In the thirteenth year of Tiancheng’s Lingwei reign, on the first day of the first month, the disturbance in Bijiang was at last quelled, and the Emperor returned from the southwest.

The second night after New Year’s Eve, on Shuxi Mountain to the east of Quecheng, several consecutive days of accumulated snow had paved the mountain paths into silver ribbons, winding and wending their way to the gate of Yongye Temple. Old Li, who had delivered the charcoal, drove his donkey cart down the mountain, leaving behind a final set of wheel ruts blackened with charcoal dust in the snow.

Worshippers who burned incense mostly liked to go up the mountain to pay their respects on the first day of the month; by the second day there would be considerably fewer people. The most thriving temple in the vicinity of Quecheng was Da-Cheng Temple, right next to the imperial city, while Shuxi Mountain — where the mountain road became exceptionally treacherous under winter snow — drew even fewer visitors.

The moonlight after nightfall was actually much brighter than within the city, illuminating the exposed roof tiles on several of the great halls so that they glittered and shimmered.

In the courtyard, a solitary old winter-sweet tree was still putting forth shoots and budding. This was the one period of the year at Yongye Temple when there were no flowers to scent the air. The atmosphere held only the faint smell of woodsmoke — sparse and cold.

With the bitter cold and nothing to do, not long after the evening devotions, the monks in the side hall rear courtyard had already gone to sleep. Only the eternal lamp in the main hall still shed a faint glimmer.

“Master, Master!”

A young novice in a gray cassock came running in hurried steps, the rings of his robe jangling, and the moment he stepped into the hall he caught sight of the abbot dozing against the incense table.

He hastily pretended not to have seen this, and standing at the doorway instead gave a soft cough.

Yikong startled awake, and seeing his disciple appear in the main hall doorway at some point unknown, he promptly sat up straight on his meditation cushion, reaching out to divide the lamp oil he had only half finished distributing — only to find the oil had already congealed. He had no choice but to pick up the nearby prayer cylinder to wipe it instead.

“It’s this late already — what brings you crashing into the hall? Weren’t tomorrow’s morning lessons already assigned?”

“Reporting to Master, a carriage has come to the mountain gate. It refuses to be dissuaded and insists on entering.”

Yikong set down the prayer cylinder, blinked his drowsy eyes, and while stirring back to life the extinguished brazier, peered toward the hall door.

The ice-drops hanging from the main hall’s sweeping eaves had not yet been cleared; in the moonlight they gleamed with crystalline brilliance.

But just beyond the mountain gate there was pitch darkness, not a flicker of lantern to be seen. The snow that had fallen several days before still lay piled on the mountain; the small path into the temple was likely even more treacherous now. Even in daylight, those who climbed the mountain to worship were few.

And yet, someone arriving at the temple gate in the dead of night was not something unheard of before.

There were many wealthy and powerful people in the imperial city. One family’s lady was having a difficult labor; another household’s child had gone missing; or someone’s conscience had grown too guilty for them to sleep at night. In short, those who prayed urgently never stood on ceremony about the hour.

Of course, once the matter was settled, the incense offering in return would be especially generous. And so under Yikong’s teaching, whenever “urgent compassionate aid” of this sort arose, Yongye Temple had always been diligent and dutiful, day or night alike.

One just didn’t know which royal or noble household had run into trouble this time.

Yikong crooked his finger. The novice was quite quick-witted and promptly leaned close.

On the young abbot’s fair face appeared a few traces of slyness. He lowered his voice and asked: “Is it a carriage from a great household?”

The novice was evidently battle-hardened and had long since trained a pair of sharp eyes. He confirmed without hesitation: “Your disciple had a look — it’s a carriage from the Chancellor’s mansion.”

Yikong paused, and murmured: “Can it be they’ve come for the nerve-calming incense again?”

That old Chancellor’s insomnia was truly growing worse and worse — to come knocking at his door again in the dead of night like this.

