43: Chapter 43 Night Talk at the Ancestral Temple

The hour of mao had not yet arrived, but Lu Mingyuan was already standing outside the gates of the Martial Monks Courtyard.

He had not brought his sword.

Only the songyun jade pendant hung at his waist, the pale green jade emanating a faint, gentle warmth in the morning mist. The bamboo staff with seventeen sword marks remained in the Shizhuang Courtyard, the qingni sword lay horizontally on his bed. He had come empty-handed, like an ordinary visitor.

There was already a figure in the courtyard.

It was not Hui Ke.

That old monk had come even earlier than him. He stood beneath the same eave corner as yesterday, a bamboo broom resting against his shoulder, gazing intently at the bare locust tree in the courtyard.

Lu Mingyuan did not disturb him.

He also stood still, following Hui Ke's gaze.

The locust tree was extremely ancient, its trunk hollow, its bark mottled like dragon scales. Its branches stretched out in all directions, weaving a sparse net against the gray-white sky. No leaves, no flowers, no birds perched upon it.

Hui Ke looked for a long time.

So long that the morning bell was about to ring, so long that the first team of martial monks arrived, treading upon the frost.

"This tree," the old monk suddenly spoke, "this humble monk has swept its fallen leaves for seventy-two years."

He paused.

"Yet this humble monk has never seen its flowers."

Lu Mingyuan was stunned.

Locust flowers bloom in late summer, in the fifth month, white as piled floss, their fragrance filling the courtyard. Hui Ke rose daily at the hour of yin, entered the courtyard at the hour of chen, sweeping the leaves and dust accumulated the previous night—he never came here in the afternoons of late summer.

Seventy-two years.

He had swept its fallen leaves for seventy-two years, yet he had never seen this tree's flowers.

"Master, why do you not come here in the afternoons?" Lu Mingyuan asked.

Hui Ke turned his head. In his turbid old eyes, there was an extremely faint trace of a smile.

"This humble monk has swept fallen leaves his whole life," he said. "If I saw the flowers, tomorrow I would start thinking about the flowers."

He did not continue.

The morning bell rang. The martial monks formed their lines. Hui Ke lifted his bamboo broom and walked towards the thin pile of last night's accumulated snow in the corner of the courtyard.

Lu Mingyuan watched his retreating figure.

For seventy-two years, he had come at the same hour each day, walked the same path, swept the same ground, looked at the same tree.

He had never seen it flower.

But every fallen leaf he had swept had once been a flower.

Lu Mingyuan walked into the ranks of the martial monks.

He did not stand at the edge to watch, nor did he seek out Hui Ke to stand opposite him. He simply took a position in an inconspicuous corner and, along with those martial monks who had been tonsured for many years, assumed the opening posture of the Arhat Fist.

A young martial monk beside him glanced at him sideways, asking no questions, only giving a slight nod.

Lu Mingyuan also nodded.

Then he began to practice the fist forms.

It was not a "demonstration," not a "review," not even "cultivation." He was simply performing the set of fist forms taught to him twenty-three years ago by the old Martial Master in his village, from beginning to end.

Opening stance, thrusting fist, pushing palm, hooking hand, blocking elbow, snapping kick, closing stance.

Each movement was performed extremely slowly. So slowly that he could hear the faint creaking of his own joints in the morning breeze. So slowly that he could see the minute vortices stirred in the air by the edge of his fist.

He did not think about whether this punch "conformed to the Dao," did not think about whether this posture could integrate into the Wanxiang True Qi, did not think about the similarities and differences between this fist set and Wudang Mountain swordplay, Mount Qingcheng swordsmanship, or Longhu Mountain talismans.

He simply practiced.

Having practiced these fist forms for twenty-three years, only today did he truly "practice" them.

At the closing stance, fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

Not from exhaustion, but from release.

Like a door rusted shut for twenty-three years, finally pushed open a crack.

By the time the sun was high, the martial monks dispersed for their morning meal.

Hui Ke had also finished sweeping this morning's fallen leaves. Carrying his bamboo broom, he walked towards the courtyard exit. Passing by Lu Mingyuan, he did not stop, only giving a very slight nod.

