*"If one sees me in form,
If one seeks me in sound,
They walk the path of delusion,
And cannot see the Tathagata."*
If this continued, it wouldn't be long before he collapsed from exhaustion.
The way to make the monk stop was simple—he just had to surrender, to become the monstrous creature the monk believed him to be. To kneel obediently, confess in detail how he had wreaked havoc and committed atrocities all this time, vow to repent and turn over a new leaf, and finally kowtow in gratitude for being spared.
Perhaps it was the blood loss, but his vision was gradually blurring.
The old monk, eyes shut, recited scripture word for word with flawless precision, preaching grandly about Buddhist law and heavenly principles. The talismanic symbols fell like blades before him.
*Why not beg for mercy?*
If the answer was *"Why should I? Why should the weak endure?"*—then the man he'd become tomorrow would be no different from the monk before him today.
Was the distinction of *"all living beings"* merely a matter of strength, weakness, or species?
Was that lotus symbol nothing but the condescending pity of the strong for the weak?
Were the words *"compassion"* and *"mercy"* just empty phrases written on paper, to be recited by men like this monk?
...
*"He who understands the Way but lacks skill may still attain it;
He who possesses skill but lacks the Way—his skill ends there."*
Nianchu the monk jolted, his eyes snapping open—his talismans had rotted away!
*"Oh? So now you finally deign to open your eyes."* Bai Changming sneered, tearing a *"Master"* talisman to shreds like scrap paper. With a whistle, rows of scripture obediently lined up before him, and he tore through them in stacks without hesitation.
Nianchu was horrified. He chanted the sacred verses he had practiced all his life, but they no longer held any power. The *Lengyan* incense in the burner still smoldered, but its effect had vanished entirely.
Bai Changming stood. His magic had returned to him, the familiar energy coursing through his body. His wounds had healed, his hair now silver-white like mountain snow.
Without blinking, he shredded another talisman—this one bearing the character *"Righteous."* The golden sigils had all turned into mere scraps of yellow paper.
*"You—how is this possible?! These were blessed by Master Jing'an! You're a demon—this can't be! This defies the Dharma!"*
*"And you dare speak of the Dharma?"* Bai Changming snapped the *Lengyan* incense stick in half.
He stood still, facing a statue of the Tathagata at the center of the room.
Eyes lowered in serenity, radiating boundless compassion.
When he had first entered this room, the meditation cushion had been occupied by the old monk—stern, glaring, spewing harsh words. Man and demon had clashed in a battle of strength and opposition.
But deeper in the room, higher up, sat a silent Buddha statue. Bai Changming met its gaze, feeling time crumble into dust behind him.
*Compassion.*
A single thought arose—all the dust of the three realms, all beings of the ten directions, listening.
He dissolved into that gaze, melting into eternity.
...
*"If one sees me in form,
If one seeks me in sound,
They walk the path of delusion,
And cannot see the Tathagata."*
*"That's from an ancient text, isn't it?"*
*"Monk, you can chant the Buddha's words—but you don't understand the Buddha."*
Bai Changming withdrew his hand from the statue and slowly knelt on the cushion. He lit three fresh sticks of incense, bowed three times to the statue—solemn, sincere.
Then he stood and turned to Nianchu, his gaze sharp as frozen steel.
Picking up a talisman, he ran his fingers over it—the paper transformed into a dagger. He looked down at the monk, now collapsed on the floor, and pressed the blade to his throat.
Nianchu squeezed his eyes shut in terror. A cold flash—and he fell unconscious.
The next day, news spread like wildfire—Nianchu of Lin'an Temple had gone mad.
When he awoke, he had forgotten all the Buddhist teachings he had once mastered. He could recall nothing of his past, only muttering obsessively, over and over:
*"If one sees me in form, if one seeks me in sound, they walk the path of delusion and cannot see the Tathagata... cannot see the Tathagata... if one sees me in form..."*
Once Bai Changming left the temple, his magic returned to its original level. Yet the torment of the twin demons—*"rage"* and *"emptiness"*—had vanished from his heart. Though, of course, no outsider would ever notice.
*"You've had quite the eventful life."* That day at Lin'an Temple, he had knocked the monk unconscious with a spell and absorbed all his memories.
*"Perfect. I was just missing a good weapon."* Bai Changming smiled, committing the spells to memory.
As he prepared to leave, he had considered killing the monk to eliminate future trouble. But when he looked up, the Buddha statue was watching him—as serene and compassionate as ever.
So he left.
Anticipating that the young monk would return, he set up a memory-erasing array. Sure enough, the monk stumbled into it later, waking with no recollection of what had happened.
The winter night stretched above, the river of stars eternal.
*Shuichan... in all this time apart, I've missed you terribly. Where are you now?*