In the end, Zanxing couldn’t change anything.

His Majesty had sought the dao for many years, and upon receiving news of the spiritual child, immediately ordered people to bring Zanxing’s innocent young son to the palace. Pitiful child whose baby teeth hadn’t even fallen out—born only a few years ago, he suffered this calamity. The sorcerer took his heart’s blood to refine immortality pills, and within just a few months, the child died.

Yet Zanxing gained his life because of this.

Yang Zifeng requested His Majesty to consider that Zanxing had contributed by offering his son, allowing his merit to offset his crimes and spare his life. Perhaps he wanted to see him live in destitution and wretchedness, having lost everything.

Zanxing’s family was destroyed overnight.

Yang Zifeng fabricated false evidence and sold military intelligence, causing the Yang family to be notorious and completely ruined. He then used his merit from the spiritual child affair to enter officialdom, rising rapidly from then on, enjoying great success.

His Majesty granted him the Yang family mansion as a reward. He renovated the entire mansion inside and out, married a high official’s daughter, and never again showed a trace of his former gentleness and humility.

Zanxing tried to seek revenge against him, but times had changed. His opponent had transformed overnight into someone of high position and great power, with bodyguards protecting him closely. He was beaten out by Yang Zifeng’s guards like a homeless dog, rolling and falling in the mud, wailing and despairing.

The flower trellis covered with winter honeysuckle in front of the residence had been removed by someone, but those delicate, slender little flowers had somehow grown back again, growing secretly in the stone crevices, blooming golden flowers bit by bit in the cold wind.

Overnight, his parents died in infamy, his wife threw herself into a well in grief and anger, his child of only a few years became material for a sorcerer’s pill refinement, and the former favored son of heaven became a rebellious minister whom everyone wanted to beat. The instigator had usurped the magpie’s nest, looking at him as if viewing a speck of dust on a shoe sole.

And he was helpless.

Hatred grew wildly, endless rage gripped him tightly, impossible to escape.

Zanxing stared at that little yellow flower swaying in the cold wind, his expression growing colder bit by bit.

He decided to seek revenge.

“I want revenge,” he said in a low voice.

…

Zanxing left his hometown and went to distant places.

Because he was a criminal, to prevent others from discovering his identity, he voluntarily shaved his head to become a monk. Wearing brown robes, he always moved through places of suffering with a serene expression. Sometimes it was battlefields littered with corpses, plague-ridden villages, sometimes disaster areas where people suffered, but more often, he would quietly walk through peaceful, untrodden places carrying a golden staff and prayer beads, his eyes downcast.

He was always gentle, helpful, accumulating virtue and benevolence. Legend told of Buddha’s disciples sacrificing themselves to feed tigers, and the common people he helped often said he might be Buddha’s incarnation. Because his virtuous reputation spread far and wide, gradually people forgot his original name and only called him by his dharma name: Master Jingshan.

He had become a Buddhist cultivator.

Buddhist cultivation required not only physical cultivation but also mental cultivation. Over these years, Jingshan had traveled through almost all of Duzhou. He saw through the sufferings of worldly life and death separations, understanding the temporary and impermanent nature of love and hate among sentient beings. His features became increasingly serene, transcendent, and otherworldly, his reputation spreading ever wider. Everyone knew that Duzhou had a Buddhist cultivator named Jingshan with profound cultivation and great virtue, and prestige.

This reputation also reached his hometown.

Others always said the master was compassionate, treating even every blade of grass and tree with benevolence. Only he knew that he had never let go of his hatred. His devoted mental and physical cultivation, his breakthroughs and progress, were all for the day when he could return to his native land, kill his enemy with his own hands, and avenge his parents, wife, and child.

On the day Jingshan achieved his breakthrough, he resolved to return to his hometown and settle accounts with the past.

But Duzhou was struck by a great drought.

The drought came fiercely—crops were scorched to charcoal by the blazing sun, and grain in the city was completely cut off. Many people starved to death, and incidents of eating children occurred daily. The corpses of the dead were too precious to bury and became one with people in another way.

The human world seemed to have become purgatory overnight.

Yet in this purgatory, someone opened his granaries and cooked porridge to provide disaster relief.

The one providing disaster relief was Yang Zifeng.

Yang Zifeng, who had once risen to success through the blood debt of the Yang family, had now become the current dynasty’s prime minister. His family was wealthy with money, and he had numerous wives and concubines. Upon hearing of Master Jingshan’s affairs, he began to feel uneasy, gradually regretting not having eliminated the root of the trouble years ago, leaving behind this disaster. Now facing a cultivator of profound strength, even with bodyguards protecting him, it would probably be useless.

This drought came at a perfect time—it was practically an opportunity specially sent by heaven.

He inquired about the date when Master Jingshan would return, and half a month in advance, began providing disaster relief in the city. For a time, his “benevolent” reputation was heard everywhere, and the people were grateful for his help in their time of need, everyone feeling indebted to him.

Then, before all the city’s people, on the very day Jingshan entered his hometown, he stripped to the waist and knelt to confess his crimes with thorns on his back.

The monk in brown robes looked at him calmly, his gaze as tranquil as the deep sea. He knelt anxiously, tears flowing from his eyes, repenting for his past sins, sincerely expressing remorse.

Finally, Yang Zifeng said, “I am willing to provide disaster relief daily until the drought ends. Please, Master, forgive my past sins and give me a chance at redemption.”

Jingshan didn’t speak, only looked at him indifferently.

He had spent his entire life in distant places, cultivating daily in hardship, all for the day when he could see his enemy again and avenge his wronged relatives. Now his cultivation was profound, and he could reclaim everything he had lost, but it had to be now.

Golden winter honeysuckle bloomed behind him in large patches of vines, reminding him of the collapsed trellis splattered red with blood.

But the people behind him couldn’t help but speak up.

They said, “Master, please forgive him.”

“Forgive him—he has sincerely repented. Give him a chance at redemption.”

“Master, we don’t want to starve to death.”

Frail elders trembled as they bowed down, innocent children looked up, pulling at his robes, women wept, and young men pleaded. Those who yesterday had called him a compassionate bodhisattva now stood on his enemy’s side today, pressing him aggressively. He suddenly felt somewhat confused.

The once arrogant and extremely vicious villain had now aged, showing a humble and respectful attitude, yet his eyes seemed to leak a trace of cunning and smugness. He said: “Yesterday’s demon heart, today’s bodhisattva face. Between bodhisattva and demon lies but a single line. Master, aren’t you a good person? They say, ‘put down the butcher’s knife and immediately become Buddha,’ ‘the sea of suffering is boundless, but turning back is the shore.’ Buddhism is compassionate—I have sincerely repented, so why can’t you give me a chance?”

Why couldn’t Yang Zifeng be given a chance?

But then, who would give him a chance? Give his aged parents who died miserably, his wife who died in resentment, and his young son who died without cause a chance?

The dead would not be resurrected, sins committed would not be easily erased, past karma created today’s consequences—it was all retribution.

Jingshan slightly narrowed his eyes and gripped the golden staff in his hand tightly.

“Thump.”

The old woman closest to him suddenly knelt before him.