This was not Shaolin sword intent. The bitter intent of this sword was so concentrated, as if after a mountain collapse came blazing fire—before even killing anyone, it was already approaching withered desolation.

But even this withered sword made it difficult for the sixteen Shaolin monks to challenge its edge, forcing them all to avoid it. In that single sword strike, Tang Lici severed the last chain on Puzhu’s right leg, his figure flashing past like a ghost, striking the vital point on the back of Puzhu’s neck, then lifting him up and leaping away.

The Sutra Repository blazed with fierce flames, black smoke swirling, as if evil demons and ghostly spirits occupied the long sky. With Dabao and Dahui’s internal breath still unstable, both watched Tang Lici abduct Puzhu. Thousands of Shaolin monks looked up as Tang Lici escaped, each with an indiscernible expression and darkened countenance.

This was undoubtedly an unprecedented humiliation.

In the far distance, beneath the dark nighttime forest, someone leaned against a tree, gazing at the great fire of the Sutra Repository from afar.

“Master, aren’t you going to help fight the fire?” that person sighed.

“This old monk’s enmity with Shaolin runs deep as the ocean,” the old monk said slowly. “Dahe destroyed my sect and killed my wife and daughter back then. If your father hadn’t saved my life years ago, this person would no longer exist in the world.” This person had white eyebrows and beard, about sixty years old, with kind brows and gentle eyes, looking like the Long-Eyebrow Arhat from an Arhat Hall. His appearance was so benevolent and his tone peaceful and measured, yet the content of his words was fierce and venomous, vastly different from his unruffled appearance.

This person was precisely the missing Master Miaoxing.

Master Miaoxing knew no martial arts and specialized in Buddhist doctrine. Ordinarily, he seemed to have no connection with the martial monks of the “Da” generation, yet who knew what his lay identity was that he harbored such hatred toward Shaolin Temple. The “Dahe” mentioned by Master Miaoxing was Puzhu’s nominal master, who had achieved nirvana many years ago, yet Miaoxing’s resentment remained undiminished to this day.

The person in black clothing gazing at the Shaolin Temple fire from the forest no longer held a red feather fan, and if Liu Yan were to recognize him, she might not immediately identify this as her accomplished disciple Fang Pingzhai. Fang Pingzhai’s black robe was embroidered with silver patterns—though night-travel clothing, it was extremely luxurious, as if deliberately making him stand out from others. Miaoxing addressed him as “Prince Ji,” meaning Fang Pingzhai had reclaimed his identity and returned to being Chai Xijin, the sixth son of Emperor Shizong Chai Rong of Later Zhou, Prince Ji.

Faking death and returning to life, half a lifetime in exile, yet ultimately unable to escape fate.

Burning the Sutra Repository, framing Tang Lici, killing Dacheng, Miaozhen, and Miaozheng… Chai Xijin felt no joy and greatly pitied them. But… just as he could travel with Miaoxing, because Miaoxing’s venomous hatred, like his family vendetta, would devour others if it couldn’t, and if not others, then itself.

All of this was wrong, all guilty.

But what of it?

Before Chai Xijin’s eyes, he constantly saw the corpses of Baiyun Valley. They crawled on the scorched, bloody earth, gnawed by wild beasts, yet never dying…

They moved, they spoke, yet never died…

Never died.

They never died.

So Fang Pingzhai died.

Chai Xijin lived.

Now he stood here, watching the great fire burn the Sutra Repository, watching Tang Lici’s reputation ruined, watching him break through and escape, even capturing Puzhu.

Outside Shaolin Temple, in Mount Funiu, in the forest where they had encountered the “Jade Flute Mountain Precious Vase Venerable” ten days ago.

Tang Lici, carrying Puzhu, stopped in the devastated forest.

The poisonous mist released by Mo Ziru had driven away the insects and beasts of this place, and the Songshan Sect would never come here again, making it a perfect place for temporary rest. In the forest stood a completely shattered carriage. Tang Lici didn’t mind—he simply secured the broken carriage walls, creating a place that could temporarily shelter from wind and rain.