Lu Mingyuan pressed his palms together in salute.

He did not follow the crowd to the dining hall. Instead, he turned back alone towards the Shizhuang Courtyard.

In the courtyard, Jingchen was sweeping the fresh snow from last night.

The old monk did not cease his sweeping. Seeing Lu Mingyuan return, he merely gave a slight nod. That old plum tree, still flowerless, remained stark and angular. The character for "emptiness" on the stone pillar was once again mostly covered by snow, leaving only the final slanted hook stroke like the wake of a boat.

Lu Mingyuan did not return to his room.

He stood beneath the corridor, watching Jingchen sweep the snow.

The tip of the broom brushed over the bluestone, producing a soft, unhurried rustling sound. The snow was thin, just a layer that had fallen during last night's hour of zi, glinting with fine, silvery light in the morning sun. Jingchen swept with great care, going over every inch of the stone path three times, until the bluestone revealed its original pale bluish-green color.

"Master Jingchen," Lu Mingyuan said.

The old monk stopped his broom.

"This Disciple has a question."

Jingchen did not speak, only looked at him quietly.

Lu Mingyuan paused. "This Disciple has heard that Shaolin Temple has stood for fifteen hundred years. During that time, it endured the Northern Zhou persecution of Buddhism, the warfare at the end of the Sui dynasty, the Huichang suppression of Buddhism, the dynastic changes from Jin to Yuan... The monastery burned and was rebuilt, scriptures were lost and recovered, the monastic community scattered and gathered again."

He looked at the bamboo broom in Jingchen's hand.

"Master has swept this courtyard for thirty-seven years. But after sweeping, what then? Snow will fall again, leaves will wither again, the plum blossoms will fade, bloom again, fall again, be swept again."

He asked, "Then what, in these thirty-seven years, have you been sweeping?"

Jingchen did not answer immediately.

The old monk lowered his head and continued sweeping the lingering snow from that small patch of ground.

The broom tip brushed over the bluestone. Rustle, rustle.

Only after sweeping the last inch did he straighten up, leaning the bamboo broom against the old plum tree.

"When the benefactor arrived," Jingchen said, "did you notice the stone steps outside the monastery gate?"

Lu Mingyuan nodded.

"Those stone steps were built during the Zhenguan era of the Tang dynasty," the old monk's voice was as calm as melting snow-water. "For thirteen hundred years, people have trodden upon them daily, and daily they have been swept. The people who tread have changed over hundreds of generations, the people who sweep have also changed over hundreds of generations."

He paused.

"But the stone steps are still stone steps."

Lu Mingyuan fell silent.

Jingchen turned and looked towards the stone pillar in the courtyard.

"This humble monk has swept this courtyard for thirty-seven years, and never has there been a time when snow did not fall here. But each time this humble monk sweeps, this courtyard is clean for a moment."

His voice was very soft.

"That moment is the entire meaning of this humble monk sweeping this courtyard."

Lu Mingyuan stood dazedly beneath the corridor.

He recalled the words spoken by Immortal Master Changkong of Mount Qingcheng: "Not asking about the time of return is because the place of return is not in the mountains, not in the waters, not at a certain time or place."

The place of return is the heart.

But where does the heart return to?

Jingchen did not wait for him to ask further. The old monk picked up his bamboo broom and walked towards the courtyard gate.

After a few steps, he spoke without turning his head:

"If the benefactor wishes to ask about Shaolin's history, this humble monk knows little. But tonight, Grand-Uncle Master Huijue will come."

He paused.

"He has been waiting for this question from the benefactor for a very long time."

Night.

The moon rose over Shaoshi Mountain, its pure light filling the courtyard.

The accumulated snow on the stone pillar had already been swept clean by Jingchen. The character for "emptiness" was clear under the moonlight, as if freshly carved. The old plum tree remained flowerless, its branches casting sparse shadows on the bluestone ground, like an unfinished ink-wash painting.

Lu Mingyuan sat alone beneath the corridor, no sword on his knees, no book in his hands.

He simply sat, waiting for someone.

As the hour of hai was about to end, footsteps sounded outside the courtyard gate.