Had he known it would come to this, he should have quoted a higher price in silver at the time.

Yikong rose and was about to reach for the cassock resting to one side when sounds of activity reached him from outside the hall.

A sound of hurried footsteps approaching from the distance, mingled with another disciple’s low-voiced entreaty.

“Benefactor! Please go no further, honored guests — the abbot is reciting sutras and performing rites this evening and has given orders not to be disturbed—”

Ah — his disciples had been rather well-trained, he had to say. They knew how to help him, their abbot, win a little time to dress.

Taking advantage of this, Yikong had already fastened his cassock, and had just arranged himself in the posture of trimming the oil lamp when a clear, light voice rang out beyond the hall door.

“Venerable Yikong.”

Yikong startled at the sound, then quickly stepped forward to meet them. But the two silhouettes treading through the snow in the moonlight had already reached the doors of the main hall.

“I heard that Venerable Yikong is in the midst of reciting sutras and performing rites for the dead — I wonder whether one more person might be included.”

The man’s soft, clear voice rang out again. Paired with his cool, detached expression, he looked rather like a wandering practitioner who had chanced upon this place and, on a whim, knocked on the mountain gate.

But his blue-clad guard behind him, in bearing and stride, carried a faint overbearing menace — and a killing aura that seemed even sharper than usual.

“The master has been hurrying along the road for half a month without pause. Before even entering the city he came straight to you without rest. Don’t be your usual long-winded self — if you delay—”

“Wei Xiang.”

The man called out softly. The blue-clad guard had no choice but to fall silent, fuming.

Yikong steadied himself, then waved lightly to send the two novices away.

“Zhu Yu, you and Ping’er keep watch outside the main hall. Don’t let anyone enter.”

The two of them acknowledged and withdrew, taking lanterns with them to stand guard at the side hall.

The man glanced at the person behind him. Though he said nothing, his meaning was clear. The blue-clad guard looked at Yikong once, then turned and vanished among the swooping eaves.

“Arriving so late at night — I hope the Venerable will not take offense.”

The man was polite with his words, but showed not the slightest intention of bowing in apology. He merely observed the monk before him with a light gaze, his eyes finally settling on the other man’s half-slipped-off shoes.

Yikong noticed and tucked that foot back somewhat. He then raised half an eyebrow, and just caught sight of the dark ceremonial robe the other man had not yet had time to change out of.

The nine-color interlocking branch pattern embroidered fiercely all over it blazed, under the flickering light of the butter lamp, into a trail of dazzling golden light — too brilliant to look at directly.

“This humble monk dares not take offense. Only — this humble monk wonders whether the one he sees today is Master Zhong Li, or—”

Su Wei cast the sly monk a glance and, declining to give him an answer, simply flicked his sleeve and strode on his own toward the inner depths of the main hall.

The center of the main hall still held a crumpled, uncollected meditation cushion. All around were scriptures and oil-cloth scattered in disorder. Most conspicuous of all was the red lacquered wooden box, now faded, that served as the incense offering box before the altar — it had been taken apart; the fragments of silver and copper coins from inside were spread across the floor, as though someone had recently been counting them.

Truly a temple too small to be any smaller, and yet the abbot had to count the incense offerings himself every day.

Yikong had followed in behind and, noticing the other’s amused gaze, was somehow able to remain perfectly composed. He walked forward and put the box away, as though what it contained were not the vulgarity of money, but some supreme sacred treasure handed down through the ages.

In two or three swift moves he tidied everything up, then casually selected one lamp from the stack arranged in a pagoda shape and held it in his hand.

“Please wait here for a moment, sir.”

With that, Yikong ducked behind the prayer banners, and moments later emerged with a familiar small table, which he set beside the meditation cushion facing the Buddha statue, then sat cross-legged on the floor, smoothed out the only cushion with his hand, and pushed it toward the man.

The man stared at the cushion and did not move for a moment.

