Regarding Buddhism, Yun Ye had never possessed much reverence—not because a tour manager at Maiji Mountain had switched his camera, but because of their inaction. Wherever there were places of exceptional scenic beauty on Chinese soil, one could always see Buddhism’s shadow. Modern Buddhists should thank their ancestors who left behind such rich legacies—the various exquisitely magnificent halls of later generations, along with countless expensive admission tickets.
The Giant Wild Goose Pagoda—the Great Tang currently knew nothing of this name. Once Xuanzang returned from his studies abroad, he would be welcomed by crowds filling the streets. Then Xuanzang would say he lacked a place to preserve the Buddhist scriptures, and then there would be the Giant Wild Goose Pagoda. How miraculous! Could it be that worshipping foreign things while despising our own was something our ancestors genetically passed down to us? Not an inherent flaw we developed ourselves? This root must be severed. Otherwise, where would Grandmother go to worship Buddha without Ci’en Temple? The old lady only believed in the Buddha residing in that small shrine hall.
Xuanzang wasn’t even thirty yet. Whether in reputation or fame, he couldn’t compete with Yun Ye. But if he waited until after Xuanzang returned from his studies abroad, Yun Ye could only look up to his status.
Li Xiaogong had used the pretext of punishing Yun Ye to summon a large group of people to support Buddhism, which made Yun Ye extremely angry. Did they think he was ignorant?
Xiao Yu actually wanted to obtain from Yun Ye a map of the shortest route from the Great Tang to Tianzhu. Had a donkey kicked his brain?
Could Yun Ye tell him that the shortest route was to pass through Tubo, cross through Nepal, and reach Tianzhu? Or to take a ship from Quanzhou to Tianzhu? Either would be far better than circling half the Soviet Union. Just thinking about walking such a long distance made Yun Ye’s legs ache on Xuanzang’s behalf. But without doing it this way, where would the Great Tang get the twelve volumes of “Great Tang Records on the Western Regions”? Where would come the Great Tang’s glorious achievements in sweeping across Central Asia? So the legs that needed to trek still had to trek. Yun Ye didn’t care whether he could retrieve the legendary Mahayana Buddhist scriptures or not. Even if Xuanzang wrote one himself on the road, Yun Ye would happily help him publish it and give him tons of royalties, on the condition that he brought back the “Great Tang Records on the Western Regions”—that book was too important.
Xiao Yu’s anger erupted. Shaking off Yun Ye’s hand that was supporting him, he pointed at Yun Ye with his mouth open for a long time but couldn’t utter a single word. Yun Ye hadn’t said anything wrong. Laozi rode a green ox out of Hangu Pass to attain enlightenment, wrote the eternal masterpiece “Tao Te Ching,” and was thereafter revered as a deity. Zhuangzi wrote “Free and Easy Wandering” and later became an immortal. Confucius had the “Analects” and instantly became a sage. That “Mohamad” or whatever—he’d never heard of him, but presumably he was also a person of great virtue. Why couldn’t Xuanzang write? Shakyamuni was merely a prince, and a prince of a small country at that. His status might not even be as noble as Xuanzang’s. Why could he sit under a bodhi tree for forty-nine days and then claim to be Buddha?
The room fell silent. The clamor ceased. The people in this room could be called the cream of the Great Tang. No one had ever considered that what others had done, they themselves could also do.
Thoughts determine altitude, details determine success or failure. So Yun Ye decided to supplement some details to let these country bumpkins fully experience what it meant to have unbridled imagination, what it meant to have a leap in thinking.
“Sir, you are a great Confucian scholar of this generation. The learning in your breast is like a vast ocean. Taking just one ladle would be enough for us youngsters to benefit endlessly. Why not record your lifetime’s achievements? Pass them down to future generations?” Seeing Xiao Yu looking somewhat tempted, he quickly stepped forward to add encouragement.
