17: Chapter 17 The Western Monk

In that dilapidated temple at Shuangxi Ferry, time passed more slowly than on the mountain.

The temple was small, consisting of three mud-walled rooms, a mud idol with half its face collapsed, and a crooked old locust tree in the front courtyard.

The locust tree was half-dead; when the spring breeze blew, only a hint of grayish-green sprouted from its tips.

Jiang Yuhe and Jiang Xingchuan hunkered down in this temple.

They did not go out during the day.

Only after dark would they take turns going to the ferry crossing to buy some food.

Xingchuan's injury was more severe. Although the evil talisman seal on his chest had been suppressed bit by bit by Yuhe, he would still be jolted awake by pain when turning over at night.

When jolted awake by the pain, he would not make a sound, but just sit up, back against the offering table, forcing the Qi back down, breath by breath.

Yuhe heard this and dispersed a bit of Grain Rain Qi over to him, so that the hot, chaotic Awakening of Insects in his chest wouldn't flare up too fiercely.

Zhou Wang, shrunk inside the book, mostly feigned death these past few days.

His ink was running low, so he dared not borrow his eyes too much, nor did he dare to move around recklessly, only occasionally peeking out from between the pages.

Shuangxi Ferry was a small crossing, neither rich nor poor.

Outside the ferry, there was a main road with many people coming and going from the south and north: foot merchants, porters, refugees, escorts, medicine peddlers—everything.

With such a mixed crowd, the incense at the temple entrance was actually more flourishing than it had been on Duansang Ridge. However, most who came to burn incense were not praying for wealth, but for one less death in their family.

On the third day after they hid in the dilapidated temple, the ferry crossing became lively.

When Jiang Xingchuan went to buy cakes, he saw a porridge stall temporarily set up in the open space at the ferry.

Standing outside the stall was a young monk, his monastic robes washed extremely clean, wearing white hemp shoes, holding a copper alms bowl, and always wearing a gentle smile on his face.

The monk was accompanied by several laypeople in gray clothes, and a long line was formed in front of the stall, all refugees who had just arrived at the ferry in the past few days.

At the very front of the line was a woman holding a child.

The bundle in her arms was wrapped very tightly and did not move at all. Xingchuan only took one look and knew that it wasn't sleeping; it was already dead.

The monk handed over a bowl of hot porridge and said softly, "Benefactor, the sea of suffering is boundless; letting go is the best way."

The woman didn't take the porridge, just stared at him, her voice as hoarse as if it had been ground by sand, "My son has frozen to death, what is there left to let go of?"

As soon as these words were spoken, the long line fell silent.

The monk was not annoyed, just sighed lightly and raised his hand to tap her between the eyebrows.

This tap, seen from across the crowd, looked extremely ordinary.

But the next moment, the tears on the woman's face actually stopped.

Her entire face was suddenly covered by a layer of extremely thin light, and the emotions of sorrow, crying, and hatred within her instantly faded.

She lowered her head to look at the child in her arms, and her hands, which had been clenched white, slowly relaxed.

"That's right," she murmured, "Once dead... it doesn't hurt anymore."

After saying this, she actually smiled.

She smiled flatly and lightly, as if that heart-wrenching sentence from just a moment ago had not been spoken by her at all.

The people lined up behind her, however, all looked as if they had witnessed a divine miracle.

"The Buddha is merciful."

"Now she has finally let go."

"Truly saving the suffering and the distressed..."

Jiang Xingchuan stood outside the crowd, feeling a chill run down his back.

The child had just died.

How could a mother smile so quickly?

He didn't dare stay long and returned after buying the cakes. When he mentioned this in the temple, Jiang Yuhe was also silent for a long time.

She had already grasped some methods of Listening to Rain during these days. When that monk tapped the woman's forehead during the day, although she wasn't nearby, she had heard something else from afar.

It was like the sound of crying being gently cut off by something.

It wasn't that the woman no longer felt suffering; it was that she could no longer even reach her own suffering.

It rained again at night.

Raindrops pounded on the roof of the dilapidated temple, and the sound of water leaking was everywhere. Just as Yuhe was about to move the old basin under the offering table to the spot where it leaked the worst, the temple door was pushed open again.