“Why are you not inviting me into the inner hall to sit today?”

Yikong still wore a smiling expression, casually gesturing at the great Buddha with half-lowered compassionate eyes behind them: “The inner hall does not have a view of this Buddha statue, and this humble monk—”

The man’s long, narrow eyes lifted slightly: “You’re afraid?”

Yikong finally paused, and with honesty, let out a sigh.

“By custom, sir, you come to the temple once a month. Having been delayed for several months now due to the Bijiang affair, this humble monk has been somewhat inwardly alarmed.”

The man at last decided to spare him further torment, lightly taking his seat on the cushion — his cross-legged posture looking rather more practiced than Yikong’s own.

“Someone of Buddhist background, yet also alarmed by baseless events.”

The monk was obviously long accustomed to this sort of remark that put one in an awkward position, and lifted the copper kettle that had been heating nicely on the brazier, tranquilly pouring two cups of tea.

“This humble monk only follows his master’s dying wish, doing his best in his appointed duty, fearful of some oversight or omission that might brew hidden trouble.”

Su Wei’s fingertip lightly tapped the amber-like wood grain of the small table — a beast-eyed pattern — the lustrous color that comes only from superior Jia Nan wood polished by years of handling. Against this, the purple-clay teacup and the jet-black demon-subduing pestle looked equally dark.

“In your view, then, are there any oversights or omissions?”

Yikong did not look at the person before him, only quietly gazing at the clear tea filling the two small cups on the table.

“In times past, sir, you would always take a first sip of this tea.”

Su Wei was silent for a moment, then said slowly: “I have never been fond of drinking tea. Today I simply find this teacup particularly displeasing to my eyes.”

“Sir has never mentioned preferences or aversions, or love or hatred.”

Yikong’s clear voice echoed through the main hall. The candleflame on the small table swayed with it, flickering on and off, casting a somewhat fearsome aspect on the faces of the four Guardian Kings glaring all around.

After a long while, Yikong spoke again, and this time his voice had lost its usual gentle, compassionate quality.

“Have you, sir, had a stirring of the heart?”

Su Wei said nothing. Yikong’s tone turned colder still.

“Sir’s own condition, sir should know best. A stirring of the heart — all is danger.”

A stirring of the heart — all is danger.

These eight words were words left to him by Master Wu Mie, who had not yet passed on at the time.

Now Wu Mie’s disciple had repeated them to him once more. It was like an ancient curse laid specifically for him — he had to rely on it to stay alive, yet he was bound by it, unable to shake it free for the rest of his life.

“I am already in the midst of danger, and it has been many years since I’ve recalled what dread and fear felt like.”

“If sir will not consider his own welfare, he ought at least to think of those around him.” Yikong sighed and, showing a rare touch of helplessness, continued to ask: “From when did it begin?”

From when did it begin?

This question was well put. He would need to think carefully.

Su Wei’s eyes flickered to the scene from when they had returned from Huozhou and stopped by a small stream outside Quecheng.

She had knocked on his door and window, and held out that full, vivid red fruit before his eyes.

He had considered himself proof against any temptation. But in that ordinary, small, entirely unpremeditated brief instant, he had sensed from deep within his body a faint wavering.

He had wanted to take that ripe rubus berry — not because it was the thing he ought to do in that moment, but simply and only because he wanted to.

It had been a very long time since the thought of “wanting” had arisen in him.

Long before, he had already set aside those troublesome desires, prepared to never pick them up again for the rest of his life.

But a lifetime was surely too long. Cold and solitary as he was, he had long since grown weary and fed up.

He had thought: as long as he stepped back a little, this emotion outside his control would dissipate.

And so, using sourness as an excuse, he had declined the fruit she offered.

Yet she had not left.

She had stubbornly brought out even more fruit, and spread them plainly before his eyes.

He had gazed at those deep-red fruits, and it was as though he were watching her time and again being knocked down from the Ascending-to-Heaven Tower, then climbing back up again with that stubborn determination.

