Chapter 35: Half a Jin of Crimson Makeup

Mount Nalanda?

That place embodies an extreme form of reverence. Before entering Nalanda, many of its practitioners held lofty worldly identities—perhaps a king of the Amrita Kingdom, a prince of the Lion Kingdom, or even royalty from the Maurya Dynasty, each more illustrious than the last. Yet once they entered Nalanda to undertake ascetic practices, emerging from seclusion only to re-enter the mundane world, they would descend into the dust, indistinguishable from ordinary monks. Nalanda’s rules are stringent: no silk garments, no wrinkled robes, no indulgence in food, and sleep confined to a one-meter-square cloth mat with legs curled. The sheer number of regulations would leave even the most worldly Central Plains folk dumbfounded.

The young lord had heard legends of Nalanda—like the wandering monk who, upon spotting a lost item by the roadside, would draw a circle around it and sit nearby, often waiting fruitlessly for days. Yet, generally speaking, no outsider would dare covet anything marked by a Nalanda monk’s circle. Even more astonishing, there was an old monk who had been “imprisoning” himself within such a circle for thirty-four years, though no one knew what this living Buddha reincarnate was waiting for.

Thus, monks who trained at Nalanda carried a golden seal of prestige, welcomed wherever they went. Even fake abbots who shaved their heads to pose as monks often began their introductions with, “This humble monk hails from Nalanda.”

The training at Nalanda was excruciating, and its disciple selection was ruthlessly strict. Despite housing only around three hundred monks, the monastery rivaled the far-reaching influence of the Two Zen Temples, standing as twin beacons in the east and west.

When this red-robed monk claimed to be from Nalanda, Xu Fengnian believed him—half because of the monk’s earlier chanting and gestures, and half because he sensed the monk’s aura flowing like a mighty river. Outwardly, the monk was as still as a mountain, but within, his energy surged like torrents racing to the sea.

Though Xu Fengnian held Nalanda and its monks in high regard, the idea of being forcibly dragged to the Western Regions was non-negotiable. With a chilling smile, he asked, “What if I refuse?”

His hand hovered over the hilt of his sword, Xiudong, ready to unleash a strike capable of shattering an entire wall.

Unexpectedly, the monk merely replied with calm indifference, “This humble monk can wait.”

Xu Fengnian’s thumb absently traced the sword hilt. “Wait?”

The solemn-faced monk circled Xu Fengnian once before quietly retreating to a distance, showing no intention of restraining or obstructing the young lord.

Xu Fengnian found the situation absurd, and even the little girl watching the spectacle was baffled. She much preferred the freeloading monks back home—far more entertaining than whatever dull mountain this “Nalanda” was.

Finally snapping out of her daze, the girl whispered to Xu Fengnian, “Xu Fengnian, you’re the son of that what’s-his-name? So you’re the young lord?”

“That what’s-his-name” was undoubtedly Xu Xiao.

Whether from Daoist or Buddhist sects, regardless of age or gender, no one in the martial world dared to utter the Grand Pillar of State Xu Xiao’s name directly.

Keeping an eye on the Nalanda monk’s aura—much like the so-called “riding the ox” technique—Xu Fengnian, still holding the spiced beef, grinned and asked, “Scared? Regret knowing me?”

The girl let out three exaggerated laughs, though it was clear she was just bolstering her own courage. Amused, Xu Fengnian didn’t call her out. Back when they traveled the martial world together, she’d always been the first to hurl insults and the quickest to flee when trouble arose.

The timid little monk murmured, “Dongxi, let’s go. We’ve seen him. If we don’t return soon, Master and Mistress will fight the abbot again.”

The girl glanced between Xu Fengnian and the little monk, torn between the allure of the green rouge and the call of home—though her eyes kept drifting to the fragrant beef. Not wanting to burden her simple heart, Xu Fengnian wordlessly handed her the meat and turned away. “Wait here. Eat first, then I’ll escort you out of Liangzhou. No reason to leave hungry.”

Heading east to the rouge shop, Xu Fengnian passed a butcher’s stall where a tall but still baby-faced girl sat on the threshold, watching him with a bamboo twig in hand.

In a hurry to buy the rouge—famous thanks to his second sister Xu Wei Xiong’s autumn poem—Xu Fengnian didn’t greet her. The shopkeeper didn’t mind him taking the goods for free; after all, whenever the young lord brought courtesans to pick rouge, he’d tip generously if they were pleased. Grabbing a box of green rouge and two boxes of Imperial Concubine Peach, Xu Fengnian left without a word, leaving the shop in hushed silence. Wealthy patrons with their concubines dared not even look up.

