentlemen in later eras, why did they leave such long-lasting harm? Because even virtuous scholars erred in these matters.”

The old monk continued, “But in courtly struggles, weakness and grand pronouncements of morality often lead to a miserable death. One truly can’t blame those scholars who became officials. If that’s the case, could we say that my entire discourse has been a pointless circle? Why speak it then?”

Chen Pingan smiled and shook his head. “An old teacher of mine said something similar, instructing me to contemplate everything thoroughly. Even if it leads back to the starting point, though painstaking, it is ultimately beneficial in the long run.”

The old monk nodded in gratification. “This teacher possesses profound wisdom.”

Chen Pingan gently stroked the verdant, jade-like small bamboo slip, whispering, “Once, my teacher, drunk and bleary-eyed, seemingly asked me, but perhaps he was asking everyone: ‘Having read so many books, do you dare declare the world is “just like this”? Having seen so many people, do you dare say men and women “are all of this nature”? Having witnessed so much peace and suffering, do you dare judge the good and evil of others?'”

The old monk sighed, “This teacher must have lived a life fraught with hardship.”

Chen Pingan suddenly recalled something he couldn’t comprehend and asked curiously, “Does Buddhism truly advocate ‘lay down the butcher’s knife, and instantly become a Buddha’?”

The old monk smiled gently, “Before answering, let me ask you this: Do you find this saying both startling and novel, yet upon reflection, feel it is a shortcut, not the true Dharma?”

Chen Pingan scratched his head, “I haven’t even read general Buddhist scriptures, how would I know if it’s the true Dharma?”

The old monk laughed heartily, “Lay down the butcher’s knife, instantly become a Buddha; the world only sees the shortcut, finding it inconceivable. They are ignorant of the true profoundness, which lies in realizing ‘the butcher’s knife is in my hand,’ that is, ‘knowing evil.’ In this world, many commit evil unknowingly, and many knowingly commit evil. In the end, all hold a bloodstained butcher’s knife, differing only in weight. If one can truly lay it down and turn back, wouldn’t that be a virtuous deed?”

The old monk digressed further, “Zen’s shout with a staff still surprises outsiders, but they fail to see the arduous effort preceding that moment of enlightenment. Even if they saw it, they wouldn’t be willing to do it. Is becoming a Buddha difficult? Of course, it is. Knowing the Dharma is one difficulty, but upholding, protecting, and transmitting it are even greater. But…”

The old monk suddenly stopped, sighing, “There is no ‘but.’ Since I, a person devoted to Buddhism, cannot even achieve it myself, why speak to you of such distant principles?”

Chen Pingan smiled, “Speak without restraint. No matter how distant the principle, putting aside whether I will go there or not, knowing it exists is a good thing.”

The old monk waved his hand, “Allow me to rest a while, and moisten my throat with tea. It’s almost smoking.”

The old monk called out, and a small novice, seemingly chanting sutras but actually dozing in a nearby hermitage, abruptly opened his eyes. Hearing the old monk’s words, he hurriedly brought two bowls of tea to the abbot and his guest.

Not far away, a towering tree cast dense shade, where a little oriole perched, pecking intermittently.

Chen Pingan drank his tea quickly, while the old monk drank slowly.

Chen Pingan smiled and returned his teacup to the little novice. The old monk had barely finished half his bowl when Chen Pingan lowered his head to pick up the bamboo slip, noticing faint, subtle marks on both ends.

Chen Pingan looked left and right at both ends.

The bamboo slip resembled a small ruler.

The old monk finished his tea and turned to look, the scorching summer sun baking the world, offering people little respite from the heat, prompting intermittent sighs of emotion.

“In this degenerate age, the people of the world are like grass in a drought, withered and without moisture.”

“Principles still need to be spoken.”

“The Dharma is the monk’s principle. Etiquette is the Confucian’s principle. The Dao is the Daoist’s principle. None are inherently bad. Why cling to sectarianism? Take what is right, and consume it for your own benefit.”

Chen Pingan shifted his gaze from the bamboo slip, looked up, smiled, and nodded. “Correct.”

