The 4th year of the Wude reign of the Great Tang, Konghui Monastery in Yizhou.

The monk’s robe dragged across the stone steps and the moss, his three-foot precept blade scraping against the flagstones, producing a ringing metallic sound. The daylight was bright and clear; the meditation chamber within appeared hushed and empty, with only the distant calls of a few birds.

Yet when the monk ascended the stone steps, a weary old sigh drifted out from within the meditation chamber:

“Though this is the act of killing, it is also a bodhisattva’s heart. But if you have harbored the intent to kill, you have already fallen to the lower path.”

The monk’s body shuddered. Holding the precept blade, he slowly pushed open the door and entered.

“So the moment has finally come?” The old monk sat cross-legged on his meditation cushion, watching him with a gentle smile.

Tears welled up in the monk’s eyes. Cradling the precept blade in both hands, he spoke woodenly: “This blade, this disciple soaked in a deep spring for three nights, until three thousand mayflies floated upon the water; then dried it under the sun for three days, until a hundred feet of divine radiance shone upon it. I have come specially to bid farewell to Master.”

The old monk only smiled at him quietly, a deep reluctance spreading across his face. “After today, for this old monk, there is nothing but death — all virtues fulfilled, all evils extinguished. The red dust of the three realms shall never again enter my eyes. But you… After today, the gods and Buddhas of all heavens will no longer shelter you; the people of this world, your kin and friends, will no longer sing your praises; in this land of Great Tang, there will no longer be a place for you to stand; the precepts within your heart will come crashing down, and you will spend your entire life hiding in darkness, fleeing from your own heart. Your cultivation will never succeed, and after death you will fall into the Ni Li Avici Hell, to suffer endless, boundless, billions-of-kalpas of agony… Can you endure all of this?”

“This disciple…” The monk’s forehead dripped with cold sweat, yet he clenched his teeth and said, “This disciple will not regret it even through nine deaths.”

“Death is the simplest thing of all!” The old monk shook his head and heaved a sigh. “Perhaps this is the path of your cultivation! ‘Empty-handed, grasping a hoe; walking on foot, riding a water buffalo. A man crosses the bridge above, while the bridge flows and the water does not.’ Ha—!”

When the verse was finished, he closed his eyes and lowered his gaze, still as if entering deep meditation.

Suddenly the monk burst into tears, prostrating himself on the ground and weeping bitterly. Then the precept blade in his hand swung — blood from the neck surged up three feet, and the old monk’s head fell to the ground with a thunderous crash.

The precept blade clattered to the floor. In that single moment, blood streaked across the monk’s face, and on it flickered a trace of savagery. He gathered up the hem of his robe, wrapped the old monk’s head within it, and staggered to his feet, stumbling step by step toward the door of the meditation hall.

The thousand-year-old meditation hall, the hundred-year-old stone steps, were drenched in a trail of fresh blood all the way out…