Meanwhile, the little monk watched the girl devouring the beef, her hands and mouth greasy. “So that’s Xu Fengnian? The young lord? His reputation isn’t great.”

With a mouthful of beef, the girl shrugged. “I’m not pretty either. He wouldn’t fancy me.”

The monk protested, “Who says?!”

Ignoring her childhood friend’s concern, she grinned. “Mom told me not to befriend girls prettier than me—they’ll steal men. And not to marry someone too handsome—they attract too many bees and butterflies. Since I’m half a monastic, killing too many would be bad.”

The little monk resorted to authority. “Dongxi, don’t you remember what Master and Mistress said about outsiders?”

She nodded solemnly. “Of course! Dad said men outside the temple are all tiger-slaying, murderous brutes. Mom said women outside are honey-tongued, scorpion-hearted vipers. Silly Nanbei, they were just scaring me!”

The dim-witted monk fell silent.

Tilting her head, the girl asked, “Do you dislike Xu Fengnian?”

He shook his head. “If Dongxi likes him, I like him.”

Pleased by his answer, she let the ugly name “Dongxi” slide.

When Xu Fengnian returned with the rouge, he found the girl wiping her face with her sleeve. Handing her the gift, he smiled. “For you.”

The little monk sighed like an old man at her delight but didn’t complain.

Hesitating, the girl asked, “Xu Fengnian, is that what’s-his-name at the manor?”

“He’ll be back from the northern border in a couple of days.”

She bounced excitedly. “Can we visit your home then?”

Xu Fengnian was speechless.

What followed only deepened his amazement at her audacity. At the gates of Northern Liang Manor, she eyed the guardian lions and remarked, “Shame we don’t have these at home.”

Inside, marveling at the sprawling estate leading up to Cool Breeze Mountain’s peak, she murmured, “Pretty big. Almost half the size of my place.”

Spotting the living-water lake and the Tide Listening Pavilion, she giggled. “Love this pond. Ours isn’t as grand. Silly Nanbei, study harder with Dad so you can learn to move mountains and take this pond home.”

Xu Fengnian chuckled. “Be my guest.”

The little monk whispered, “Dongxi, the temple is your home, but it’s not your property.”

She glared. “What’s the difference?”

He faltered. “Is there?”

She countered, “Then tell me—is a white horse a horse?”

The monk, who’d only ended up studying Buddhism by accident, grew even more uncertain. “Is it?”

Xu Fengnian settled the pair in a courtyard near Wutong Garden, a sign of his regard for the girl. Throughout the visit, he avoided staring, not wanting to spook the little braggart. Instead, he studied the little monk. The green-and-pink robe marked him as a rare “lecturing monk” in Buddhist tradition, a rank just below the imperial-bestowed crimson and purple robes. Wearers of such garb were said to possess three great virtues, protected by dragons and revered by all beings—even demons. Xu Fengnian grew even more curious about the girl’s “home temple.”

Seated in the courtyard, Xu Fengnian watched the girl darting around excitedly inside. The little monk, his robe draped over his left shoulder instead of the right, crouched by a swing, staring blankly at the sky.

Sweet Potato appeared silently behind the young lord.

Since descending the mountain, Xu Fengnian had learned that the white-haired old freak had defeated the saber-wielding hero Wei Beishan, and both had left Northern Liang. The martial arts world’s Xuanyuan Clan, crushed by Yuan Zuozong and Lu Qiuer, was now on its last legs. The “Little Butcher” Chen Zhibao had amassed yet more military glory at the border.

Xu Xiao would soon return.

Second Sister Xu Wei Xiong was also coming home for the New Year—undoubtedly to scold Xu Fengnian for picking up the sword and Xu Xiao for lax parenting.

Rubbing his burning forehead, Xu Fengnian sighed. “Sweet Potato, prepare some cotton.”

She smiled knowingly. In the manor, who didn’t fear Xu Wei Xiong?

Turning, Xu Fengnian saw the girl emerge from the house, bashfully clutching her clothes.

Her face was caked in at least half a pound of rouge.

The little monk gaped.

Sweet Potato averted her eyes—it was truly a sight to behold.

Xu Fengnian rose with a grin. “Absolutely stunning.”