**"If one seeks me in form, if one searches for me in sound—such a person walks the path of delusion and cannot behold the Tathāgata."**
If this continued, it wouldn't be long before he collapsed from exhaustion.
There was, of course, a simple way to make the monk stop: surrender. Become the very monster the monk believed him to be.
Kneel obediently. Confess every imagined sin, every fabricated atrocity. Promise repentance, swear rebirth. Then grovel in gratitude for the mercy of being allowed to live.
Perhaps it was blood loss, but his vision began to blur.
The old monk's eyes remained shut as he recited scripture verbatim, each word dripping with self-righteousness—*Dharma, Heaven's Will*—while sacred sigils rained down like blades.
*Why not beg for mercy?*
If the answer was *"Why should I? Why endure this humiliation?"*—then tomorrow's Bai Changming would be no different from today's Monk Nianchu.
Was the divide between **"all living beings"** merely strength and species?
Was that lotus seal nothing but the strong's condescending pity for the weak?
Were the words **"compassion"** and **"mercy"** just empty phrases to be memorized, then parroted by men like this monk?
...
*"With the Way but no technique, technique can still be learned.*
*With technique but no Way, technique reaches its limit."*
Monk Nianchu's eyes flew open in shock—**his sigils were crumbling!**
*"Oh? **Now** you deign to look at me."* Bai Changming smirked, tearing a floating **"Master"** character in half like scrap paper. With a whistle, rows of sacred scriptures obediently lined up before him, and he shredded them in handfuls.
Nianchu paled, frantically chanting spells—but nothing worked. The Lengyan incense still burned, yet its power was gone.
Bai Changming rose. Magic surged back into his veins, familiar and potent. His wounds sealed; his hair turned silver-white, like mountain snow. Without blinking, he destroyed another sigil—**"Righteousness"**—its golden light now just fluttering yellow paper.
*"You—how?! These were blessed by Master Jing'an! You're a demon, this—this defies the Dharma—!"*
*"You dare speak of the Dharma?"* Bai Changming snapped the incense stick in two.
Before him stood a statue of the Tathāgata.
Eyes lowered, serene in boundless compassion.
When he'd first entered, the meditation cushion had held Monk Nianchu—glaring, imperious, spitting dogma. A battle of strong versus weak, human versus monster.
But deeper in the room, higher, had been **this**: silent, watching. Bai Changming met its gaze, and time crumbled to dust behind him.
**Compassion.**
A single thought, and the dust of three realms, the voices of ten directions—**all listened.**
He dissolved into that gaze, melting into eternity.
...
*"'If one seeks me in form, if one searches for me in sound—such a person walks the path of delusion and cannot behold the Tathāgata.' An ancient text says this, no?"*
*"Monk, you can recite sutras. But you understand nothing of the Buddha."*
Bai Changming withdrew his hand from the statue and knelt solemnly on the cushion. Lighting three fresh incense sticks, he bowed three times—deep, reverent.
Then he turned to Nianchu, eyes glacial.
Picking up a surviving sigil, he brushed his fingers over it. The paper twisted into a dagger. His blade pressed against the monk's throat as Nianchu cowered on the floor.
Eyes squeezed shut, Nianchu flinched—then collapsed as cold steel flashed.
———
By dawn, rumors of **"Monk Nianchu's Madness"** had spread through the city.
They said he awoke remembering nothing—no Buddhism, no past. Just an endless, feverish chant:
*"If one seeks me in form, if one searches for me in sound… such a person walks the path of delusion… cannot behold the Tathāgata… cannot behold… if one seeks me in form…"*
Bai Changming's magic faded to its usual level once he left the temple. But the twin demons of **rage** and **emptiness** no longer tormented him—though no outsider would ever know.
*"Quite the eventful life you've had."* That day in Lin'an Temple, he'd knocked Nianchu unconscious and absorbed his memories.
*"Perfect. I needed a new weapon."* He smiled, committing the spells to mind.
As he prepared to leave, he'd considered killing the monk—**tying loose ends**—but then he'd glanced up.
The Buddha statue was watching him.
**Serene. Unchanged.**
He left. Anticipating the young monk's return, he cast a memory-erasing array. Sure enough, the boy stumbled into it later, recalling nothing.
———
Winter night. Stars eternal.
*Shuichan…*
*In our time apart, I've missed you terribly.*
*Where are you now?