They were not the heavy, slow steps of Hui Ke, nor the steady, soft steps of Jingchen. These footsteps were extremely light, like the night breeze brushing over bamboo tips, like thin snow falling from eaves, faint and elusive, seeming near yet far.

Huijue pushed the gate open and entered.

Tonight, He was not wearing His gray monastic robe, but a slightly worn kasaya of twenty-seven strips, the field-pattern squares alternating, glowing with a very faint reddish-brown under the moonlight. He held no prayer beads, no Magical Artifact, only a bamboo scroll tied with a green cord.

Lu Mingyuan rose and bowed deeply to the ground.

Huijue did not accept this courtesy, merely sidestepped and offered a symbolic gesture of support. He sat down beneath the corridor, in the same position as last night, separated from Lu Mingyuan by three feet of moonlight.

"The benefactor asked Jingchen today," Huijue said. "You asked about Shaolin's thousand-year history, and also about the meaning of the continuation of the doctrinal tradition."

Lu Mingyuan nodded. "This Disciple was presumptuous."

Huijue shook His head slightly, placing the bamboo scroll on His knees.

"Fifteen hundred years ago, the Venerable Batuo, at the invitation of Emperor Xiaowen of Northern Wei, built a monastery on the northern slopes of Shaoshi Mountain." His voice was soft, yet clear as a night bell. "On the day the monastery was completed, Emperor Xiaowen asked the Venerable: What should this monastery be named?"

"How did the Venerable reply?"

"The Venerable did not speak, but pointed at the mountain with his staff," Huijue said. "Beneath the Five Breasts Peak of Shaoshi Mountain, the forest was lush and dense, hence the name Shaolin."

He paused.

"Fifteen hundred years later, the monastery remains, the forest has thinned, but the mountain has not moved."

Lu Mingyuan listened quietly.

Huijue continued, "Thirty-two years after Batuo, Bodhidharma crossed the sea and came. He did not enter the imperial court, did not pay homage to the powerful, but only sat facing a wall on the Five Breasts Peak for nine years."

"Nine years?"

"Nine years," Huijue said. "During those nine years, a monk named Hui Ke stood in the snow, severed his arm, seeking the Dharma with earnest devotion. Bodhidharma asked: The supreme, wonderful Way of all Buddhas requires immeasurable eons of diligent practice, performing the difficult to perform, enduring the unendurable. How could one with little virtue, little wisdom, a shallow mind, and an arrogant mind hope to attain the true vehicle?"

He looked towards the old plum tree in the courtyard.

"Hearing this, Hui Ke secretly took a sharp knife, severed his own left arm, and placed it before his Master."

Lu Mingyuan's heart trembled.

He thought of Chan Master Hui Ke from the daytime—that old monk who did not cultivate spiritual power, only practiced martial arts and swept the ground. He shared the same name, belonged to the same monastery, but was not the same person as this Hui Ke who stood in the snow and severed his arm.

That was another Hui Ke.

A Hui Ke from fourteen hundred years ago.

"Bodhidharma then accepted him as a Disciple," Huijue said. "Transmitted the robe and bowl, bestowed the four volumes of the Lankavatara Sutra. After attaining the Dharma, Hui Ke secluded himself for cultivation on Beimang Mountain for thirty-four years. Later, in Yedu, he widely propagated Chan teachings, and passed away at the age of one hundred and seven."

He paused.

"Before his passing, his Disciples asked: Does the Master have any final instructions? Hui Ke said: This very mind is Buddha, this very mind is Dharma. Dharma and Buddha are not two. The Sangha treasure is also thus."

Lu Mingyuan recited softly, "This very mind is Buddha, this very mind is Dharma..."

"Yet the Buddha-Dharma is difficult to encounter, and persecutions of the Dharma occur frequently," Huijue continued. "In the third year of the Jiande era of Northern Zhou, the Martial God suppressed Buddhism. Shaolin Temple was burned, scriptures and images all destroyed, the monastic community scattered like stars. There was a monk named Fa Shang, over seventy years old, who shouldered an Incomplete Manual of the Ten Stages Treatise into the Xiong'er Mountains, built a thatched hut and lived there, not descending the mountain for thirteen years."

