The continent of Precious Bottle Isle has always been divided into North and South by the Viewing Lake Academy.

The North is mostly uncivilized barbarians, while the South is refined and cultured.

Southerners look down upon northerners as a matter of course. Even the most learned scholars of the Northern Sui Dynasty must acknowledge their inferiority when facing the elegant scholars of the Southern Brook Kingdom. Therefore, high-ranking southern families consider marrying into the North a disgrace.

As the year drew to a close, in a bustling market in the South, a barefoot middle-aged monk walked along, carrying a begging bowl. His face was square and resolute, his steps slow and deliberate.

A jester was exerting all his skill, eliciting bursts of applause. The monk noticed a small monkey tied to a wooden stake, thin and emaciated, which made its eyes appear exceptionally large.

The monk squatted down, took out half a hard, dry biscuit, broke off a small piece, placed it in his palm, and extended it toward the scrawny monkey.

However, the monkey was startled by the monk’s kindness and fled in panic. The iron chain snapped taut instantly, rebounding and causing the small monkey, covered in whip marks, to fall to the ground, curled up and whimpering softly.

The monk gently placed the broken pieces of biscuit near the wooden stake. He then broke the remaining half of the biscuit in half again, scattering the pieces on the ground. Finally, he placed his iron bowl down and retreated, sitting cross-legged three or four steps away from the stake, closing his eyes and silently chanting scriptures and precepts, his lips moving slightly.

Practicing in walking, practicing in sitting, traveling ten thousand miles, always in ascetic practice.

The hungry and cold-stricken monkey was truly starved. After the monk sat down, it timidly gazed at him for a long time. Finally, it mustered the courage to grab a piece of biscuit. It retreated to its spot, lowered its head and gnawed it down. Seeing that the monk remained unmoved, it grew bolder and stole another piece. This happened repeatedly. Accidentally, it discovered some clear water in the iron bowl. It drank a mouthful, and in this frigid winter season, the water was surprisingly warm. This made the monkey feel more comfortable, and it became less afraid of the monk. Its large eyes stared blankly at the barefoot, bald-headed fellow, as if filled with perplexity.

After reciting a passage of scripture, the monk opened his eyes and stood up. The little monkey retreated again. The monk simply bent down, retrieved his iron bowl, and left.

The monkey clung to the wooden stake, watching the monk’s back as he quickly disappeared into the crowded sea of people.

For the first time, it let out a soft belch. It reached out and scratched its gaunt, fleshless cheeks, blinking its large eyes.

The barefoot monk walked with his head lowered amidst the throng of people. Even if passersby bumped into his shoulder, he never looked up. Instead, he placed his right hand in front of his chest in a gesture of reverence, nodded slightly, and continued on his way.

In the market, there was a crazy old man, his eyebrows and hair matted, dirty and disheveled, his clothes tattered. Whenever he encountered a young child, regardless of whether the child’s elders were rich or poor, he would approach them and ask the same question. Most people were used to this and would quicken their pace, leading their children away. Some would laugh and scold him, while others, with less patience, would push the old madman. Throughout it all, the old madman would only repeat that strange question.

“Has your child been named yet?”

A group of young loafers, who knew the old man well, blocked his path. One of them, with a mischievous grin, asked, “I have a child who hasn’t been named yet. What are you going to do?”

The old man immediately beamed, dancing with joy. He said, “I’ll name it, I’ll name it! This time, I’ll definitely give it a good name…”

“Name your grandpa!” The young man kicked the old man in the abdomen, sending him sprawling backward. The old man lay on the ground, clutching his stomach and writhing in pain.

The begging monk squatted down and helped the old man to his feet. The group of loafers laughed and walked away.

After being helped up, the old man reached out and clutched the monk’s arm tightly. He asked the monk that extremely disrespectful question again: “Has your child been named yet?”

The middle-aged monk looked at the senile old man, shook his head, brushed the dust off him, and continued on his way.

