Ye Fan readily agreed. They arranged a meeting place for two days later, and he looked forward to seeing what sort of person this so-called senior master truly was — and whether there was anything to the supposed divine manifestation.

City B was steeped in history, its streets dotted with ancient landmarks yet also vibrant with modern energy — one of the largest cities in China. More than twenty years had only made it more prosperous.

Ye Fan walked on foot. The streets were full of people moving in constant streams. After journeying so far for so long, walking through a place like this again left him feeling as though he existed between two worlds.

Though he had been back for a few days, he had spent all of it absorbed in his own inner world, unable to pull free, and had never really taken the time to truly soak in the noise and life of the city.

It had to be said — City B had developed quickly. Towers and high-rises crowded against one another in dense rows, the famous pedestrian street had grown even wider, every major brand lined up in an unbroken stretch of shops, the crowds flowing endlessly shoulder to shoulder.

Suddenly, Ye Fan caught sight of a poster. On it was a finely rendered white jade vase, emanating a mysterious radiance, as divine and magnificent as a sacred implement.

His expression shifted. That was a cultivator’s artifact. Looking more closely, he let out a rueful laugh — was this not the magical implement he had crushed into a dozen or so pieces and entrusted to be auctioned off?

On closer inspection, this was promotional material from the Jiāde Auction House. In pursuit of maximum profit, the house had put a great deal of thought into how they presented their wares.

They had reconstructed the jade vase — but since Ye Fan had not permitted it to be sold whole, only piece by piece, the jade quality spoke for itself: it was without flaw, a supreme specimen of the craft.

Each individual piece commanded a very high price. But after two had sold, the auction house, unwilling to settle for what they’d earned, had produced this promotional campaign — informing the public that if all pieces were assembled, they could be reunited into a complete jade vase of pure, flawless white jade.

It had to be said, the effect was extraordinary. Over the past several days it had caused a tremendous sensation throughout City B, spreading rapidly to cities across the country, and by now the excitement was utterly frenzied — posters were everywhere.

In recent days, as the third and fourth pieces of white jade had sold, the entire world of collectors had erupted. This was a once-in-an-age treasure.

Astronomical prices!

Each piece of jade had been driven to astronomical heights, the transaction figures staggering. Every major media outlet reported it; every major portal site raced to break the story.

Admittedly, the jade itself was extraordinary — refined with meticulous care by Ye Fan when he had crafted the vessel in the past, not a single flaw in any piece. Purely from an aesthetic standpoint, it was genuinely a work of unparalleled quality.

But to command prices this high — the jade alone was not the main reason. It was the power of speculation. The mysterious white jade vase had now reached a price rivaling that of national-treasure-level artifacts.

The Jiāde Auction House had handled things with great skill, playing masterfully on human psychology — letting genuine wealthy collectors feel the thrill and sense of achievement that came from acquiring each piece one by one. This made the collection, even in its broken state, worth more than it ever would have been intact.

At the same time, the house displayed an array of reference images: stone carvings of Buddhist figures, illustrations from ancient texts, all offered to show that this vase was identical to the legendary jade vessel of the Bodhisattva Guanyin.

Such a framing was naturally captivating. Even knowing it couldn’t possibly be true, people found it a source of peace — as though displaying such a vessel in one’s home would bring a kind of inexplicable comfort.

“Perhaps it truly is the vessel the Bodhisattva Guanyin left behind in the mortal world. Who has ever seen jade this flawless? A piece this large without a single impurity — you could call it a miracle.”

Even ordinary people were talking about it — which showed just how successful the Jiāde Auction House’s efforts had been.

And the fervor reached its peak when the Indian senior masters arrived. Several elderly monks entered the auction house, saw the fragments of the vase, and every one of them changed expression, overcome with emotion, murmuring the name of Shakyamuni Buddha aloud.

Someone captured the scene and posted it online, naturally setting off another wave of excitement. Someone recognized that one of the elderly monks was a revered master from India.

Buddhism had long since declined in India — with followers constituting less than one percent of the population — but there was still a sizable base of adherents.

The vessel left behind in the mortal world by Guanyin — a fresh wave of speculation erupted, and the price of the white jade vase fragments climbed again.