This time, two monks came in.

One old, one young.

The old monk was tall and thin, barefoot, his gray monastic robes patched many times, and he only carried a bamboo crate on his back.

The young monk was only fourteen or fifteen, his head still blue from the shave, holding a black pottery alms bowl, his eyes very bright.

As soon as the two entered, they first went to straighten the drafty broken wooden board by the door. The old monk then went to pick up two bricks to prop up the door frame that was about to collapse. Only after all this was done did he turn back and press his palms together.

"May we stay for the night?"

Yuhe looked at the mud on their feet and nodded slightly.

"The temple is not ours. Great Master, please make yourself at home."

The old monk smiled and didn't ask more, just led the young monk to sit in the corner of the temple. The young monk was curious, first secretly glancing at the medicinal bandage on Xingchuan's chest, then looking at the family genealogy that Yuhe held in her arms and never let go of.

Zhou Wang, watching this Master and disciple from within the book, felt even more uneasy than he had during the day.

There was not a trace of the flavor of spring, summer, autumn, or winter on these two.

They carried no vitality of Start of Spring, no ferocity of Awakening of Insects, no heaviness of Grain Rain, nor the stillness of Winter Solstice.

They sat there, yet they absolutely did not seem like Mortals.

The old monk started a fire and actually cooked half a pot of porridge.

He and the young monk divided two bowls, and the remaining was served into two wooden bowls, which he handed to the Jiang siblings.

Xingchuan initially didn't want it, but the young monk handed the bowl to his side first, saying crisply, "We are travelers; sharing half a meal with anyone is no loss."

Xingchuan looked at him and, in the end, accepted it.

As the heat entered his stomach, the pain that had been tightly coiled in his chest actually loosened a bit.

Xingchuan looked down at it for a while before realizing that this porridge was not ordinary coarse rice; it had been mixed with a bit of extremely fine spiritual grain.

Deep in the night, the rain outside grew heavier.

The young monk sat by the fire, hugging his knees, and after holding back for a long time, he finally couldn't help but ask, "Have you heard of Shitu?"

Jiang Xingchuan shook his head.

Yuhe wrote these two words down.

This time, without waiting for the old monk to speak, the young monk answered first:

"There is Shitu in the West. The Shitu Cultivators walking in the world today are divided into the New Path and the Old Path."

"The monks of the Old Path do not cultivate the Qi of the four seasons, and do not follow the path of Qi cultivation and Foundation Establishment. They first take precepts, then make vows, and afterwards go on foot, witnessing suffering, bearing suffering, and enduring suffering. Only after walking for a long time do they develop a bit of 'Law' from their vows."

"And the New Path?" Yuhe asked.

The young monk pursed his lips.

"The New Path also speaks of compassion," he said, "but they cultivate the appearance of sentient beings, not their own vows."

The old monk then took over the conversation, his voice very calm: "The Old Path first takes precepts. Once the precepts are held, the heart does not scatter."

"Then they make vows. A vow is not something spoken to others, but a question to oneself. Who you are willing to bear suffering for, what you are willing to protect, where you are willing to go—these must all be understood clearly."

"Once the vow is established, you go and walk. After walking for a long time, seeing much, and the vow in your heart is no longer empty, only then will a bit of 'Appearance' emerge."

Jiang Xingchuan didn't quite understand: "What is meant by Appearance?"

The old monk thought for a while and answered slowly: "You Cultivators who practice Qi, you practice Qi; over time you have techniques, and when techniques are mastered, you have a physical body."

"Old Path monks do not take in seasonal Qi, nor do they build a Dao foundation. We cultivate vows. Only after long vows do we have Appearance. Those with shallow Appearance can only protect the heart, keeping oneself from becoming chaotic; those with deeper Appearance can borrow bowls, lamps, and staves to share a bit of suffering for others and illuminate their hearts. Only further up can one talk about the two words 'Practicing Vows'."

"Then what about the New Path?" Yuhe asked again.

"The New Path also talks about Appearance," the old monk said. "It's just that they don't make vows in their own hearts, but instead look at the sorrow, anger, fear, jealousy, joy, and faith of the masses, treating these emotions as soil to plant in."