If he opened that door he had so vigilantly guarded — would she be willing to leave the sunlight, pass through the darkness, and come to the other side of the door?

But it was as though an ancient, vast, indestructible mountain had developed its first crack. From that point on, the crack would always exist, eventually widening until it could no longer be contained.

Xiao Nanhui — the first time I told you that fruit was sour, you should have walked away.

To try to leave now might prove somewhat difficult.

A stirring of the heart — and then comes love, hatred, life, death, and separation.

What Yikong said was not wrong. But so what?

“Among the mortal world, may I grow old alongside you. Were I not to enter this mortal world, how then could I cherish what is good in you?”

The workings of fate in this world were truly beyond all reckoning. Not long after they began to travel together, he lost one of his relics. And it seemed to be because that power that had constantly accompanied him was invisibly weakened somewhat, that he had given rise to these emotions that should not have been his to feel.

“It was around the time that one relic went missing, I suppose.” He lightly picked up the scripture scroll beside him and fixed his eyes on the complex, twisting characters, as though reminded of something that felt like a long-ago memory. “But I always feel that, in some very distant, very distant past, I have already seen her.”

Yikong’s face showed not a trace of surprise — as though he had long expected these words to be said.

“Sir’s mother’s family of origin is truly exceptional. It is not at all surprising that sir frequently has such a feeling.”

Su Wei’s eyes calmly regarded Yikong, and his voice carried a hint of coolness.

“I have never spoken of my mother’s affairs before you.”

Yikong paused, then raised the teacup in his hand and casually threw the contents onto the glowing charcoal.

Steam hissed upward, blurring the faces of the two men.

“Sir need not be overly concerned. Yikong was taught by Master Wu Mie, and the old Master in his lifetime was most fond of roaming the world. Yikong cannot claim to be richly learned and have a retentive memory, only to have a particular fondness for strange and curious tales. Moreover, given sir’s present standing, what ability does Yikong have to shake the ground beneath sir’s feet by even a fraction?”

Su Wei made no further response, and Yikong, by mutual unspoken agreement, let the subject drop. He brought out that ancient yet familiar scripture scroll, placed the demon-subduing pestle at his side as was his custom, and began his long, droning recitation.

It was unknown how much time passed before the east had begun faintly to lighten, and the moon’s pale shadow was gradually fading.

The ice-drops beneath Yongye Temple’s sweeping eaves loosened with the rising temperature and suddenly crashed to the ground, shattering.

Yikong’s voice finally ceased. Su Wei opened his eyes and looked toward the outside of the hall.

“The ice-drops under these eaves should be cleared in time — otherwise they are liable to injure someone.”

Yikong’s hand passed over the demon-subduing pestle, then put it away inside the scripture scroll.

“Sir is absolutely right. It is a principle that everyone understands, yet when it happens to apply to oneself, there is always a tendency to harbor a little wishful thinking.”

Su Wei naturally knew the other spoke with deeper implication. The eyelashes of his slightly downcast eyes quivered lightly.

“Before coming to see you, I had already been trying hard to keep my distance from her.”

Yikong offered a smile, but without relenting in his words:

“After seeing this humble monk, I hope sir can also try hard to keep his distance from her.”

Su Wei said nothing. It was a long while before he rose. The exquisitely embroidered, luxuriously made outer robe, from a full night of sitting cross-legged, had developed a deep, deep crease — one that was clearly not going to smooth out easily.

He stared at the crease, and then turned to ask suddenly: “I have heard that Venerable Yikong is well-versed in Buddhist doctrine and particularly familiar with Buddhist terminology. I wonder if you have ever heard of a certain term — called Pu Hu Na?”

Yikong appeared to think briefly, then after a moment slowly released the words: “Pu Hu Shan Na.” He paused, then continued to explain: “The term sir has mentioned should be Pu Hu Shan Na — that is the Sanskrit for ‘the tableau of all living beings.'”