His tone remained consistently calm, like the night wind recounting things it had witnessed.

"When the Sui dynasty arose, Emperor Wen decreed the restoration of Shaolin. Fa Shang was then ninety years old. He carried the Incomplete Manual back to the monastery. His Disciples asked: Master, you guarded this scroll for thirteen years, for what purpose? Fa Shang said: To wait until the monastery was rebuilt, then return the scroll to the library."

"What happened later?"

"On the day the scroll was returned to the library, Fa Shang bathed, changed his robes, gathered the assembly, and announced: My task is finished. Having spoken, he sat in the lotus posture and passed away."

Lu Mingyuan remained silent for a long time.

"That Chan Master Fa Shang... He guarded it for thirteen years, only to return an Incomplete Manual to the place where it belonged."

[part:gemini-2.5-flash]

"Yes," Zen Master Huijue said. "Benefactor, what do you think he was guarding during those thirteen years?"

Lu Mingyuan thought for a long time.

"Not the scriptures," he said. "It was the Dharma contained in the scriptures, the temple entrusted by the Dharma, the monks gathered by the temple, and the Dao passed down by the monks."

He paused.

"But what he guarded was more than that."

Zen Master Huijue nodded slightly.

Lu Mingyuan continued, "He guarded the forest that Bodhidharma pointed to thirteen hundred years ago, the stone wall where Bodhidharma meditated eight hundred years ago, and the generation of monks who have yet to arrive five hundred years from now."

He suddenly understood.

"He was guarding the two words, 'Shaolin.'"

Zen Master Huijue did not speak.

The moonlight fell upon his gaunt brows and eyes, like falling into an empty pool.

After a long while, he spoke:

"In the Fifth year of Huichang, Emperor Wuzong banned Buddhism. Out of four thousand six hundred temples in the land, four thousand four hundred were ordered to be destroyed. Of two hundred and sixty thousand monks and nuns, two hundred thousand returned to secular life."

His voice was as light as wind passing through ancient cypresses.

"Shaolin Temple was converted into a defense commissioner's office. All its scriptures were burned, steles were chiseled away, and bells and tripods were melted down for weapons. Monks either returned to secular life, fled, or hid in the mountains."

He paused.

"There was a monk named Mingzhan, nineteen years old at the time, who had been ordained for only three years. He fled deep into Shaoshi Mountain, found Bodhidharma's Meditation Cave, and built a straw hut there."

"How long did he live in the cave?"

"Forty-three years," Zen Master Huijue said. "For forty-three years, he did not descend the mountain, nor did he see anyone. He recited one scroll of the Lankavatara Sutra daily. When his rice ran out, he gathered wild fruits; when wild fruits ran out, he drank stream water; when the stream water froze, he sat until spring thawed."

Lu Mingyuan's throat tightened slightly.

"He... what was he waiting for?"

"Waiting for the smoke and fires below the mountain to rise again," Zen Master Huijue said. "Waiting for someone to rebuild a straw hut, re-establish a Buddhist hall, and re-gather monks on the ruins at the northern foot of Shaoshi Mountain."

He looked at the old plum tree.

"In the First year of Dazhong, Emperor Xuanzong revived Buddhism. A monk emerged from the depths of Shaoshi Mountain, went to Luoyang Prefecture, and presented a monastic certificate, which was brittle and yellow like a butterfly's wing. The prefect asked, 'Where do you come from, Master?' The monk replied, 'Shaolin.'"

"The prefect asked, 'Shaolin has been abandoned for twelve years, where is the temple?'"

"The monk replied, 'It is where this poor monk came from.'"

Lu Mingyuan was silent for a long time.

Under the moonlight, the character 'Kong' on the stone pillar was like an extremely deep ancient well.

"Fifteen hundred years," he whispered. "Built and burned, burned and built; gathered and scattered, scattered and gathered; passed on and broken, broken and passed on. Benefactor, Zen Master, sweeping monk, cave-guarding monk..."

He looked at Zen Master Huijue.

"Disciple wishes to ask: What exactly is Shaolin?"

Zen Master Huijue did not answer immediately.

