Chapter Forty-Eight: What Is Virtue

The two entered the Dongyue Temple, where the statue of the Great Emperor Dongyue stood more than ten feet tall, clad in scarlet robes. In his right hand he held a golden whip, and in his left, the Seal of Heaven and Earth’s Might. His visage was stern, gazing upward toward the boundless sky.

The Great Emperor Dongyue was a sage of the human race, who had vanquished monsters and barbarians to win a haven for humanity. Though Shangguan Chuanyun had been reborn, he too enjoyed the blessings of this space for survival, and thus owed the deity reverence. Shangguan Chuanyun, following the custom of three bows and nine prostrations, offered incense.

Afterward, Priest Ren glanced at the sky, noting that dusk was near, and said, “Layman, please rest in the guest chamber while I prepare the evening meal.”

Shangguan Chuanyun, feeling the hunger of the day, replied, “Thank you for your trouble, Master.”

He entered the guest chamber, which was sparsely furnished: a bed, a table, and a single stool. Though simple, it was spotless, evidently cleaned often.

This guest chamber, like the alchemy room, served as a place for priests to meditate and cultivate. The difference was that the alchemy room was for the resident priest, while the guest chamber was for visiting priests passing through—commonly known as “lodging for the night.”

Soon, Priest Ren summoned Shangguan Chuanyun to supper. Upon arrival, Chuanyun first bowed to the Kitchen God, then took his seat. Priest Ren told him to eat first, as he had other matters to attend and need not be waited for.

The meal was plain but refined: several flatbreads and plates of wild greens.

Shangguan Chuanyun waited, but Priest Ren did not return. The aroma of the food was pleasing. He tasted the wild greens, which had a fresh fragrance, seasoned simply with coarse salt and brewed vinegar. Taking a bite, the taste filled his mouth with saliva, leaving a lingering savor.

Though Shangguan Chuanyun was accustomed to fine food, he was never picky. In his previous life, he’d often braved the elements in search of the Way. Wild greens paired with flatbread were truly delightful.

Yet Priest Ren did not return, and Chuanyun went in search of him.

The back hall? Not there.

The main hall? Not there.

The alchemy room? Not there.

At last, Shangguan Chuanyun found Priest Ren at the edge of a cliff beside the temple, seemingly eating something, with a kettle beside him.

As Chuanyun was about to leave, he noticed, quite by accident, that the bun in Priest Ren’s hand was unlike the usual ones. Despite the distance, Chuanyun’s cultivation let him see clearly.

Others ate white buns, but Priest Ren’s was yellowed, sprouting green mold—obviously spoiled.

A wave of sadness swept over Chuanyun. He departed quietly, not disturbing the priest, and returned to the dining hall.

He stared blankly at the flatbreads before him.

He recalled his master from a previous life, who once went to cultivate at Mount Taibai. Lodging at a Daoist temple, the only resident was an old priest. His master was given freshly steamed buns, while the old priest ate moldy, spoiled ones.

Upon discovering this, his master questioned the old priest, who replied that he only wished not to waste grain. In the end, his master ate the moldy buns with him.

Back then, Chuanyun believed the story, but never felt its depth. Now, witnessing it firsthand, he found himself speechless.

Indeed, no one in their right mind would praise moldy buns.

Suppressing his emotions, he silently made note of this, and finished all the flatbreads and wild greens.

He considered cleaning the dishes, but remembered his status as a wealthy young gentleman—such actions might appear affected. Yet recalling the custom in his past life, where priests tended their own utensils and resumed their duties after meals, he decided to clean and put them away.

By chance, he saw only a few grains in the rice jar—without those, one would hardly know it was a rice jar. The flour jar nearby was nearly empty, enough for just one adult meal.

Cultivators mainly subsisted on the breath of life, but unless they’d achieved the golden elixir and reached the stage of full self-sufficiency, they still needed food, however little. This bit of flour would last three days at most.

Chuanyun sighed and tried not to dwell on it.

He rose and wandered around the Dongyue Temple.

His visit had purpose. From the mountain’s swirling mist and faint traces of human activity, he knew someone resided here.

Ahead lay two destinations: Lanfeng County, plagued by wild dogs and sinister wolf demons, and Nanguo County, where an entire populace had become shaven-headed followers.

Shangguan Chuanyun wished to see both places, to broaden his experience.

The Dongyue Temple was not far from either—just twenty li away.

Moreover, he had discovered this mountain to be the domain of the Great Emperor Dongyue, blessed with spiritual energy and enveloped in mist. Surely, a true cultivator practiced here, and Chuanyun had questions to ask.

Thus he lingered.

...

Outside Nanguo County’s walls, four guards dragged a sack, keeping watch. The city gates were closed; the walls stood two fathoms high, torches burning atop the ramparts. Several shaven-headed soldiers patrolled back and forth.

By torchlight, they seemed to mutter something.