The old monk looked out at the temple courtyard beyond the corridor railing. “This world has always been indebted to good people. How can there be no right and wrong? It is simply that we do not delve into it deeply. We may not speak of it, or even deliberately reverse black and white, but we must be clear in our hearts. It is a pity that the affairs of the world are often helpless. More and more clever people, with minds as intricate as a lotus seedpod, often enjoy mocking simplicity, denying pure goodness, and loathing the sincerity of others.”

“Chen Pingan, how you view the world is how the world will view you.”

Then the old monk said redundantly, as if repeating himself, “You look at it, and it is also looking at you.”

Chen Pingan thought about it, felt it made sense, but did not delve deeply.

Today, the old monk had spoken much, and Chen Pingan was a person willing to contemplate earnestly, so he hadn’t quite followed the old monk to that distant place yet.

The old monk suddenly smiled brightly, “Chen benefactor, was the old monk’s discourse today satisfactory?”

Chen Pingan felt a pang of sadness in his heart and smiled, “Very satisfactory.”

The old monk asked with a smile, “I once heard you speak of ‘priority,’ ‘magnitude,’ and ‘good and evil.’ I would like to hear it again.”

The first time Chen Pingan spoke, it was obscure and difficult to understand, but principles and heartfelt words always become clearer with repetition, like a mirror that is constantly wiped, removing the dust, becoming ever brighter.

Right and wrong have a priority. First, sort out the order, and do not skip ahead to discuss only the principle you want to say.

Right and wrong also have magnitude. Use one, two, or even multiple rulers to measure their size. These rulers can be all the righteous and virtuous laws of the world: the legalist laws, the Confucian etiquette, the numerological calculations of the diviners – all can be borrowed for use. The bottom line of the law, the lofty morality, the local customs, and the precise calculations will all be involved. They cannot be generalized. Studying them is extremely complex, troublesome, and laborious.

Only then can the final determination of good and evil be made.

Imperceptibly, the debate over whether human nature is three parts good or four parts evil no longer becomes an insurmountable obstacle for scholars, because this is something to be discussed at the end, not the first decision to be made at the beginning of one’s studies.

Finally, there is the word “action.”
To enlighten the masses, spreading the Dharma with a Bodhisattva’s heart, or to cultivate oneself in solitude, seeking a pure and peaceful existence—both are choices freely made, according to one’s own preference.

The old monk, his expression serene, listened to Chen Ping’an’s narration, pressed his palms together, and lowered his head, chanting, “Amitabha.”

Chen Ping’an glanced at the little oriole perched on the eaves, watching the young novice sweeping the temple grounds.

Chen Ping’an withdrew his gaze, and the old monk smiled gently, saying, “The temple may be gone, but 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 Dharma still remains. Even if the Heart Image Temple loses every single monk and not a single scripture remains, as long as there is still someone who holds the Dharma in their heart, the Heart Image Temple will still exist.”

The old monk turned his head once more to gaze upon the tranquil courtyard, where only the rustling sound of the young novice’s broom could be heard.

The old monk’s vision blurred as he murmured, “This poor monk seems to see a lotus flower blooming in the mortal realm.”

Chen Ping’an remained silent.

The old monk lowered his head, his lips moving slightly, “Gone.”

In the distance, the young novice looked towards the corridor, holding his broom, and complained to the old monk, “Master, the sun is so high, can I sweep later? It’s so hot.”

Chen Ping’an turned his head, pointed to the old monk who seemed to be dozing off, and then put a finger to his lips, making a shushing sound.

The young novice quickly fell silent, then secretly rejoiced, “Haha, I love to be lazy, and it turns out Master loves to sleep too.”

He tiptoed to the shade under the eaves of the main hall, and the little oriole, emboldened, flew to the young novice’s shoulder. The young novice was stunned for a moment, then deliberately turned his head and made a face at it, scaring the little oriole into fluttering away. The young novice, left alone and dazed, touched his bald head, feeling somewhat guilty.

In the corridor, on the cattail hassock, the old monk lay dead, maintaining his relaxed posture.

Yet, it seemed as if he had infused this small world with a vital spirit.

Chen Ping’an inexplicably recalled a phrase from Lu Tai.

“Death is but a great sleep.”