Xu Fengnian and his party arrived at the foot of the mountain, where a staircase of 1,008 steps led upward. After dismounting, Zhang Longjing introduced the path as the “Incense-Burning Road,” also known as the “Worry-Free Path.” No matter how many burdens pilgrims carried, walking this mountain trail would leave them free of worries. However, Zhang Longjing added with a smile, “In my opinion, it’s just exhaustion—once you’re this tired, you won’t even have the energy to fret.” Xu Fengnian chuckled at this remark. Zhang Longjing then sighed, “After Liyang suppressed Buddhism, this once-thriving ancient temple with a thousand years of history was seized by a Taoist priest closely tied to the government. The monks have all fled. When the priest led soldiers to seal the temple, not a single ancient scripture was left behind. Our prefect, who once had a Buddhist-inspired nickname like ‘The Escaped Zen Elder,’ suddenly became a devout Taoist the moment the imperial decree arrived, even changing his nickname to ‘The Pure Elder.’ Rumor has it he recently forged a connection with the great Taoist master Wu Lingsu in the capital. Last year, his political performance was rated ‘Outstanding,’ and now there’s talk of him being promoted to a high-ranking position in the Ministry of Rites.”
Xu Fengnian, leading his horse, frowned and asked, “Was there once a stone archway at the mountain gate inscribed with ‘Buddha in the Present’?”
Zhang Longjing nodded with a smile. “Your Highness is truly knowledgeable. There indeed was such an archway, and the inscription and couplets were the work of the great calligrapher from the previous dynasty. It was a treasure, but unfortunately, after the Taoist took over, someone—for reasons unknown—knocked it down. You won’t see it on this trip.”
Xu Fengnian sighed helplessly. “Xu Xiao once had some history here. Passing through Wucai Prefecture, I thought I might try my luck to see if I could meet the old monk who once told Xu Xiao to ‘lay down the butcher’s knife.’ Never mind, let’s turn back.”
Zhang Longjing exclaimed in surprise, “There was such a thing? What a pity! Had I known, I would have donated tens of thousands of taels of incense money to Hanshan Temple back then.”
Xu Fengnian dismissed the remark with a smile and mounted his horse to return the way they came. However, in the distance, faint lantern light flickered by a small path—something they hadn’t seen earlier. The old spy Song Shanshui instinctively grew wary but quickly relaxed. After all, not only was the prince one of the top four grandmasters in the martial world, but with Yuan Zong and Xu Yanbing as his personal guards, who would dare provoke them? Either of these two experts alone would require at least seven or eight hundred imperial troops to even consider confronting them. Xu Fengnian, with his photographic memory, recognized the flickering light as coming from a dilapidated village shrine at a fork in the road. Slowing his horse, he saw an elderly man in tattered clothes standing by the roadside, holding a lantern, accompanied by a sleepy child wearing a cheap fur cap. Yuan Zong relaxed, realizing the man was no hidden master but just an ordinary old man, albeit slightly sturdier than most his age.
Xu Fengnian didn’t dismount but leaned forward and asked gently, “Elder, is there something you need?”
The old man, his eyesight weakened by age and the darkness, raised his lantern higher and smiled. “Young master, might your surname be Xu?”
Xu Fengnian was taken aback and countered, “Are you from Hanshan Temple?”
The old man nodded with a smile.
To the astonishment of Zhang Longjing and Song Shanshui, Xu Fengnian swiftly dismounted and approached the old man and child. From his robes, he carefully unwrapped a silk-wrapped Buddhist scripture and said, “The master lent this scripture to my father nearly twenty years ago. It’s time to return it to its rightful owner.”
The old man accepted it without ceremony, then uttered a surprisingly mundane request that disappointed Zhang Longjing: “Benefactor Xu, could you spare this poor monk a few taels of silver? Our rice jar is empty today.”
Xu Fengnian hesitated. The Northern Liang cavalry lacked many things on their southward march, but least of all gold and silver. Zhang Longjing, the wealthiest man in Wucai Prefecture, was equally stunned—he wasn’t the type to flaunt riches, and even his jade ornaments were worth thousands of taels. Fortunately, the old spy produced a few taels, which Xu Fengnian handed to the old monk—more accurately, the former abbot of the renowned Jiangnan temple, Master Faxian. The monk, unconcerned with the usual monastic aversion to handling money, openly pocketed the silver, visibly pleased. The young novice beside him beamed—silver meant food, and food meant no hunger. How could he not be happy?