"They first observe the Appearance, discerning the human heart. Then they adjust the Appearance, changing the human heart. Later, they combine the Appearances of the masses, borrowing the collective thoughts of a region to nourish themselves. Finally, they establish a 'Pure Land,' letting the people of a region share joy and peace, where everyone is without worry."

Xingchuan frowned.

"Then the monk from the daytime—is that the New Path?"

"Yes," the old monk nodded.

"He cut away that woman's suffering?" Jiang Xingchuan asked.

The old monk was silent for a moment before saying, "He severed the thread between that woman and her suffering."

"Isn't that harming people?" The young monk suddenly looked up, fire already in his eyes, "The child just died, the mother couldn't even cry, that is—"

"Jing'an," the old monk interrupted him.

The young monk immediately shut his mouth, but was clearly unconvinced.

The campfire crackled, reflecting on his face and making it red.

The old monk pulled the wooden stick out of the fire, gently stirred the charcoal, and then said slowly: "If you only focus on staring at others' wrongdoings, your own feet will not be able to walk."

"He walks his path, I walk mine. Whether other people's paths are straight or not is not for me to judge with a single word."

"What I must guard is my own vow. As for other people's Karma, try not to interfere."

The young monk still pursed his lips, and it was a long time before he gave a low response.

Xingchuan listened and suddenly felt that this old monk was even stranger than the smiling monk from the daytime.

One erased people's suffering, and everyone called it compassion.

The other clearly knew that path was crooked, yet did not stop it, did not scold it, just guarded his own vow, like a wooden staff, slowly walking forward.

But the more it was like this, the more it actually made people feel at ease.

The old monk seemed to notice something wrong with his chest, his gaze falling on the medicinal bandage, and asked, "Your injury is not an ordinary knife wound, is it?"

Xingchuan subconsciously pressed his chest.

The old monk didn't pursue the question, just took a pinch of grayish-white medicinal powder from his bamboo crate, poured it into the black pottery bowl, added hot water, and shook it gently.

"The Old Path has a method called 'Bowl of Shared Tribulation'," he said. "If you don't mind, I will suppress it for you for the night."

Xingchuan was stunned for a moment, then nodded.

When that black pottery bowl was gently pressed against his chest, he felt the evil intent that had been burning upward in his chest being held by something, and the pain that had been digging toward the bone suddenly faded quite a bit.

Xingchuan was startled, and just as he was about to speak, he saw the old monk's face turn slightly pale, as if he had suddenly become cold, and a layer of very faint goosebumps even rose on the back of his hand.

"You—"

The old monk took back the bowl, held it in his arms, and smiled.

"I said, it is sharing."

"For every bit your suffering decreases, mine increases by a bit here. Endure the night, and it will pass."

This time, Xingchuan didn't speak again.

He had previously always felt that cultivation was either about fighting, snatching, swallowing, or enduring.

Until tonight, he saw another kind of path for the first time—taking a bit of others' suffering onto oneself.

After this night passed, the Master and disciple did not leave immediately.

The old monk went out during the day, helping people carry corpses at the ferry crossing and closing the eyes of a drowned porter. Returning at night, he repaired the most leaking part of the dilapidated temple's roof with two roof tiles.

He did not preach, nor did he persuade people to convert.

The young monk followed him, but his mouth was much faster than his Master's. Seeing the New Path monks handing out porridge at the ferry again, he would grit his teeth, his eyes full of anger.

But every time he spoke about "that is a bad path" or "that is harming people," the old monk would always shake his head.

At the beginning of the month, Yuhe went to the incense burner behind the temple to check for letters as usual.

There were no green mulberry branches.

She stood by the incense burner for a long time before withdrawing her hand. After returning to the temple, she said nothing, only silently noting the date for the next check.

On the first day of the second month, there was still nothing.

This time, even Xingchuan couldn't sit still.

Sitting by the door at night, he suddenly said, "If there is still nothing by the third month, we must really head south."

Yuhe held the family genealogy and did not answer immediately.

She was, of course, panicking inside.

Not seeing a letter for three months already meant that the family probably couldn't hold on anymore. But she didn't say anything, just held the family genealogy even tighter.

Zhou Wang, shrunk inside the book, was no better off than them.