“This old man has always believed that only great masters could write biographies, only famous scholars could transmit their writings. This barrier has obstructed this old man for twenty years. Now in my sixtieth year, I finally understand the principle. Xuanzang, if you are determined to go west, this old man will aid you with one hundred strings of copper coins and one fine horse—go where you will. As for this old man, I shall prepare to devote my remaining years to studying the classics, burying myself in old texts.” Having finished speaking, the old man gracefully cupped his hands and left.
Someone like Xiao Yu, who already had one foot over the threshold, was easy to persuade. An old Confucian scholar writing books was naturally something everyone welcomed. A person of noble character would naturally have righteous energy in their writing. Reading it would be like drinking fine wine; contemplating it would keep one awake at night.
But Old He, who emerged from who knows where, blinked his enormous eyes at Yun Ye and said he also wanted to write a book. These words struck Yun Ye like a lightning bolt. The mouthful of grape wine he’d just poured down his throat nearly sprayed out from his stomach. “What book do you want to write? How do you want to write a book?”
“Brother, you truly deserve your reputation as a renowned mathematical expert—your calculations are thorough. Since you’re getting Old Master Xiao to write a book, you must have a way to print the manuscript into books, right? Otherwise, you’d be taking a huge loss. Don’t think your older brother doesn’t know your little schemes—isn’t it just about earning some copper coins? Master Xiao’s book will surely be excellent, but how many people will read excellent books? Remember those famous paintings we appreciated last time at Yanlai Tower, brother?”
Making friends with Old He was the most ill-advised thing Yun Ye had done in his life. Those weren’t damned famous paintings—they were realistic human anatomical observation diagrams meticulously painted by skilled artists, commonly known as spring palace paintings. In his previous life, he’d long since seen Teacher Cang’s teaching treasures that were ten thousand times superior to those broken paintings. How could he be attracted by broken illustrations that didn’t even match the scale of Western oil paintings of the human body?
Disdaining them, he discovered that Cheng Chumo, Zhangsun Chong, and Li Huairen were actually watching with blood pumping. Zhangsun Chong even wanted to trade the jade pendant on his body for those few pieces of paper. That jade pendant was exquisitely crafted—Yun Ye had asked for it several times, but he said it was to be a future love token and couldn’t be given to a man. Damn it, wasn’t Old He also a man?
Between men, some ridiculous situations inevitably occur. Yun Ye was someone who didn’t know how to refuse a friend’s request for help, so Old He achieved his goal with complete satisfaction.
“Old He, you’re at least a County Baron. Isn’t doing this somewhat inappropriate?” He couldn’t imagine that a second-generation official from an impeccably red background would lower himself to do such things.
“If I don’t do it, what choice do I have? Over three hundred mouths in the whole family waiting to eat. Your older brother has no real abilities—I only secured a lowly position at the Imperial Music Bureau. How much can those few fields produce? Once accustomed to wealth and comfort, can one survive putting down one’s pride to live in poverty?” He hadn’t expected that Old He, whose face always wore a smile, was living such a tragic life. Thinking about how he’d mooched a meal off him yesterday, Yun Ye felt somewhat ashamed.
As if knowing his thoughts, Old He slapped him: “What nonsense are you thinking? Even if your older brother is poor, would I begrudge you one meal? If you feel you owe me, then we’re done being friends. Next time you, Marquis Yun, can return the invitation. I, Old He, will starve for two days before coming and eat my fill. Then we brothers will be even. How about that?”
The bad habit of Guanzhong people—saving face at all costs. Even if their family was so poor their pants were falling off, when friends came, they’d cut their own flesh to entertain them well. That inkstone yesterday, and that meal—without realizing it, the debt of gratitude had grown large.
“Don’t do such disgraceful things. Your brother is the God of Wealth reincarnated—earning money is like child’s play for me. If you’re that poor, it’s your own fault for not asking. Having a fool like you in the family, your wife and children must have suffered eight generations of bad luck.”
“Brother…”
“Brother my ass. Come to the estate later and we’ll talk. What status do we have? Standing here discussing matters of a few coins—isn’t that embarrassing?” Yun Ye looked at the bustling distinguished guests around him and couldn’t help but puff out his chest—every bit the aristocratic bearing.
