Passing through the collapsed mountain gate and walking in front of the hall, under the dim yellow glow of the remaining lamp, Mur Yunle felt as though she had stepped from night into day.
The lamp was not bright, appearing small and lonely amidst the solitary mountain range. The scene ahead remained dim and blurred, yet compared to the pitch darkness and torrential rain outside the temple, it felt especially warm, peaceful, and illuminated. Each lotus flower was surrounded by a halo of light, surpassing even the glow of sunlight, prompting the spontaneous thought: “The lotus flowers in sunlight appear especially red.”
Dum, dum, dum… Mur Yunle’s heart suddenly became calm. Born into the Hua Shan Sword Sect, she had always possessed poetic sensibilities, and now it seemed as though she had transitioned from the bold and heroic sentiment of “killing one every ten steps, leaving no trace for a thousand miles” to the quiet melancholy of “facing the lamp and moonlight beneath the flowers, a decade’s worth of tracks and a decade’s worth of heart.”
Her expression softened, and her gaze turned tender, yet her inner vigilance remained undiminished. She raised her right hand, intending to knock.
Just then, with a creaking sound, the main hall’s unstable door slowly opened. Somehow, the sound of the wooden fish had already ceased.
Behind the door stood a monk in gray robes, his face gaunt, making it hard to determine his age—perhaps around thirty or forty.
Mur Yunle hesitated for a moment. Though the monk appeared ordinary and weary, upon closer inspection, his facial features were striking. He must have been a refined and handsome young man in his youth. Now, his spirit seemed as lifeless as decayed wood, and his eyes revealed an unmistakable weariness and fatigue.
This was Mur Yunle’s first impression. Having entered the top five of the Human Ranks before the age of twenty, she was no shallow person. She clasped her hands together, her voice as clear as a stream: “Apologies for the intrusion at this late hour. Please do not take offense, Master. We encountered heavy rain on our journey and feared the danger of encountering monstrous beasts. Seeing the light from your temple illuminating the darkness, we came seeking shelter. We humbly ask for your compassion.”
“Amitabha Buddha, honored guests may make yourselves comfortable,” the gray-robed monk replied with a bow, his tone plain and his words brief.
Mur Yunle’s eyes passed over the gray-robed monk and settled on the stone-carved Buddha statue within the hall. It had lowered brows and downcast eyes, filled with sorrow. Under the dim light of the oil lamp, it was bathed in a yellow glow, radiating a faint luminescence, exuding an indescribable spirituality.
Indeed, it was a Buddha statue carved by an ascetic monk, imbued with sincerity and a certain degree of Buddhist essence, capable of dispelling malevolence. As long as one did not deliberately provoke monstrous beasts or demonic clans, they would instinctively avoid this place… Mur Yunle judged that this was a suitable place to stay and avoid the rain.
In the past ten years, with the resurgence of monstrous beasts and demonic clans, any surviving monks in remote temples either possessed a statue with spiritual power or monks of extraordinary strength. This place likely belonged to the former.
She turned her head and nodded slightly to Liang Jiuzhou and Wang Tong, signaling that they could enter.
“Thank you, Master,” Liang Jiuzhou and Wang Tong approached and bowed.
The gray-robed monk did not speak further. He clasped his hands together, slowly turned around, and walked to the side of the Buddha statue, sitting cross-legged. Beneath him were dried grasses, and before him lay a broken wooden fish.
Seeing this, Mur Yunle slightly furrowed her eyebrows, which were slightly thicker and darker than those of ordinary women. Liang Jiuzhou and Wang Tong also exchanged puzzled glances. The reason was that the gray-robed monk was sitting in an unusual manner. Normally, monks either faced or turned their backs to the Buddha statue, but he sat sideways, directly facing the left wall. There was a large hole in the wall, beyond which was the pond they had previously seen. The lotus leaves were a deep green, nearly black, and the flowers were fresh and elegant, rising unstained from the mud.
Because of this large hole, the dim lamp light shone unobstructed upon the lotus flowers.
“Not facing the Buddha, but facing the lotus flowers. Could he be a Chan monk who mocks the Buddha?” Wang Tong silently asked Mur Yunle.
Mur Yunle did not share this view. She immersed her consciousness into the surrounding environment, sensing every minute detail. On this solitary mountain ridge, in this lone temple with a broken lamp, besides this gray-robed monk, there were no signs of anyone else’s presence, not even traces of passersby.
One person, one lamp, one Buddha statue, one temple, one pond of lotus flowers—blossoming and withering—he had faced this way for who knows how many days?