He already knew that the Zhou Family on the mountain hadn't killed Jiang Chengning, but had suspended his life tablet, increased his taxes, and cut off the Jiang Family's regular offerings. These shackles pressed down layer by layer; sometimes being alive was even harder than being dead.

In the third month, another group of New Path monks came to Shuangxi Ferry.

This time it wasn't just one smiling monk, but a whole team of people, with white banners, copper bowls, small altars, and incense burners—nothing missing.

They even circled off a small area by the ferry, calling it a newly opened 'Peace and Joy Stall,' where all who suffered could enter, and all who were sad could come.

Those who went in mostly came out still smiling.

They smiled very flatly, very quietly, as if everything had become light.

But after Xingchuan watched from afar a few times, his back grew colder and colder.

The eyebrows and eyes of those people slowly began to look the same.

It was as if things like sorrow, anger, and hatred had all been smoothed away, leaving only a kind of light, floating stability—so stable that they didn't seem like living people.

This time, even the young monk didn't scold them anymore.

He just watched, watched for a long time, and finally turned to ask the old monk:

"Master, what if everyone in the world takes this fast path?"

The old monk was squatting by the river washing the mud off a drunkard's sleeve, and upon hearing this, he didn't even stop his movements, just said faintly: "Then we should walk a little more, and do a little more."

"The path will not straighten itself just because you scold it for being crooked. If you truly think it is crooked, go support a person who is crying, carry a person who cannot walk, and pick up a corpse that no one collects."

The young monk lowered his head, and it was a long time before he gave a response.

In the third month, there was still no letter.

On the night of the first day of the fourth month, there was finally a hint of warmth returning to the wind.

Yuhe had already stopped holding out much hope, but went to check the incense burner behind the temple as usual, only to have her fingertips touch three green mulberry branches inserted very firmly in the cold ash.

White hemp was tied to the tips of the branches, and when the wind blew, they swayed gently.

She stood by the incense burner for a long time before pulling out the three branches one by one.

When she returned to the temple, the old monk had already packed his bamboo crate, and the young monk was standing by the door holding his wooden fish.

"Going back to the mountain?" The old monk saw the green mulberry branches in her sleeve and knew what was going on.

Yuhe nodded.

The young monk clearly felt some reluctance in his eyes, but didn't chatter like before, just touched the small wooden fish in his arms and finally handed it to Xingchuan.

"A gift for you," he said, "Anyway, my Master says I still don't tap it steadily enough."

Xingchuan took it, was stunned for a moment, and said in a low voice, "Thanks."

The old monk pressed his palms together and bowed slightly to the two.

"The mountain road is long, and the heart is long too," he said. "Girl, young man, the words I have spoken, whether you remember them or not, are just someone else's words. Which path you truly take still depends on yourselves."

He paused, his gaze falling lightly on the family genealogy in Yuhe's arms before moving away.

Yuhe nodded slightly.

The young monk walked a few steps, then turned back, as if he still wanted to say "New Path is bad," but finally held it in, just waved at them, and followed his Master down the stone steps.

After the old one and the young one had gone far away, only the Jiang siblings were left in the temple.

Xingchuan tucked the small wooden fish into his chest and said in a low voice:

"Those two monks were good people."

"Mm," Yuhe replied, putting the three green mulberry branches into her sleeve, "Let's go, let's go home."

On the way back to Duansang Ridge, neither of them walked too fast.

When they were almost halfway up the mountain, Yuhe first saw the fire in the backyard of Niubei Hollow. The fire was not blazing, but very steady, as if someone had been guarding it inside, not letting it go out.

She paused for a moment before continuing forward.

Zhao Xing saw them first.

Holding half a basin of freshly washed vegetables, she stood at the backyard gate, first stunned, then her eyes immediately reddened. But she still placed the basin down steadily first, turned around, and shouted, "They're back."

Lin Suwen came out from the stove side first. The wound on her shoulder was almost healed, but her movements were still a bit slower than before.

Jiang Chengning stood by the door, his face still thin, his body not yet fully recovered, but his back was straight.

He saw the family genealogy in Yuhe's arms, paused, and then said, "You're back."

Just three words.

Yuhe nodded, holding the book even more firmly.