The first time Ming Jing encountered Bujiang was on a rainy evening.

On his way back to Flowing Spring Temple, he met a young lady. The lady sat on a bluestone, gently rubbing her ankle with her head lowered. Hearing footsteps, she looked up with a brilliant smile, revealing a face so beautiful it seemed not meant for this mortal world.

She smiled at Ming Jing and said, “Little Master, I’ve sprained my ankle. Could you help me up?”

Ming Jing stopped a few steps away from her. Her snow-white jade feet were like the finest works of art, without the slightest flaw. The woman smiled at him sweetly, like the mountain spirits and enchantresses recorded in ancient texts, her every gesture captivating the heart and soul.

After a long moment, he said, “Alright.”

Ming Jing was a Buddhist cultivator.

He was an orphan. The old abbot of Flowing Spring Temple had found him by the stream and brought him back to raise as his own. He was born with excellent spiritual roots and considerable talent for cultivation. With his pure mind, he was most suited for the Buddhist path.

He was also blessed with good looks – clean and bright, with a faint sacred Buddhist air between his brows and eyes. Every time he went down the mountain, young ladies would secretly peek at him, hinting openly and covertly that he might consider returning to secular life or switching to another cultivation path.

Ming Jing never paid them any mind.

Coming and going in the mortal world, abandon all attachments. Cease thoughts and forget worries, and Buddha will naturally appear.

But Bujiang was probably an exception.

He helped her to Flowing Spring Temple, and she simply refused to leave. She stayed in the temple, pestering him day after day, saying to him, “Little Master, stop cultivating the Buddhist path and come with me.”

Ming Jing closed his eyes and continued reciting sutras as usual, pretending not to hear.

She wasn’t annoyed either. She just smiled and sat beside him, staring at him intently.

Ming Jing knew that Bujiang was not of the human race.

She was extremely beautiful, a kind of beauty that could transcend species and be easily captured by anyone. Occasionally she would also tease other monks in the temple. The younger ones couldn’t help but blush and waver in their hearts under such soul-stirring beauty.

The next moment, she would sidle up to Ming Jing again, her bright red dress skirt like a blooming flower, spreading across the spacious Buddha hall. She was like an ill-intentioned female demon, half testing and half serious as she said, “Are you jealous?”

His hand paused in striking the wooden fish, and with eyes still closed, he spoke indifferently, “Benefactor, please conduct yourself with propriety.”

“Oh.” She leaned against him, her breath carrying a faint floral fragrance, her voice seeming to hide hooks, “I refuse.”

At that time, Ming Jing was still a young Buddhist cultivator. No matter how good-tempered he was, he couldn’t endure such daily pestering. At first he remained courteous and polite, but later, every early morning when Bujiang came to find him, Ming Jing would look at the hem of her dress and calmly say, “When will the benefactor be leaving?”

The woman showed no anger at being driven away. As if deliberately opposing him, she spoke unhurriedly, “The day you fall in love with me.”

Ming Jing turned and walked away.

He was a Buddhist cultivator – naturally he wouldn’t be moved by improper thoughts, nor would he fall in love with a… demon.

But Bujiang seemed unconcerned, as if liking someone was the most ordinary thing in the world to her. As for how the other party responded, whether they liked her back, none of that seemed very important to her. She enjoyed the process and delighted in it, regardless of the outcome.

She even found a small silver lock from somewhere, carved the names Ming Jing and Bujiang on it, and hung it on the large locust tree in the courtyard of Flowing Spring Temple, laughing as she said, “Your and my destined bond must be locked together. The lock is already hanging there, Little Master,” her tone was frivolous, “you belong to me now.”

Ming Jing looked at the small lock hanging on the treetop and said with lowered eyes, “Benefactor, please watch your words.”

Bujiang would never watch her words. She was bolder than any human woman. She would often say things that made people blush with embarrassment, while remaining completely indifferent herself, leaving only the listeners feeling restless and uncomfortable.

Winter came and the locust tree’s branches and leaves fell. When spring arrived, new shoots would sprout again. Days passed peacefully like flowing water, trickling by. Ming Jing gradually grew accustomed to the days with one more person in the temple.

One day, on his way down the mountain, Ming Jing encountered a group of bandits committing murder.

The bandits had captured a young couple and brutally killed them along with their servants. Ming Jing decisively intervened, but the bandits harbored vicious intentions and wanted to perish together with him. At the critical moment, the meditation staff pierced the bandit’s heart, but the blade was still an inch away from the monk’s chest.

The bandit died.

There was rustling in the grass. A child of about eight or nine years old stumbled out, threw himself on the bandit’s body, and burst into tears: “Father—”

Ming Jing was stunned.

This utterly evil bandit happened to be a father who loved and protected his son dearly. Fearing that his death would implicate his young child, he had wanted to perish together with Ming Jing to eliminate future troubles for his son, but ultimately things didn’t go as planned.

Ming Jing brought the child back to Flowing Spring Temple.

Bujiang also saw the child.

The woman stared at the child for a long while. For the first time, her face showed no frivolous smile. She only asked, “You want to take him in?”

“He has nowhere else to go.”

“I advise you not to.” Bujiang’s gaze swept vaguely over the small child trembling on the ground, “I can see very clearly – there’s hatred in his eyes. Little Master,” she said, “this is a wolf. If you keep him, sooner or later you’ll be bitten by the wolf.”

Ming Jing said, “It doesn’t matter.”

“As you wish.” She shrugged, “Just don’t regret it.”

Ming Jing kept the child and named him Zizhen.

Zizhen was very timid, always following fearfully behind Ming Jing, completely different from his brutal and vicious father. Ming Jing treated him very well, perhaps because Zizhen’s background always reminded him of himself. The Ming Jing of those days had been helpless and alone, also raised single-handedly by the old abbot.

But Bujiang didn’t like Zizhen. She would always whisper in Ming Jing’s ear, “Wolves can never be tamed, Little Master. You’d better not waste time on that little brat. You’re not going to treat him like your own son, are you?” She complained somewhat, “Ever since he came, you’ve spent much less time talking with me…”

“When will you ever fall in love with me this way?” Her voice drifted into his ears, becoming ethereal again.

Ming Jing remained silent, quietly striking the wooden fish with his head lowered.

Bujiang smiled faintly and turned her head to look toward the corner of the Buddha hall. The tender young man in monk’s robes hid in the Buddha’s shadow, his gaze like green moss growing from the darkness, firmly entangled with the seated monk before him.

As if noticing Bujiang’s gaze, the young man looked up. The moment their eyes met, his gaze trembled, and he hurriedly lowered his head, concealing the emotions in his eyes.

The sound of the wooden fish rang unhurriedly in the Buddha hall. In the curling incense smoke, the giant Buddha statue looked down benevolently at the people in the hall.

“Little Master, being so soft-hearted, you’ll definitely be bitten to death by the wolf.” She suddenly spoke.

Ming Jing continued reciting Buddhist sutras.

She pressed her red lips to the monk’s ear, her exhaled breath like tidal mist, quickly igniting every inch of his skin. She said, “For the sake of how much I like you, I can help you – kill this wolf. Alright?”

His hand paused in striking the wooden fish, then he spoke, “No need.”