Chapter 2: Buddha Amulet? (Seeking Recommendations)

A strange sensation abruptly welled up from deep within Qi Yan’s heart, though he himself remained entirely unaware. He had been staring at that black temple for several minutes when his attention became wholly fixed upon it, unable to look away.

The cigarette between his fingers had burned halfway down, yet his mind was drifting into a daze. Almost unconsciously, he began to rise, and step by step, he walked toward the small, dark shrine.

The distance was short. As he drew closer, his expression grew vacant, his thoughts hazy, and the surrounding clamor faded into silence. It was as if he were drunk—his body moving on its own while his mind floated in a fog.

He stumbled through that brief journey, and when he finally gathered his wits, he found himself already inside the black temple.

That fleeting blackout left Qi Yan staring blankly for several moments after regaining his senses. What had just happened? Had he been standing in the sun too long and suffered a touch of heatstroke?

There was no time for further reflection, for the interior of this black temple was even stranger than its exterior. Though the doors stood open, not a single ray of sunlight penetrated within. The temperature was markedly cool and damp.

The small sanctuary, barely a dozen square meters, was lit not by electric bulbs but by a multitude of lotus-shaped candles. The light was dim, but enough to make out shapes.

Unlike other temples, this one was sparsely decorated. There were no statues of the Buddha, no incense altars. At the very center of the wooden floor sat an emaciated old monk, cross-legged upon a meditation cushion. The faint candlelight barely revealed his features, but one could estimate he was over sixty.

The old monk’s robe was unlike those worn by ordinary monks. Thailand is known as the “Land of the Yellow Robes,” following the Theravada tradition. Yet this monk was clad in black. In this already shadowy hall, his thin frame and dark robe almost made him blend into the gloom.

If not for the faint, rhythmic chant and the prayer beads clasped in his hands, it would have been difficult to notice him at all.

But the small temple lacked the thick, musty odor so common in other shrines. Instead, a refreshing fragrance permeated the air, suggesting few ever set foot inside.

Qi Yan glanced around at the sparse interior as the soft tinkling of wind chimes reached his ears. At last, his gaze settled on the old monk. Seeing the monk’s eyes closed, lost in meditation, Qi Yan decided not to disturb him. Although he was not a man of faith, he thought it best to at least offer a polite greeting, having already entered.

He pressed his palms together in a gesture of respect, bowed, and began to mutter, “Swipe my card…” He suddenly realized he was still wearing sandals—having wandered in so dazed, he’d forgotten the local custom of removing footwear before entering a temple. Embarrassed, he turned to leave.

But as soon as he moved, the old monk halted his chanting, opened his clouded eyes, and in flawless English asked, “Young man, what’s your name?”

Qi Yan turned back, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Well, people always say Thai English sounds like ‘eagle language,’ but this old monk’s pronunciation is quite impeccable,” he thought.

Since the question had been asked, he replied politely, “Qi Yan…”

The old monk’s expression remained unchanged, a gentle smile on his face, radiating benevolence. He did not inquire further, but stretched out his hand, still clutching his prayer beads, indicating that Qi Yan should sit down.

Qi Yan hesitated, then nodded awkwardly. He felt only mild confusion, nothing more, and obediently walked over to sit cross-legged before the monk.

Normally a rather irreverent man, Qi Yan found his playful demeanor subdued by the temple’s atmosphere and the monk’s presence.

He expected the old monk to continue in English, but instead, the monk resumed chanting in a language Qi Yan could not understand. The sonorous rhythm had a soothing effect, calming body and mind.

But what was this all about? Was the monk giving him a blessing?

The old monk chanted for perhaps ten minutes, during which Qi Yan’s legs began to go numb and his eyes wandered around the dimly lit room. Most things were hard to make out.

Then, the chanting stopped abruptly. Qi Yan looked back to see the monk extending his hands, in which now rested a delicate amulet.

By the flickering candlelight, Qi Yan saw the amulet was rather ordinary at first glance—about the size of his little finger, square, with a chain of black beads that appeared to be obsidian or something similar.

But the image depicted on the amulet was peculiar. It was of the powder type, but the figure was so dark and indistinct that he could not tell what it was meant to represent—certainly not a human form, just a black mass.

The gold-plated frame was clear enough, similar to many other amulets. Qi Yan could only recognize it as an amulet, but could not identify the particular deity.

There is a bewildering variety of amulets: the Ancient Buddha, Ganesh, the Face-Covering Buddha, Shiva, Brahma… Qi Yan had little interest in such things, so his confusion only deepened.

Yet the monk’s gesture was unmistakably one of offering. Qi Yan pointed to the amulet, then to himself, seeking confirmation.

The old monk nodded slightly, indicating that, indeed, this was for him.

Qi Yan looked again at the amulet. Though still unable to discern the figure, the same hazy sensation as before swept over him—this time even stronger, leaving him dizzy and parched.

In just a few seconds, when he next regained clarity, the amulet was already in his hands, as if he had just accepted it.

It felt well crafted, the obsidian beads especially lustrous.

Qi Yan had somehow taken the amulet without quite knowing how. Unsure what to do, he thought, “Could this be one of those notorious hard-sell tactics? The item is already in your hands—too late to refuse!”

The small black temple seemed empty except for the old monk. Qi Yan worried—if this was a scam and he refused to pay, would others suddenly emerge to force him? Alone in a foreign land, trouble could be close at hand.

His heart pounded in his throat. He hadn’t time to dwell on the strange dizziness, and instead stammered in a small voice, “How… How much?”

He asked about the price, but inside he was frantic. Why was he so unlucky? He could have just waited outside for Dong Ye and the others, but instead he’d wandered in, sat through a long chant, and gotten talked into an amulet that probably cost a small fortune—barely realizing what was happening.

While Qi Yan’s mind raced with panic, the old monk remained serenely smiling, shaking his head in a mysterious manner before resuming his chanting.

Qi Yan asked several more times, but the monk paid him no further attention.

He waited a few more minutes, but when there was still no sign of the monk asking for payment, Qi Yan finally began to think—could it be that the amulet was a gift?

Could such a thing happen? He remembered Xu Dan once mentioning that certain revered monks might bestow amulets upon those they deemed fated, asking only that the recipient make a small, voluntary donation to the merit box.

Had he just encountered such a situation?

It was hard to believe—he had never been a believer, yet here was an unexpected stroke of luck.

Nonetheless, the facts were plain. Even after gaining this unexpected benefit, he could hardly believe it.

Whatever the case, since nothing else had happened, Qi Yan finally decided to get up. Numb legs forgotten, he bowed repeatedly to the old monk, thanking him in Thai, “Khob khun ka, khob khun ka…” before limping out of the little temple.

The moment he stepped outside, dazzling sunlight poured down, the heat pressing in—a stark contrast to the coolness within.

Qi Yan squinted against the glare, then lifted the amulet in his hand, examining it closely in the bright light…