Ye Fan stood in speechless stupor. This had been the last thing he’d intended — otherwise why would he have crushed the vessel to begin with? He had never imagined things would develop this way. He could only shake his head.

Two days later, Ye Fan met four senior masters at an antique-style teahouse, along with a sizable entourage.

At first sight, Ye Fan was briefly caught off guard — one of the Indian masters was deftly speaking on a mobile phone, which made it very hard to connect the image with that of a cultivator.

The translator explained: the senior master had just encountered an extraordinary matter and was urgently summoning a large sum of money to be transferred from India — they intended to bid on the white jade vase.

Ye Fan was momentarily dumbstruck. Something he’d fashioned himself had gone international. Truly, this was the last thing he’d foreseen. A quick test of their bearing was enough to reveal — the four senior masters could, at a stretch, be called cultivators. They had opened the Sea of Suffering; only one among them had stepped into the Spring of Life realm.

He shook his head. At their age, they would never break through the Sea of Wheels — the first major secret realm of the human body — in what remained of their lives.

He felt no contempt for them, however. On the contrary, he regarded them with a measure of respect. For in this age of spiritual decline, to have set foot on the path of cultivation at all was truly no small feat — to reach this level of attainment was extraordinary.

In the northern stellar region, these few might truly have risen to great heights — genuinely worthy of the title “senior master,” respected by all the world.

“Senior masters — what draws your interest to the white jade vase?” Ye Fan asked, in a casual tone.

“It is a magical implement. Though damaged, its spiritual power spent, it still commands our reverence.” One of the elderly monks answered, with someone translating alongside.

Ye Fan nodded. Though these few were limited in their attainment, they had discernment — they had recognized it as a magical implement. It seemed the white jade vase might yet draw out some unforeseen complications.

Each of the elderly monks was well past a hundred years of age. The one who had stepped into the Spring of Life realm was, astonishingly, a hundred and twenty years old. Yet all of them were bright-eyed and vigorous — clearly anomalies among ordinary mortals.

The four men were modest in bearing, true to the calling of those who had left the world behind. They spoke nothing of supernatural powers or divine abilities; they spoke mostly of scripture. The “divine manifestations” had come from the translator — he had witnessed one senior master single-handedly stop an elephant’s foot to save a child. He had seen an elderly monk sit motionless, suspended in the empty air — only for a brief moment. And he had seen another elderly monk’s mouth and nose emit white light that passed straight through a steel plate.

Ye Fan gave a slight nod and said nothing.

In this age of spiritual decline, for cultivators these men were a kind of tragedy. And yet they were among the rare few, out of countless millions, who had pressed on through sheer force of will — arriving at this point purely through endurance. It was profoundly difficult.

He let out a quiet sigh. It seemed that finding a truly accomplished cultivator on Earth was going to be an extremely difficult thing.

Before long, the elderly monks turned directly to the matter of those ancient Sanskrit characters. Their expressions were solemn and earnest, carrying a quality of reverence.

The ancient Sanskrit authority had come as well — it turned out he was a disciple of one of the senior masters, a man of considerable reputation in the field of ancient languages, and yet deferential and respectful in the presence of the senior masters.

Several of the senior masters pressed him with questions, asking Ye Fan how he had come to possess the characters written in ancient Sanskrit, which were of profound significance to them.

“You recognize these characters. What is their true meaning?” Ye Fan asked.

The senior master remained silent — a monk who had left the world does not speak falsehoods, and he had no wish to deceive Ye Fan. And yet the matter felt weighty, and he did not dare say too much.

In the end, one of the senior masters asked all the attendants to leave, keeping only the ancient languages authority behind — who also knew Chinese well, and could serve as interpreter.

“My teacher says their true meaning is this: they can open the path that leads to Lingshan.”

“Lingshan — the sacred mountain where the ancient Bodhisattvas and Buddhas of primordial heaven dwelled?” Ye Fan’s eyes lit with keen focus.

“Yes.” The several elderly monks nodded.

“Do you believe such a place exists?” Ye Fan asked, with full sincerity.