He dragged the blind and mute Puzhu into the broken carriage.

Although he had sealed Puzhu’s acupoints, the sword remained firmly gripped in his hand.

This sword was merely an ordinary blue steel blade, but Puzhu’s years of sword practice had made him grip the hilt so tightly in his palm, like cast iron or poured bronze, that the sword couldn’t be removed. Tang Lici tossed his jade sword aside and sat in silence for a while. “Master Puzhu,” he said slowly, “‘Three Sleeps Never Night Heaven’ cannot take your life.”

Puzhu’s face was pale and blue, his eyes closed, saying nothing.

Tang Lici said, “Who in this world can be without fault? Master, what has destroyed your Buddha-heart is not your worldly close friend, but your inability to see through illusion.” His speech lacked its usual high spirits and sharpness, his tone quite flat and weary. “As the world admires and all love, yet also evil beyond redemption and unforgivably sinful. Greed, anger, ignorance, unattainable desires, encountering the hateful, parting from the beloved…” he said slowly, “But all actions are impermanent—this world… has always been thus.”

He seemed to forget that Puzhu had his acupoints sealed and couldn’t respond, spacing out for a while before continuing, “Worldly affairs are impermanent, changing infinitely. Today’s loves and hates, today’s rights and wrongs—when encountered again another time, may not be the same. This so-called ‘impermanence’… means nothing can remain forever, while Buddha-nature is the Tathagata, the Tathagata is the Law, the Law is eternal. The eternal is the Tathagata, the Tathagata is the Sangha, the Sangha is eternal. Master, the rights and wrongs of all actions are always impermanent, yet for the ‘Sangha,’ an unchanging Buddha-heart is the Tathagata.” He said slowly, “Taking wrong steps has its hell waiting, but wielding the sword to punish evil and saving people for good is never wrong.”

Puzhu trembled slightly. Of all the words Tang Lici spoke, only when he said “taking wrong steps has its hell waiting” did he shudder.

After Tang Lici finished speaking, he said no more. After a very long time, he said softly, “Master, your wielding the sword to punish evil is the same as my omnipotence…”

As for what kind of sameness, he didn’t explain.

After another long while, he said slowly, “You must first accept fate, see yourself clearly, then break through… knowing that what you’ll bear is not injustice, but deserved punishment.”

Puzhu suddenly opened his eyes. Even though his pupils had no focus, they seemed to have regained their radiance.

“Then ask yourself again—can you acknowledge it, bear it, and start over?” Tang Lici said softly. “If not, if you feel humiliated and wronged, find it unbearable, consider it heinously evil… then after your acupoints naturally unseal, you can die. If you can, congratulations—your Buddha-heart remains unbroken, you’ve merely taken wrong steps, and hell awaits you ahead.”

After speaking, Tang Lici didn’t unseal Puzhu’s acupoints. He patiently waited for them to naturally dissolve.

Yu Konghou had disguised herself and deceived Puzhu, after which Puzhu personally wrote the letter condemning Tang Lici. Regardless of what happened in between, given Puzhu’s status as Shaolin Temple’s prospective Abbot and his reputation for cold impartiality and years of righteous swordsmanship, he should not and could not have been coerced by Yu Konghou. Yet Puzhu was not only coerced but chained in the Abbot’s quarters. This was not merely Puzhu’s personal failure—it was Shaolin Temple’s unprecedented humiliation.

Even if Puzhu died, he could hardly escape blame.

Yet Tang Lici said… hell lies ahead, your Buddha-heart remains unbroken—will you… go or not?

Half an hour later, Puzhu sat up. As soon as he rose, he seemed much calmer, stirring up a cloud of dust.

The dust danced in the moonlight, finally settling to earth, as if it had never come.

“My Buddha-heart consists of merely two words: ‘no regret,'” Puzhu said slowly. “The Avici Hell suits me perfectly.”

Tang Lici smiled slightly, “Master is truly admirable.”

Puzhu gripped his sword tightly, “For what reason does Benefactor Tang wish to descend to hell?”