After storing the silver, the old monk sighed. “By imperial decree, temples across the land are forbidden to harbor monks. Hanshan Temple was no exception. Some returned to secular life; others wandered afar. I once considered begging in the northwest, but I’m too old, and this young disciple is too frail for such a journey. Then I realized—whether I go to Northern Liang or not makes little difference. If I go, it’s just one old monk finding refuge. If I stay, perhaps I can guide a few more lost souls to peace.”
Xu Fengnian said sincerely, “Master, I can arrange for you and your disciple to travel safely to Northern Liang. When the world stabilizes, if you wish to return, Northern Liang will ensure your journey.”
The old monk shook his head with a smile. “Benefactor, there’s no need for such trouble. Wherever fate leads, that is where the Buddha’s path lies. Do not force it.”
Xu Fengnian didn’t insist, knowing it was futile. He smiled and said, “My father often spoke of you, saying you were a true enlightened monk with profound wisdom. He admired you greatly.”
The old monk laughed heartily. “Young Benefactor Xu, you’re fibbing now. Though I only met your father once, I know his temper well. If he didn’t call me a ‘stubborn old bald donkey,’ that was praise enough!”
Xu Fengnian fell silent. Privately, Xu Xiao had indeed always referred to the old monk as a “bald donkey” and even nicknamed him “Butcher’s Blade Monk.” Xu Fengnian had heard the story from his mother as a child: Master Faxian, born into nobility, had risen to a high position in the Western Chu court before resigning to become a Taoist hermit. Later, for reasons unknown, he converted to Buddhism and, after a debate with the previous abbot of Hanshan Temple, inexplicably became its leader. When the Xu family’s cavalry swept through the Central Plains, even enemy generals trembled at the mention of the “Liaodong Tiger.” Yet this monk had walked alone into Xu Xiao’s camp with a scripture, demanding he “lay down the butcher’s knife.” Had it not been for Wu Su’s intervention, the monk might have been beaten or worse. With his wife watching, Xu Xiao reluctantly accepted the scripture, exchanged a few nonsensical words, and had the monk escorted out.
Zhang Longjing, ever the opportunist, interjected, “Master, my family has many devout Buddhists. We’ve been planning several ceremonies lately…”
After patiently listening to Zhang Longjing’s polished speech, the old monk replied slowly, “I appreciate your kindness, Benefactor, but what you seek is not a Buddhist ceremony.”
Just as Zhang Longjing thought the matter was closed, the monk suddenly added with a smile, “But I’ll go anyway. Who knows? I might meet someone destined to hear the Dharma.”
Yuan Zong and Xu Yanbing exchanged glances.
Xu Fengnian, unsurprised, said earnestly, “The imperial suppression of Buddhism is complicated, and I won’t dwell on such unpleasantness. But I truly hope you can spread the Dharma to more people.”
The old monk, switching hands with the heavy lantern, said calmly, “Whether I preach the Dharma, how many hear it, and how many truly understand—these are separate matters. Temples, statues, scriptures, monks, even the Buddha himself or the Western Paradise—none are essential.”
He paused, looking at the young man before him. “What matters is whether people have a place in their hearts for the Dharma. If the Dharma exists in their hearts, then temples, monks, and the Buddha exist. Without it, even if every person in the world were a monk, what good would it do?”
Xu Fengnian nodded.
The old monk’s words were profound, but profound truths, when grounded, are true indeed. His notion of “a place for the Dharma in the heart” bridged the vast and the minute. Once, Xu Fengnian had despised pompous scholars and fortune-tellers, repelled by their empty words—especially the former, who spouted principles without practical guidance. As the heir apparent, he’d held a dim view of scholars and officials. But after inheriting his title and despite two unpleasant visits to the capital, his opinion of Liyang’s literati had softened—thanks to figures like Imperial Academy Chancellor Wang, Huang Shang, Han Guzi, and Qi Yanglong, who didn’t blindly oppose Northern Liang. Even Zhang Julu and Huan Wen, who sought to weaken the fiefdom, earned his respect. He began to wonder: Could young scholars, as they aged and gained experience, grow into the pillars of the court, the moral backbone of the nation?
