Zizhen made his move against Ming Jing one year after arriving at Flowing Spring Temple.

One year was enough time for the child to figure out Ming Jing’s habits and weaknesses. When someone is determined to seek revenge, they’ll always find various methods, even if they’re just a child.

Moreover, Zizhen was a bandit’s child – from childhood to adulthood, he had seen no shortage of bloody scenes.

He poisoned Ming Jing.

The poison was a forbidden toxin from the demon race, specifically designed to counter Buddhist cultivators like Ming Jing. In Mount Yue’e, Ming Jing’s cultivation was the highest. With many Buddhist cultivators in Flowing Spring Temple, where there were people, there would always be open and covert struggles.

In this world, Zizhen wasn’t the only one who wanted Ming Jing dead.

The young monk sat upright in the Buddha hall, blood dripping from the corners of his lips, staining the monk’s robes on his body.

The young man’s eyes burned with the fire of hatred, like a ferocious man-eating beast, slowly approaching him.

Suddenly, a woman’s light laughter rang out. She seemed to descend from heaven, gracefully landing on the altar table in the Buddha hall. She looked at the scene before her with schadenfreude and said, “Oh my, the wolf cub has finally bitten someone.”

Ming Jing remained silent.

Over this past year, Zizhen had tried to attack him many times, and Ming Jing had always casually avoided them. Each time, Bujiang had never intervened to stop it. She would just quietly watch them from the shadows, as if watching a boring play that had been repeated hundreds of times.

Today, she had finally grown tired of this repetitive plot.

Dark blood continuously overflowed from Ming Jing’s lips. His complexion was as white as fragile paper – just a gentle touch would cause it to crumble into ash.

Demon race forbidden medicine was the ultimate poison for cultivators.

Zizhen rushed toward him with the resolve to perish together, but Bujiang merely flicked the round bracelet on her wrist, and the young man was sent flying.

Killing a mortal was effortless for her.

Bujiang looked down at him from above, smiling sweetly: “How can one repay kindness with ingratitude toward a benefactor?”

“He’s not a benefactor,” Zizhen gritted his teeth and struggled, “He killed my father! He’s my father-killing enemy!”

Bujiang thought for a moment, her face showing a hint of difficulty: “Human grudges and vengeances are always complicated. I find it hard to understand. Since it can’t be explained clearly, I’d better kill you first. If you’re dead, things will be much simpler.”

Her fingers were about to grip Zizhen’s throat.

Ming Jing looked up: “Don’t kill him.”

Bujiang slowly turned her head.

The monk’s calm voice rang out again in the Buddha hall: “Don’t kill him.”

A flash of murderous intent passed through the woman’s eyes. A moment later, she smiled and stared at Ming Jing: “Little Master, have you forgotten? You’re a Buddhist cultivator, not a true Buddha.”

“I killed his father,” Ming Jing said, lowering his eyes. “His desire for revenge is understandable.”

Bujiang raised an eyebrow. Only the young man’s desperate sobbing could be heard in the hall.

After a moment, she said, “Fine.” A brilliant white orb gradually appeared in her hand.

Seeing the orb, Zizhen realized something and began struggling violently: “What are you trying to do?”

The next moment, the orb struck heavily toward his head, and the young man collapsed silently.

Ming Jing’s gaze tightened.

“Don’t worry.” Bujiang clapped her hands. “He’s not dead. I just did a little something for his memory.”

She slowly walked to Ming Jing’s side and knelt on one knee until she was at eye level with him. Only then did she look at him, half sighing and half joking: “Little Master, among all the men I’ve liked, you have the softest heart.”

“Someone was trying to kill you, yet you still spared his life. Even the Bodhisattvas in heaven aren’t as magnanimous as you.”

Ming Jing remained silent, his brows and eyes peaceful and serene.

“What did you do to Zizhen?” he asked.

Bujiang smiled leisurely: “You’re in this condition yourself, yet you’re still worried about others. He’s fine. I used the Heart-Severing Needle to seal his memories. In the future, he won’t come to trouble you anymore.”

“Heart-Severing Needle?” Ming Jing was stunned.

“Would you like to learn?” Bujiang looked at him. “If in the future you can’t forget me and are tormented by love day and night, you can use this method to seal your memories and forget me.”

Her voice carried a faint seductive quality.

Ming Jing avoided her gaze and answered gently, “No need.”

Bujiang seemed to have anticipated this response and smiled noncommittally.

The monk’s body swayed precariously, as if he would collapse at any moment. The woman supported his shoulder and gazed into his eyes.

His eyes were clear, as vast as a long lake, while her gaze was captivating, like vines entwined with desire.

“You’ve been poisoned by demon toxin,” she said casually. “Mortal medicine cannot save you.”

The monk remained silent.

“Fortunately, you met me.”

After saying this, she gently leaned down and pressed her lips to the monk’s forehead.

Black mist slowly withdrew from his forehead, and he felt the pain in his body gradually lessening. But she didn’t stop this kiss, like an eternally blooming flower in the myriad phenomena of the mortal world, emanating a deadly toxicity even more intense than before.

Just as he couldn’t help but was about to sink into it, the flower withdrew.

“There.” Bujiang stood up and said, “Your poison has been cured.”

“The wolf cub no longer remembers you either. Little Master, before I leave, I can finally rest assured.”

The monk’s heart stopped for a moment. He heard his voice: “You’re leaving?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” She turned back, looking at him with a half-smile. “The day you fall in love with me is when I should leave.”

He fell silent.

“Little Master,” she tilted her head to look at him, her face showing a hint of light, cheerful smile, as if extremely pleased, without the slightest trace of parting sadness. “Although I hate soft-hearted men the most, I still like you very much.”

“Making a Buddhist cultivator fall in love – what a sin.”

“Good thing I’m from the demon race, so I won’t feel guilty about it.”

“I’m leaving now.”

She drifted away again like a flower, clean and decisive, without the slightest entanglement. She left Flowing Spring Temple, left Mount Yue’e, and went to a distant place where he could never see her again.

The monk clenched the prayer beads in his hands.

He had also lied.

He knew this woman hadn’t come to stay at Flowing Spring Temple because of him. This place was rich in spiritual energy, and she had just been injured and needed to recuperate here. All those things she had said to him were lies.

He also knew that Bujiang should have left half a year ago.

He had deliberately brought Zizhen back to Flowing Spring Temple. He knew Bujiang would watch from the side as he and Zizhen struggled and confronted each other, delaying the day of parting. Until this time, when Zizhen made his move, Bujiang appeared and eliminated the future trouble for him.

With the future trouble eliminated, she should leave.

He had seen a flower but couldn’t prevent its departure, even if it meant lying to Buddha.

“When will the benefactor leave?”

“The day you fall in love with me.”

She had leaned close, her eyes hiding a cunning smile: “So when will you fall in love with me?”

The prayer beads gleamed with warm light under the lamplight. He remembered the first time he saw Bujiang in the mountains.

She had been by the water stream, beside the bluestone, casually rubbing the scar on her ankle. Hearing movement, she looked up, concealed the faint demonic aura around her, and smiled brilliantly at him: “Little Master, I’ve sprained my ankle. Could you help me up?”

Actually, from the very beginning, he had fallen in love with her.