Chapter 110
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That Cui Shaoqing saw the young county prince’s expression of ‘confusion’ and couldn’t help but lift the hem of his robe, feigning a light kick at him. With a laugh and a curse, he said: “Are you truly unable to remember, or do you simply dislike that your elder sister always brings up her friend from that dream, so you’re putting on this act? I know full well—the reason you left the palace a little later than usual was because you had someone in charge of scholars’ records investigate that person.”
“For this, your elder sister nearly suffered harm.”
The young Junwang(County Prince) sighed and said: “That’s exactly why—it was just a dream!”
“And in my elder sister’s nightmare, she vaguely remembers that friend of hers as a scholar famed across the land, a peerless grand master. Every time she urged me to study, she would bring him up, always saying, ‘Master Qi this, Master Qi that.’”
“I’ve heard it so much that I’m sick of it!”
“Besides, across all thirteen lands of the Nine Provinces, we couldn’t find a single scholar with that name.”
Cui Shaoqing was surprised. “You actually looked for him?”
“You really listen to your sister.”
“It seems she truly remembers that friend deeply.”
The young Junwang let out a breath and said seriously:
“Dreams always embellish memories.”
The young master of the Cui family burst into loud laughter.
When Qi Wuhuo and Mingxin arrived at the medicinal tent, they saw the gray-robed monk who had previously spoken to them about the Four Truths and Cause and Effect. It seemed the monk had not slept the entire night, and even now, he was still tending to the sick. Upon seeing the young Daoist, he gave a slight nod with a smile in greeting. Without needing words, the two naturally took their places—one on the left and one on the right—and began assisting in caring for the ill.
The miasma of the epidemic had already dissipated.
Now, the complexion of the sick had improved greatly.
Qi Wuhuo used his own Primordial Qi as a needle, helping them regulate their internal vitality.
The young Daoist, Mingxin, was tending to a small medicine stove, brewing decoctions. The bottom of the stove had already been blackened by the flames. As he prepared the medicine, he stacked two or three bricks together, plopped himself down on them, propped his chin up with both hands, and stared wide-eyed at the flickering flames, lost in thought.
“May the two Daoists be blessed for their compassion.”
During a moment of respite, the great monk approached and struck up a conversation.
The young Daoist lifted his head and saw that the monk was dressed in a gray kasaya. Though his appearance had not visibly changed, there was an air of sorrow about him, as if he had exhausted too much of his energy. Qi Wuhuo said: “Master, my condolences.”
The monk gazed at the young Daoist before him and replied warmly: “It is no matter.”
For some reason, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this youth closely resembled the Daoist he had seen earlier in the great hall before the rain, the one who had directly referred to the Medicine Master Glazed Light Tathāgata simply as ‘Medicine Master’ while offering incense. He wanted to ask, but held himself back, restraining the thought. Even as their brief conversation came to an end, he never voiced his question. Instead, he watched as the young Daoist busied himself again.
If he carefully examined him, the youth’s cultivation was merely at the Three Talents Realm.
Though his foundation was immensely solid—whether it was his Primordial Spirit, Primordial Qi, or Primordial Essence, all were exceptionally refined, even surpassing ordinary Innate One Qi cultivators in depth—there was still no way someone at his level could possess such means as to directly refer to the Medicine Master Glazed Light Tathāgata in such a manner…
It shouldn’t be possible. It shouldn’t be possible.
The gray-robed monk’s furrowed brows slowly eased.
What he saw was merely a busy, ordinary young man. Dressed in plain Daoist robes, he was currently administering acupuncture to a patient. His gaze was lowered in concentration, fingers resting upon the patient’s wrist. From the monk’s perspective, he could see the calluses on the young man’s palm—marks of one accustomed to manual labor. When speaking with others, his voice was always gentle, and his eyes carried a quiet serenity.
The monk withdrew his gaze.
Suddenly, a mocking snicker rang out: “Well, well, how rare! Little Calf-Nose, how did you end up with this old bald thief?”
“What, did you see the kid’s good potential and start having improper thoughts?”
“Old bald donkey, you’re up to no good!”
Such a tone—there was only one person in this city who spoke like that.
The monk lifted his gaze and saw the newcomer clad in a plain gray robe, disheveled and unkempt.
The stench of alcohol clung to him.
His neck was covered in kiss marks, causing the monk’s eyelid to twitch.
The fingers that had been gently rolling his prayer beads suddenly tightened, making the string of simple wooden beads emit a faint cracking sound.