“In your view, what deeper meaning might it hold?”

“The Dharma body is entangled by afflictions, and moves through life and death — hence the term ‘living beings.’ That which is beyond the perception of the marks of self and person, in which there remains a knowing existence, is called the mark of living beings. Sir and I are both living beings. Sir poses the question to me; I respond with Heaven and Earth as my answer — and that is the tableau of all living beings.”

The man’s form drew suddenly closer. The butter lamp cast his shadow below him onto Yikong’s shoulders, making it look as heavy as if it had been soaked in water.

“What you know — is it truly only this much?”

Yikong did not raise his head, only pressed his palms together at his chest.

“These few words are to this humble monk truly nothing more than a Buddhist term. As for the rest — this humble monk has never studied it either. How could I dare speak rashly?”

A long time passed, yet the man’s response still did not come. Yikong slowly looked up, only to find that the man had already departed, and the main hall held only himself once more.

He stood alone amid the oil lamps and Buddha images for a long while, until the novice named Zhu Yu came to the hall again to find him.

“Master, they have already left through the mountain gate.”

Yikong nodded: “I see.”

Zhu Yu, exhausted from keeping watch and still somewhat indignant at what had just transpired, thought back: “Master, were those two truly people from the Chancellor’s mansion? Arriving in the dead of night and still so unknowing of propriety — keeping Master reciting sutras until deep into the night—”

“If you are angry about losing sleep, next time I’ll instruct only Ping’er.” Yikong bluntly saw through the novice’s true feelings, and without waiting for the other to feel ashamed and reflect, suddenly asked: “Have you ever heard the story of the dragon that played carp in a pond?”

Zhu Yu shook his head blankly.

“The carp longs to leap up and transform into a dragon, because although it yearns for this, it does not actually know what makes a dragon so formidable. Conversely, if a young dragon is born in a lotus pond and spends its days among the carp, it will not know that its true nature can overturn clouds and shake the earth. What we must do is not to disturb this pool of water. Only in this way can the peace of the lotus pond be preserved.”

Zhu Yu listened in a fog, increasingly confused and sleepy.

He could only secretly conjecture that the two visitors just now must have been persons of exceptionally extraordinary status. Master didn’t want to offend them, and so had found all these elaborate justifications to lecture him on great principles.

“Zhu Yu will keep Master’s teachings firmly in mind.”

He responded halfheartedly, thinking only of getting back to sleep.

Yikong glanced at him and felt the sleepiness was practically dancing on his head. He waved a hand.

“Go back to your room. Before you sleep, pass word to the others — before noon tomorrow, the main hall doors are not to be opened.”

Zhu Yu was a little puzzled as to what the Master still had to occupy himself with after such a turbulent night, but in the end sleepiness won out. He rallied himself, performed his bow, and staggered away.

Yikong stood alone in the center of the empty, vast main hall. It was a long while before he lifted the prayer banner and walked toward the rear of the hall.

Behind the central Buddha statue in the main hall stood an inconspicuous small shrine niche. The niche had no tablet and no seat, only a small bronze bowl placed inside; its rim had been worn shiny-smooth from use, while inside it had grown a layer of verdigris, clearly untouched by anyone for many years.

“Master — what you feared would happen has, in the end, come to pass.”

He lit a stick of incense with a fire-starter but did not light a lamp, gazing instead in the darkness at the void before him.

“Everyone says that those who cultivate the way must not harbor a biased heart. Looking at things now, this disciple’s cultivation is still lacking.”

The young monk slowly knelt, his body like a pine toppling before a tomb.

“This disciple acted on his own initiative, going against your wishes. Let it be considered a thread of hope this disciple wrested from fate on behalf of all living beings. Yikong is willing to spend this life with his body buried outside the Buddhist gates, his spirit unable to return to Heaven and Earth — as atonement for the karmic debt owed to this one person.”