The four guards tethered their horses at a distance. Two stood ready with bows, vigilant against threats from the shadows, while the other two approached the wall, intent on hanging the sack’s contents atop the rampart as ordered.

Suddenly, a voice called from the wall.

“Password!”

“It’s me,” came a calm reply.

“Greetings, Master Shattered Body,” said a soldier.

“Mm,” the voice responded.

“How goes your cultivation?”

“All is well,” replied the soldier. “I study the Great Vehicle’s Three Shatterings, recite the Buddha’s name daily, and my thoughts have become unified. I’ve reached the stage of shattering the family.”

The monk nodded. “The Buddha is compassionate. Seeing the people of the Central Plains ignorant and indulgent, full of strife and greed, disrespectful of teachings, he bestowed the Three Shatterings Sutra to save them from suffering.”

“Buddha’s compassion illuminates the East,” the soldier intoned.

The monk continued, “You offered your wife to the Buddha, a great merit. Remember: to give is to gain—only through sacrifice does one receive. You surrendered your property; though you may not see it now, in your next life you’ll be reborn into wealth. That is the shattering of the body.

You gave up your wife and turned wholly to the Buddha, with a heart of compassion—this is shattering the family. If you can lead a nation’s people to practice this, becoming monks and suffering tribulations, bringing ruin to country and home, that is shattering the nation. Then you will master the Great Vehicle’s wondrous law and become a Buddha. The Buddha himself was a prince who, after shattering body, family, and nation, attained Buddhahood. May you follow this path to the Western Paradise.”

“Excellent, excellent. Buddha’s compassion shines on all.”

“Has the Lamp-Lighting Arhat arrived?”

“Not yet seen.”

“Very well. Continue to recite and seek the Western Paradise.”

“I obey the master’s teachings!”

With that, they departed. The guards, overhearing, felt this doctrine was not for them.

Their path was to establish themselves, then their families, then their clans, ascending ever higher. These monks practiced the reverse: shatter body, then family, then nation. They shook their heads and conferred.

One guard produced a grappling hook, spun it twice, then flung it atop the wall. Grasping the rope, he scaled the rampart in three swift steps.

A soldier, turning around, saw a man in scale armor standing atop the wall and was about to shout.

The guard lunged, struck the soldier at the throat with the edge of his palm; the soldier was instantly silenced. The guard then supported his chin with his right hand, grabbed his head with the left, and twisted sharply. The shaven-headed soldier’s body spun, his head turned, and with a crack, his neck broke. Like a dead fish, he was left dangling.

“What’s happening over there?” someone called from afar.

The guard was unperturbed. These soldiers knew only basic martial arts; unless a hundred attacked at once and he stood his ground, only then would they pose a threat. One by one, he could kill as many as came. Remembering the soldier’s earlier exchange with the monk, he mimicked the voice:

“Nothing, just a night owl.”

Another voice replied, “Good. What happened to your throat?”

“Nothing, just a touch of cold.”

“Alright then.”

The guard waited until the soldier’s breath ceased and his body stiffened. Then he dragged the corpse into a dark corner, quickly donned the soldier’s uniform, and wrapped his hair with a cloth.

He coughed a few times atop the wall, signaling his companions below. They took the Lamp-Lighting Monk from the sack, tied him up, and tossed the rope upward.

The guard hauled the Three Shatterings Monk up, then led the Lamp-Lighting Monk toward the city gate.

As they neared the gate, a voice demanded:

“Stop, password.”

The guard coughed twice. “It’s me.”

“Password is incorrect. Who are you, really?”

The guard sensed trouble, but seeing no immediate reaction, thought, “Luckily, this isn’t an elite unit. If it were, anyone giving the wrong password would be seized and dealt with the next day. I can still move forward.”

He placed the Lamp-Lighting Monk before him and said, “I am the Lamp-Lighting Monk.”

“Oh, so you’re the Lamp-Lighting Arhat,” the shaven-headed soldier replied, though he felt something amiss—hadn’t the Lamp-Lighting Monk left the city?

He was about to protest when the Lamp-Lighting Monk was brought before him, bound. Instantly, he realized something had happened.

Seeing the soldier about to shout, the guard darted out from behind the monk, clamped the soldier’s mouth with his left hand, drew his dagger with the right, and stabbed him in the heart.

He waited until the soldier died, then hung the Lamp-Lighting Monk from the city gate.

With a flip, he leapt down from the wall like a wild goose descending.

A soldier atop the wall saw the guard’s descent and yelled, “Enemy attack!”

No sooner had he finished than an arrow struck his neck.

The wall was suddenly crowded with soldiers. One archer aimed at the fleeing guard, but felt a sharp pain—an arrow pierced his throat. He gurgled blood and collapsed.

Two guards at a distance provided cover with arrows, while the other two sprinted away, escaping the range of the archers.

Atop Nanguo County’s walls, the torches blazed brightly.