The man staggered as he walked, swaying unsteadily. One hand gripped a gourd, and as he strolled forward, he tilted his head back, gulping down wine, his laughter full of mockery. He cocked his head slightly to the side; his hairpin was askew in his messy topknot, and his robe collar was left untended. The monk furrowed his brows slightly before relaxing them again. He had no intention of stooping to the level of this fortune-teller’s provocations, but in the end, he couldn’t help but rebuke:
“Where have you been carousing this time?!”
The fortune-teller shot him a sidelong glance. “Oh? Oh? What’s this? You’re losing your patience?”
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous that I spent last night in delightful company with a few young ladies?”
“Carousing?”
“My Yin-Yang Transformation, the Supreme Path, and in your mouth, it’s just ‘carousing’?”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. So monks must have been born from cracks in the rocks, huh? You miserable, orphaned, heirless, bald-headed thief!”
The gray-robed monk remained expressionless, though the veins on his forehead throbbed.
This man always found new ways to provoke him.
The fortune-teller grinned with satisfaction and said cheerfully:
“Aren’t monks supposed to be free from greed, anger, and delusion?”
He let out a few hearty laughs, his face brimming with amusement.
The gray-robed monk closed his eyes briefly and said in a measured tone: “I have received our master’s decree—to take you back.”
“If you keep this up, aren’t you afraid of his punishment?”
The fortune-teller sneered. “Let him try.”
The gray-robed monk sighed. “But if you continue like this, he will be heartbroken.”
The fortune-teller faltered for a brief moment, then retorted, somewhat unsteadily:
“What does his heartbreak have to do with me?”
“I came here today to deliver medicine.”
From somewhere unseen, he suddenly pulled out bundles of herbs and packets of medicinal powder, all wrapped in oil paper. With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed them forward. With that, the gray-robed monk could no longer seize him. The fortune-teller smirked and said: “Here, take them. Go treat those people properly. Don’t say I stood idly by. You know I don’t understand medicine.”
“You, Little Calf-Nose, what are you doing here?”
Mingxin curled his lips in annoyance.
The young Daoist did not take offense and simply replied: “The Dao values life.”
The fortune-teller clapped his hands in admiration. “The Dao values life, boundless salvation—good, good.”
“Your old bull-nose master taught you well!”
“But little Daoist, you’re a Daoist—why are you hanging around with this bald donkey?”
“You’d better be careful.”
He staggered forward, placed a hand on Qi Wuhuo’s shoulder, and raised his eyes. “You need to watch yourself. A fine jade like you, walking in this world—some people won’t care, but others will see it as a terrible waste. There’s an old saying: ‘A child carrying a thousand gold pieces through a crowded market is courting disaster.'”
The little Daoist Mingxin frowned. “Are you saying that Uncle Master Qi is that child?”
The fortune-teller shot him a glance and said simply: “No.”
“He is the gold.”
The little Daoist Mingxin was left dumbfounded.
The fortune-teller continued: “Besides, this bald donkey isn’t as virtuous as he seems. Among the thirteen Buddhist lineages, many are obsessed with their pursuits—but he is something else entirely. Despite his cultivation being sufficient, he repeatedly disperses his power and starts anew, determined to comprehend all thirteen Buddhist lineages. If there is anyone in Buddhism more obsessive than him, I have yet to see it.”
“He has already sworn two grand vows.”
“If he wished, he could attain the Bodhisattva’s fruit position in an instant.”
The gray-robed monk lowered his eyelids and said evenly,
“If you speak any further, I will reveal your true name and expose your original identity.”
The fortune-teller sneered. “If you dare expose my true form, then I’ll start with how, in your past life at six years old, you still wet the bed.”
“And in the life before that, you were kidnapped by a bandit queen and taken to the mountains to be made her mountain husband.”
“And before that, you tore your pants while picking peaches.”
“And before that… countless lives ago, when you weren’t even human… and most importantly—your very first [true self].”
The gray-robed monk had ignored the earlier remarks.
But at that final sentence, the veins at his temple throbbed violently.
Oh? Oh oh oh oh!!
Little Daoist Mingxin squatted on a brick, pulling out the preserved fruit his uncle-master had given him. He took small bites, his round eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Unfortunately, just as the conversation was getting interesting, both the fortune-teller and the monk fell silent.
It was as if they were mutually deterred by the knowledge they held over each other.
The fortune-teller sneered and turned to Qi Wuhuo. “Tomorrow is the day of the [Mingzhen Dao Alliance]—do you remember my method?”
The young Daoist nodded and said, “Sir’s method… it should be different from the usual way of entering the Dao Alliance, right?”