He reached out and untied the blue cord of the bamboo slip on his lap. The bamboo slip unfolded; it was an extremely ancient object. The woven cord had been replaced countless times, and the bamboo pieces were worn thin as paper, yet the characters on them were still clear.

It was not scripture, but a roster.

Dense with names, from Bodhidharma, Huiguang, Sengchou, to Bodhidharma, Hui Ke, Sengcan, then to Daoxin, Hongren, Huineng...

Fifteen hundred years of names.

Fifteen hundred years of Legacy.

"Benefactor asks what Shaolin is," Zen Master Huijue said. "This is Shaolin."

He pointed to each name on the roster.

"When Bodhidharma founded the monastery, Shaolin was thirty-six qing of mountain forest; after the Dharma calamity, Shaolin was three straw huts; when Mingzhan guarded the cave, Shaolin was him alone; what Benefactor sees today, Shaolin is seven courtyards housing seven hundred monks."

He paused.

"Temples rise and fall, monks live and die, scriptures are preserved or lost. But for these fifteen hundred years, there have always been people rebuilding straw huts on burned ruins, always people retrieving Incomplete Manuals from scattered monks, always people continuing their thread in a broken Legacy."

He raised his eyes and met Lu Mingyuan's gaze.

"Benefactor asks what Jingchen swept for thirty-seven years, what Fashang guarded the Incomplete Manual for thirteen years, what Mingzhan waited forty-three years for the smoke and fires for."

His voice was as light as falling snow.

"It is the same thing."

Lu Mingyuan's mind and spirit were deeply shaken.

He suddenly understood.

Jingchen wasn't sweeping snow; he was sweeping in that moment, knowing 'snow will still fall'.

Fashang wasn't guarding scriptures; he was guarding with that thought, believing 'the temple has turned to ash' yet it would be rebuilt.

Mingzhan wasn't waiting for smoke and fires; he was waiting every day, 'unsure if he would live to see it' yet still waiting.

This is Shaolin.

Not a temple, not monks, not scriptures, not Zen.

It is, for a thousand years, generation after generation, doing the same thing on this land.

Sweeping snow, guarding scriptures, waiting for smoke and fires.

Then growing old, dying, and being replaced by the next comer.

And snow will still fall, scriptures will still be incomplete, smoke and fires will still extinguish.

But they will still sweep, still guard, still wait.

This is 'Shaolin'.

Lu Mingyuan was silent for a long time.

The moonlight gradually shifted, and the shadow of the stone pillar moved from beneath the corridor to the center of the courtyard. The branches of the old plum tree wove a denser net on the bluestone ground, like the deepest ink before the end of night.

He finally spoke.

"Disciple has one more question."

Zen Master Huijue waited quietly.

"This past month, Disciple has asked everyone he met, 'Where is the Dao?' Longhu Mountain asked about talismans to carry the Dao, Wudang Mountain asked about swords to guard the Dao, Mount Qingcheng asked about the return of all methods to the origin."

He looked at his empty hands.

"Last night, Master Hui Ke said, 'Fists merely strike.' Today, Master Jingchen said, 'Snow will still fall.' Just now, Zen Master said, 'For fifteen hundred years, there have always been people rebuilding straw huts on ruins.'"

He paused.

"But Disciple still has one thing unclear."

"What is it?"

"If the Dao is in talismans, in swords, in fists, in brooms, in the forty-three years of guarding the cave... then why did Disciple visit the three mountains and three temples?"

His voice was very soft.

"If the Dao is already at my feet, what have I been searching for these past three months?"

Zen Master Huijue looked at him.

Under the moonlight, a faint smile appeared in those eyes as clear as a cold pool.

"Benefactor, do you know what the first building of Shaolin Temple was when Bodhidharma founded it?"

Lu Mingyuan shook his head.

"Not a Buddha hall, not a scripture hall, not monks' quarters," Zen Master Huijue said. "It was a pavilion."

"A pavilion?"

"A pavilion ( pavilion tíng) means to stop ( stop tíng)," Zen Master Huijue said. "When Bodhidharma pointed his staff at Shaoshi Mountain, his accompanying Disciple asked, 'When building a temple here, which hall should be erected first?' Bodhidharma replied, 'First, erect a pavilion for people to rest temporarily.'"