“It exists. It lies amid the great land of the west. But after the last of the Bodhisattvas and ancient Buddhas passed into nirvana, that place could no longer be entered.” One of the senior masters spoke: this was a secret passed down orally through generations of eminent monks.

Is it Buddhism’s original sacred domain? There may truly be a mysterious place there — vast enough to be no weaker than Mount Sumeru. I sensed it briefly in the Tibetan region. Ye Fan thought to himself.

The elderly monks made a fervent request — they wished to behold the sacred object on which the ancient characters were inscribed.

Ye Fan could only sigh. Even if he were to take out the small stone Buddha, none of them had divine sense powerful enough to enter it and see what lay within — even he himself had needed to expend considerable effort to penetrate the Buddha’s interior.

He did not immediately agree, but instead asked several questions. He wanted to know whether there still existed any ancient schools of cultivation on Earth — but all the senior masters shook their heads in puzzlement, knowing nothing of any such thing.

“Have you never encountered anyone like that? The kind of person who has Dao attainment — someone who, in the eyes of ordinary mortals, would seem something like a god?” Ye Fan pressed.

They nodded at once. Those who had reached such a level did exist. The senior master who had entered the Spring of Life realm said that his own teacher perhaps knew something of this — for the teacher himself had been close to such a being.

According to him, that elderly monk was already over a hundred and ninety years old, of far greater attainment than himself, and had witnessed many deep mysteries throughout his long life.

“My teacher said: in the west, there is Buddha. From the Central Plains, the Demonic emerge.”

Ye Fan let out a laugh when he heard this, and asked whether he was saying that the Daoism of the Central Plains was of the demonic path.

The senior masters hurriedly pressed their palms together, shaking their heads and saying they would not dare imply that — they held no bias against Daoism. What they spoke of was a true demon. None of them, however, had ever encountered one themselves.

They had long since recognized that Ye Fan was no ordinary person. Otherwise, they would not have spoken so openly, revealing so many of their secrets.

“My teacher, during the Second World War, made a pilgrimage on foot and came to China. He did not find the demon — but he truly did see a demonic god.”

A monk over a hundred and ninety years old, reaching that age was staggering — spanning three centuries, having lived through the Second World War firsthand.

Yet this ascetic monk had not approached or made contact with that demonic god of the Central Plains — only observed from a distance, and only saw the immense, overwhelming aura of a demonic deity.

“Does your teacher remember where it was seen?” Ye Fan asked.

“That would require going to my teacher directly.”

On the subject of extraordinary individuals and those with something of divinity about them, another of the elderly monks spoke of a personal experience. In his youth, during ascetic cultivation, he had encountered a wild-haired strange figure deep in the primordial rainforests of India — moving through the air, disappearing into the mountains.

“My grand-teacher’s elder martial uncle said there is a truly powerful master in Jerusalem.”

Another senior master spoke. His grand-teacher’s elder martial uncle had lived to two hundred and thirty years before passing in seated meditation. In life, he had once traveled alone to the west and encountered a being that was something like a god.

A thought stirred in Ye Fan’s mind. Jerusalem was the holy city of the western world, steeped in endless legend — the ancient center of religious activity, a site of pilgrimage each year for countless followers of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam alike. There might well be something of significance there still. One day, it would be worth making the journey.

The elderly monks once again made an earnest request: they wished to behold the sacred object on which the ancient Sanskrit was inscribed.

Ye Fan reached into empty air and produced the small stone Buddha, instantly astonishing all the senior masters — their certainty only growing that this young man was most likely one of those beings akin to a god.

No matter how intently they tried, they could not perceive what lay within the stone Buddha. In the end, Ye Fan took out a flat piece of stone, used his finger as a blade, and carved into its surface, inscribing those several ancient characters — and at the same time impressed upon them the marks of the Dao.

He handed the stone tablet to them. “Take it back to India. Show it to your teacher, and ask him to come here. Or invite those among you with true Dao attainment — come to the Central Plains and discuss the small stone Buddha together.”

The senior masters did not dare treat this lightly. They received the stone tablet with great reverence, bowed deeply, and took their leave.

At that same moment, inside the Jiāde Auction House, a peculiarly striking young man stared at the fragments of the white jade vase, something strange moving in his eyes — and then a cold smile spread slowly across his face.