The old man continued to invite hardship in the market, enduring countless glares and curses.

As the sun set, the monk begged for food, ceasing after seven households. The food in the iron bowl was meager, barely enough for a meager meal.

The monk entered the city from the North and exited from the South. The road was filled with pedestrians. The monk walked with his head lowered. If he encountered small insects, he would pick them up and place them on the side of the road, away from harm.

Finally, he saw a long-abandoned ancient temple. The monk bowed once at the gate and slowly entered.

Under the eaves of the corridor outside the main hall, he ate the food in his bowl. Then, the monk began to sit cross-legged and continue his cultivation.

In the twilight, the crazy old man staggered back, not even glancing at the monk. He went straight to the main hall, collapsed onto a pile of straw, wrapped himself in a tattered, thin blanket, trying to cover his hands and feet, and fell into a deep sleep.

Nothing happened that night.

The troublesome old man, who liked to give people names haphazardly, didn’t wake up until noon. After waking up, he left the dilapidated temple and headed towards the crowds in the city. The old man completely ignored the middle-aged monk. At first, some people wondered if the crazy old man was an eccentric, extraordinary person, but they later discovered that he was simply a useless old man. He wouldn’t fight back when hit, wouldn’t argue when scolded, and would cry when hurt. If hit too hard, he would bleed. In the end, only some idle loafers enjoyed making fun of the old man.

The old man had been living in this dilapidated temple for many years.

For the next six months, day after day, the monk stayed here temporarily. Occasionally, he would go to the city with the old man to beg for alms, and occasionally they would leave the city together and return to their dwelling. The two never exchanged words, and rarely even made eye contact. Every time the crazy old man saw the monk, he would look blank, remembering nothing.

One night, there was a torrential downpour, with lightning and thunder.

In the violent wind and rain, even shouts from nearby would be barely audible.

Shrunken within the straw bed, the old man shuddered with each clap of thunder. In his sleep, he seemingly recalled some sorrowful event or perhaps experiencing a nightmare, his hands clenched into fists, his body tense, ceaselessly murmuring: “It was grandpa who gave the bad name, it was grandpa who ruined you, it was grandpa who ruined you!”

That withered, aged face had long run out of tears to shed, yet it appeared especially heartbroken.

As the hurried rumbles of thunder faded intermittently, though the rain continued to fall heavily with daunting force, the old man’s muttering gradually lessened.

But as the old man fell completely into slumber, the monk curled a finger and gently tapped.

Like the sound of a wooden fish resonating within the ancient temple.

Like spring thunder resounding beneath the corridor.
The old man shuddered, suddenly sitting upright. He gazed around, at first lost, then relieved, and finally grief-stricken. He rose to his feet and walked towards the temple’s entrance. The diminutive old man, dressed in tattered rags, moved with a fierce aura, like a tiger descending from the mountains, a dragon crossing the river. Yet, despite the imposing presence, his physical form remained exceedingly frail.

A tiger dies, yet its frame still stands tall.

The old man stepped out of the temple, looked up at the sky, and remained speechless for a long time, eventually sighing in resignation.

The monk said softly, “All who have feelings suffer.”

Without even glancing at the monk, the old man scoffed, “Suffer what suffering! I am content! How is being a heartless, desireless immortal considered freedom? Bah! Eternal life is just a load of crock. Each one of them, high and mighty, only remembers being a celestial, forgetting that they were once human… Haha, common folk forgetting their roots are struck by lightning, but deities forgetting their origins are considered true gods. How laughable, truly laughable…”

The middle-aged monk repeated, “All beings suffer.”

The old man fell silent, sitting cross-legged, his fists clenched and resting on his knees. He mocked himself, “It feels like a lifetime ago.”

At the break of dawn, the old man, having fallen asleep at some point, startled awake. His eyes were once again clouded, and he resumed his muddled, listless existence.