He paused.

"The Disciple asked, 'The temple is not yet built, who will come here?' Bodhidharma said, 'I will come.'"

Lu Mingyuan froze.

"Bodhidharma erected a pavilion at the northern foot of Shaoshi Mountain," Zen Master Huijue said, "and then sat in the pavilion for seven days."

"Seven days?"

"Seven days. Watching the mountains, watching the forests, watching the clouds, watching the snow." His voice was very soft. "On the evening of the seventh day, he told his accompanying Disciple, 'This place is suitable for dwelling.'"

He looked at Lu Mingyuan.

"Benefactor, in these past three months, you have visited famous mountains, sought talismans and asked about swords, contemplated Zen and discussed the Dao. But have you ever erected a pavilion for yourself?"

Lu Mingyuan was silent for a long time.

He recalled the path he had traveled in these three months: the thirty-six peaks of Longhu Mountain, which he measured step by step; the nine palaces and eight temples of Wudang Mountain, which he visited one by one; the thirty-six peaks of Mount Qingcheng, where he read every sword mark three times.

He had never stopped.

Not that he couldn't stop, but that he didn't dare to stop.

Afraid that if he stopped, he wouldn't catch up with those who were already at the peak; afraid that if he stopped, he would disappoint Xuanweizi's expectations and Daoist Songyun's waiting; afraid that if he stopped, he would hear the question he had always been afraid to ask—

"Are you worthy?"

"Are you enough?"

"Are you in time?"

Zen Master Huijue looked at him, not pressing for an answer.

He simply re-rolled the bamboo slip on his lap and tied it with the blue cord.

"Benefactor, will you still go to the Martial Monks Courtyard tomorrow?"

Lu Mingyuan nodded.

"Then let us conclude here today." Zen Master Huijue stood up.

He walked towards the courtyard gate, took three steps, then suddenly stopped.

This time, he turned back.

Moonlight fell upon his brows and eyes. In those eyes, clear as a cold pool, there was the weathering of fifteen hundred years, and also the gentleness of fifteen hundred years.

"Benefactor just asked," he said, "if the Dao is already at your feet, what have you been searching for these past three months?"

He paused.

"What Benefactor has been searching for has never been the Dao."

His voice was as light as the night wind.

"What Benefactor has been searching for is that pavilion where you can stop, between yourself and the Dao."

He pushed the door and left the courtyard.

Under the moon, Lu Mingyuan was left alone in Shizhuang Courtyard.

He sat alone under the corridor, the old plum still without flowers, the stone pillar still silent.

But he knew that after tonight, some things would be different.

It wasn't a Breakthrough in cultivation, nor gaining profound insight, nor finding the answer to that question.

It was that he finally allowed himself to—

Stop for a while.

The moon sank over the western ridge.

Lu Mingyuan rose and walked towards the stone pillar.

He reached out and gently placed his hand on the character 'Kong,' which had been carved for three hundred years, covered three hundred times, and brushed away three hundred times.

What his palm touched was not the cold stone surface, but the lingering warmth of countless hands over a thousand years.

Chengguan, who carved it; Jingchen, who brushed it; Zen Master Huijue, who looked at it; and himself, who now covered it.

Fifteen hundred years.

Countless people came, countless people left.

And the stone pillar was still here, waiting for the next comer.

Lu Mingyuan withdrew his hand.

He turned and entered the room, not lighting a lamp, just lying down in his clothes.

Outside the window, at the last moment before the moon set and the sky brightened, a small patch of snow, accumulated overnight on the plum branch, suddenly fell.

Puff.

An extremely soft sound.

Like the first shovel of earth dropped when Bodhidharma erected the pavilion, like the first drop of blood splashed on the snow when Hui Ke severed his arm, like the first withered leaf crushed when Fashang carried the Incomplete Manual into Bear Ear Mountain, like Mingzhan reciting the last scroll of scripture in Bodhidharma's Meditation Cave after forty-three years.

Like the moment someone finally pushed open the gate after he had stood outside for three days and nights.

Snow just falls.

And for a thousand years, there have always been people who, when the snow falls, come here.

To stop for a while.

Then continue walking.