Master Faxian studied Xu Fengnian’s companions, his amiable expression fading as he asked bluntly, “Benefactor Xu, Northern Liang has raised its banner. Does this mean rebellion?”
Xu Fengnian shook his head. “No rebellion.”
The old monk, his monkhood hidden under a fur cap, raised an eyebrow. “Then has Your Highness received an imperial decree to quell unrest?”
Xu Fengnian shook his head again. “There may be such a decree in Tai’an, but I’ll never see it. By now, the ailing Huai Circuit Governor Cai Nan and Administrator Han Lin have likely received theirs.”
The old monk frowned. “Then does Guangli Circuit need Northern Liang cavalry to suppress the rebellion for the court?”
Xu Fengnian shook his head once more. “No. If they did, I wouldn’t have brought just ten thousand cavalry—at least thirty thousand infantry from Youzhou would have joined.”
At this point, Yuan Zong narrowed his eyes, his killing intent palpable.
The old monk hummed, then asked three pointed questions: “Is Northern Liang part of Liyang’s territory? Are Northern Liang’s people Liyang’s subjects? Are Northern Liang’s border troops Liyang’s soldiers?”
Xu Fengnian nodded expressionlessly. “All of the above.”
The lantern-bearing monk stood silently in the night before asking, “Dare I ask the Northern Liang King: Among Liyang’s three emperors, has there been a single tyrant?”
Xu Fengnian smiled. “Not only no, but setting aside personal grudges, objectively speaking, all three were among history’s rarest wise rulers. Zhao Li’s brilliance surpassed even Liyang’s founder; Zhao Dun’s diligence and tolerance were unmatched in a millennium; Zhao Zhuan’s lofty yet pragmatic vision, given ten years of peace, would have ushered in a golden age.”
The old monk scoffed, then suddenly sobered. “How absurd!”
Xu Fengnian tucked his hands into his sleeves and said slowly, “You must wonder, Master, why you—a remnant of Western Chu, a monk driven from his temple to squat in a village shrine—can view the world so calmly, while I, a mighty northwestern prince, would march south for personal gain?”
The old monk studied the young man’s eyes, not his face. “Does Your Highness have unspeakable reasons?”
Xu Fengnian smiled wryly. “I do. But to the world, they’re insignificant.”
The old monk lifted his lantern slightly. “Truly insignificant? This old monk is frail—without this lamp, I’d lose my way, see no one, not even you. Does that make it insignificant? Perhaps to all under heaven, but not to me at this moment.”
Xu Fengnian hesitated.
The old monk mused aloud, “This world is strange. That barren land of Northern Liang once needed the Xu family’s wolfish army to guard it, needed Xu Xiao’s presence to deter Beimang. Without him, even Gu Jianjia couldn’t have held it. Yet reducing feudal power was inevitable. Had the Xu family miraculously defeated Beimang, curbing their influence would’ve been impossible. No matter what two generations of Northern Liang Kings thought, their loyal generals might’ve pushed for greater glory, eager to become dragon-riding ministers. So the Liyang emperors faced a dilemma: They had to endure scholars and officials cursing Northern Liang, yet the Iron Cavalry could only ever belong to the Xu family. Then a scholar named Zhang proposed a solution: Let Northern Liang and Beimang bleed each other dry—preferably to mutual destruction.”
Xu Fengnian chuckled. “Exactly. To the court, it’s just dogs fighting.”
The old monk glanced at the young prince.
Xu Fengnian said frankly, “If my family’s actions made the court disregard Northern Liang’s people as Liyang’s subjects, I admit it. Xu Xiao would too.”
The old monk fell silent.
Xu Fengnian stood lost in thought. “To go further: If my family led Northern Liang’s border troops to die bravely yet denied them glory, I admit that as well.”
At this point, the old spy instinctively reached for his saber, but Yuan Zong stopped him with a shake of his head.
Xu Fengnian, sleeves folded before him, spoke like a young farmer chatting about crops with an elder—no bitterness, no grandiosity, just simple truths. Like discussing rain clouds and harvests.
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