Thus, a month or so passed. On a Mid-Autumn Festival night, under the full moon, the old man finally regained his clarity. However, this time, his spirit and vitality were greatly diminished, appearing withered and aged.

He sat with the monk under the eaves, gazing at the bright moon. The old man spoke to himself, “My grandson is intelligent, the most brilliant scholar in the world. Unfortunately, he bears the surname Cui, already a misfortune. And to have a grandfather like me, even more unfortunate. It shouldn’t be this way, it shouldn’t be this way…”

The middle-aged monk remained silent.

The Cui clan of Bao Ping Continent once had a saying: “A temple without monks, the wind sweeps the floor; incense without fire, the moon lights the lamp.”

As winter arrived, heavy snow fell. The old man slept inside the temple, his teeth chattering, his face turning ashen, as if he wouldn’t survive the cold winter. The monk entered with his alms bowl, handing the old man a warm, dry cake. The old man stared blankly, then suddenly threw it on the ground. His eyes regained a flicker of clarity as he watched the monk pick up the cake and offer it again. The old man shook his head, “I only wish to see my grandson once before I die, otherwise, I won’t be able to rest in peace. I can’t swallow this resentment, I can’t let go! I need to tell him I’m sorry, that it’s his grandfather who failed him… I can’t lose my mind, I need to be clear-headed. Monk, save me!”

The old man grabbed the monk’s arm tightly. “Monk, if you can just help me regain clarity and see my grandson, I’ll be your ox, your horse, I’ll do anything… I’ll kowtow to you right now, I’ll become your disciple! Yes, yes, you’re a monk with great mystical power, you can definitely help me escape this sea of suffering…”

This time, the old man’s spirit was as withered as decayed wood, showing signs of his life force burning out. His consciousness was also becoming increasingly hazy.

The monk calmly said, “Why can’t you let go of your obsession? Even if you see him, what can you do at this point?”

The old man looked miserable, “How can I let go? It’s not just about me. I can’t let go, I’ll never be able to let go in this lifetime.”

The middle-aged monk pondered for a moment, “Since you can’t let go, then pick it up first.”

The old man asked blankly, “How do I pick it up?”

The monk replied, “Go to Dali.”

The old man nodded, “Yes, yes, my grandson is in Dali.”

The monk shook his head, “Your grandson is in Dasui, but your grandson’s teacher is in Dragon Spring County, Dali.”

The old man was filled with fear, retreating until his back hit the wall. He shook his head vigorously, “I don’t want to see Wen Sheng…”

After a moment, the old man suddenly became furious, “If you want to harm me, just kill me! If you want to harm my grandson, I’ll smash your golden statue with one punch! Even if your Buddha comes, I’ll still throw a punch!”

As the words fell, the old man struggled to stand up. His aura was as fierce and majestic as those two pure martial artists fighting in the Li Zhu Grotto Heaven.

But it was merely the last vestiges of a bluff.

The monk remained calm, looking down at the iron bowl in his hand. The clear water inside rippled slightly, “The Buddha sees a bowl of water, eighty-four thousand insects.”

The old man frowned, “Bald donkey, don’t play riddles with me!”

The monk turned his head, gently lifting the iron bowl, “This is the most interesting aspect of your grandson. He saw the ‘small.’ This humble monk believes it is worth discussing with his teacher.”

The old man’s eyes were resolute, “Monk, you have great ambitions. This old man will never agree to your schemes.”

The monk sighed, “Rootless grass.”

The monk simply rose and left.

The old man seized the time to sit cross-legged, beginning to breathe and circulate his energy. His previously withered skin slowly glowed with golden light.

Then, he carved the five characters “Dali Dragon Spring County” into the palm of his hand with his finger, leaving a bloody mess. He continuously told himself, “Go to this place, you must go to this place. Only look, don’t speak. Don’t ask, don’t do,” His heart surged with emotions as he engraved his vow.

The old man returned to the temple and fell asleep.

Outside the temple, the snow intensified, but the cold air dissipated as it approached the temple door.