Yue Ji had once mentioned that the Dao Alliance was open every day.
The fortune-teller laughed heartily. “Of course it’s different! But it will still get you into the [Mingzhen Dao Alliance].”
“As long as you get in, that’s all that matters.”
“But how much you gain inside… whether you find the answers you seek… that depends entirely on your own ability.”
He patted Qi Wuhuo’s shoulder, turned away, and muttered with a sigh: “Seriously… what kind of teacher just lets their disciple run wild like this? Even I can’t stand watching it anymore… Old bull-nose, the next time I see you, I’ll definitely give you a proper scolding!”
“Hmm? Wait a minute… I clearly decided to just enjoy life and wander the mortal realm. So why did I go out of my way to meddle and give him advice?”
“This doesn’t match my personality at all.”
“And I even provoked that monk… I feel like if we’d kept talking, he would’ve actually thrown hands.”
“The Medicine Master Glazed Light Tathāgata just perished. If he lashed out in anger, it wouldn’t be surprising.”
“I should’ve known that. And yet, I still came.”
The fortune-teller propped his chin on one hand.
A trace of confusion flickered across his eyes.
His fingers lowered slightly, as if about to manipulate fate, as if preparing to divine an answer.
But then, the instincts of a being whose foresight was among the greatest in all three realms told him—To abandon the thought.
“Forget it. It’s not important.”
He hiccupped from the wine.
“Hmm? What was I just thinking about again?”
“Why do my legs suddenly feel weak?”
“Let me think… oh right, I was going to scold that old bull-nose to his face.”
“Strange. Why would I ever think of doing something so pointless?”
“Pointless, pointless. I won’t bother.”
After the fortune teller departed, the young Daoist looked toward the monk, who had regained his calm demeanor, and naturally asked:
“Great Master has already made a great vow?”
The monk lowered his gaze and replied: “Yes.”
Mingxin widened his eyes, glancing first at Qi Wuhuo, then at the monk. Though he was a cultivator of the Daoist path, he still had some understanding of what a great vow entailed. After all, only the highest-ranking Bodhisattvas and Buddhas possessed such vows. His curiosity got the better of him, and he asked: “Then why does Master not cultivate the Bodhisattva’s fruit?”
“And also, what is your great vow?”
The gray-robed monk waited for him to finish before answering gently:
“Because I have yet to fulfill my vow, I am merely a monk.”
“As for what my great vow is…”
He pondered for a moment before saying: “It is better that I do not speak of it.”
“At the very least, I believe that a great vow is meant to be spoken to oneself, to serve as a reminder, to keep one’s heart steadfast, to know what one must do—not something to be declared for others to hear.”
“A true great vow should be made in silence and fulfilled in silence.”
“From beginning to end, only I need to know.”
“Otherwise, if one speaks without acting, is that not mere boasting? That is not the Buddha’s path I seek.”
Mingxin was left speechless, sensing the extremely terrifying doubt hidden within those words. Among those present, there were also followers of Buddhism. The fortune teller’s words earlier had been heard by only the three of them, yet the monk made no effort to conceal his own. Unable to hold back, the man angrily exclaimed: “You, a mere monk, dare to question the great vows of the Buddhas?! What, do you think yourself greater than them?!”
“Who exactly are you?”
“Where was your monastic certificate issued? Which eminent master tonsured you?! At which temple do you take refuge?! Speak! I’ll go find your abbot and demand an explanation!”
The monk answered: “I have none.”
“My heart is devoted to the Buddha. That alone makes me a monk.”
“Why would I need the approval of others?”
An elderly woman tried to persuade him, saying: “But how can you dare to blaspheme the Buddha? That is a grave sin in the Buddhist path.”
“The Buddhas have all made great vows—to rid the world of suffering, to deliver all beings across the sea of samsara.”
The gray-robed monk pressed his palms together and spoke slowly:
“If the Buddhas’ great vows were truly effective,”
“Then why does the world still drown in suffering and slaughter?”
“If suffering in this world is not an illusion,”
“Then all the Buddhas… have spoken falsehoods!”
Silence spread like a ripple through the crowd. Then, the man whom the monk had saved suddenly erupted in fury. The bowl in his hand, still half-filled with medicinal soup, was flung directly at the monk, splashing hot liquid onto his robes. Others followed suit, and in an instant, the monk was drenched from head to toe. He possessed profound cultivation and could have easily attained the Bodhisattva’s fruit, yet he only pressed his hands together and recited the name of the Tathāgata.
His eyes lowered, leaving only sorrow.