Xuanzang still came to Yun Ye’s side to sincerely seek instruction on the route to the Western Paradise. With such a fanatic, there was no way to deal with him. He just followed silently behind, devout and sorrowful.
With a death-mask face following behind, did you have any appetite to eat? With a hanged ghost following behind you, didn’t your neck feel cold?
With no alternative, Yun Ye could only provide a route map—the very route that Xuanzang himself had once traveled, that classic scripture-seeking route. It would take him through almost all of Xinjiang, then tour several Central Asian countries, and finally reach Tianzhu from Peshawar.
“This route can almost be called a road of no return. Most sections are uninhabited wilderness, and the Nine Clans of Zhaowu are in constant warfare. You must take care of yourself. Before you depart, you may visit my Jade Mountain. Yun Ye cannot help you with other matters, but I will gift you a set of travel supplies to wish you smooth travels along the way.” He lowered his head, pressed his palms together, and blessed Xuanzang’s journey.
Those with great determination naturally achieve great accomplishments. Hearing Yun Ye explain the hardships of wind, frost, snow, and rain along the road, Monk Jueyuan’s face showed difficulty.
Xuanzang didn’t care whether anyone else went. His expression remained unchanged, as if he were merely taking a long journey. He firmly memorized all the various accidents that could occur in deserts, wastelands, and grasslands, along with simple coping methods, and promised Yun Ye he would record the mountains, rivers, terrain, local customs, and human conditions along the way and give them to him upon his return.
In history, Jueyuan’s shadow didn’t appear in Xuanzang’s journey, so he remained just a staff monk, a Shaolin Temple monk known for martial prowess in Chang’an. Who knew what thoughts he would have after witnessing Xuanzang’s glorious return? Fate was unfair, yet it was also so fair, always finding a subtle balance between the spear and the shield.
At the magnificent banquet, Xuanzang was not the most outstanding—he was even somewhat humble, easily overlooked. He didn’t have the compassionate bearing of those eminent monks, but had more determination and aspiration. Only Yun Ye knew this was the final brilliance of the Great Tang’s Buddhist community. Perhaps not until Emperor Wuzong’s persecution of Buddhism would they realize the significance of Xuanzang’s journey.
More and more people arrived at the banquet, and their status accordingly decreased. The princes and dukes who came early left one after another. The various court bigwigs also successively took their leave. Their appearance held only symbolic meaning. Now was the time to discuss practical matters, naturally conducted by representatives from each family meeting with familiar temple monks.
Only then did Yun Ye discover that temples were the largest lenders of usurious loans. Due to the appearance of the locust plague, those who benefited most were these monks who appeared with compassionate faces. Their wealth was enviable.
Yun Ye just drooled a bit. Surely someone had the ability to control all this. He didn’t believe this simple banquet of selling dog meat while hanging up a sheep’s head could escape Li Er’s eyes. Would an emperor who had a strong desire to control even the ants on the ground of the Great Tang tolerate them brazenly plundering his subjects?
Chang’an had never been a good place. It was filled with cunning calculations and cruel plunder. Previously floating on the surface, Yun Ye had only experienced its most beautiful side. Only now did he know how much the military bigwigs had protected him.
Old Cheng, Old Niu, even Qin Qiong and Yuchi Gong—their treatment of him was already a kind of indulgent doting. He didn’t know what price these veteran generals had paid behind his reckless behavior.
From the time they went on campaign, Yun Ye had been caught up in various storms, without respite and with no end in sight.
Power has not blinded my eyes.
Yun Ye suddenly felt an impulse to laugh loudly. Interests—no matter how noble one’s status or how exalted one’s position, everyone was just a creature of self-interest. Having understood this, Yun Ye felt himself to be noble. Regardless of what he had done before, whether anyone understood, or whether people might mock him, it didn’t matter. All of this was just the harness Yun Ye had voluntarily placed on himself, just like the harness he’d voluntarily worn in Longyou. He pulled from the front while Niu Jinda pushed from behind.