Sensitive to emotions and always finding poetry in life, Mur Yunle seemed to understand the deep loneliness and solitude that could not be concealed even by the most serene and ancient of Buddhas.
This monk must carry a painful past he wished to forget, she suddenly thought with a touch of sympathy. She withdrew her gaze and found a spot to sit cross-legged.
After Liang Jiuzhou sat down, he practiced breathing for a few cycles and smiled: “Miss Mur, Prince Wang, thank you both for coming to my aid with your swords.”
“This is what we are supposed to do,” Mur Yunle replied, yet she couldn’t help glancing again at the gray-robed monk. His eyes were half-closed, his spirit hidden within, silent and unmoving, sitting there as if separated from the mundane world.
Liang Jiuzhou nodded and chuckled: “I’ve long heard of Miss Mur’s name. It’s truly an honor to meet you. Your reputation precedes you.”
Mur Yunle showed surprise: “Senior Liang, you, a master of the Outer Scenery realm, have heard of my humble name?”
“Of course. Mur Yunle of the Hua Shan Sword Sect, known as ‘Shuyu Sword,’ is one of the most outstanding figures of your generation, alongside Fei Kuchan of the Huamei Villa and Cao Buzhi of the Cao Clan in Peijing, forming the famed ‘Three Glorious Rivals.’ How could I not have heard of you?” Liang Jiuzhou couldn’t help but sigh here: “Looking at you young talents in the prime of your youth always makes me feel old. Yes, I am getting old, and the Jianghu will soon belong to you…”
It had taken him nearly forty years to achieve the Outer Scenery realm and earn his reputation as a great swordsman. Yet the girl before him, though slightly immature, was full of vigor and already in harmony with heaven and earth. Moreover, her path ahead would be much smoother than his. How could he not feel the truth of the saying, “The waves behind drive on those before; each generation surpasses the last?”
Mur Yunle couldn’t help but smile, revealing a touch of innocence, then composed herself and said solemnly: “Senior Liang, in the martial arts world, there’s no distinction between newcomers and old-timers. Those who attain mastery first become teachers. Moreover, masters of the Outer Scenery and the Law Body realms have lifespans far exceeding those who have opened their spiritual passages. Perhaps decades from now, you might still be in your prime, while the younger generation you now admire might already be old and frail.”
“You’re such a clever girl,” Liang Jiuzhou laughed heartily, his heroic spirit seemingly rekindled. He turned his head and politely addressed the gray-robed monk: “We have been quite intrusive. Please do not take offense, Master. Might we ask how we should address you?”
“Venerable Zhen Ding,” the gray-robed monk replied succinctly.
“Thank you, Venerable Zhen Ding, for taking us in,” Mur Yunle, still possessing a youthful spirit, smiled playfully, and Wang Tong followed suit in expressing gratitude.
Liang Jiuzhou paused for a moment, then smiled: “Master’s Dharma name is the same as that of a certain great swordsman from the past, which brings back many memories for me.”
“Which swordsman? I don’t know about this,” Mur Yunle’s eyes widened, her gaze clear and bright.
Wang Tong also curiously asked, “Who is this swordsman that Senior Liang refers to as a great swordsman? He must be extraordinary.”
Liang Jiuzhou smiled: “Ah, many remember his name and title, but only old folks like me recall that he was once a discarded disciple of Shaolin with the Dharma name Zhen Ding.”
“Don’t compare me with him. Before him, how could I dare to call myself a swordsman? In his prime, he was righteous and courageous, with a noble heart and lofty virtue, benefiting the entire world, and even evil spirits feared his might. At that time, I was merely an unknown nobody, listening to tales about him on the roadside. Alas, born at the wrong time, I regret never having met him.”
Mur Yunle’s eyes remained puzzled, still unable to guess who it was, while Wang Tong’s eyes flickered with thought.
“Well then, I’ll meditate to recover my injuries and try to regain my strength as soon as possible,” Liang Jiuzhou said, forming a seal with his hands on his knees, closing his eyes, and soon white mist began to swirl around his head.
Mur Yunle remained vigilant, watching the rain outside the temple pour down in torrents, the raindrops striking the lotus leaves with a pitter-patter sound. Inside the hall, the ancient Buddha statue and the dim lamp illuminated the solitary gray-robed monk. The scene stirred her emotions, and she softly sang: “The sound of prosperity fades into emptiness, leaving the world in sorrow. Dreams grow cold, a lifetime of twists and turns, how many volumes of love debts… Pain rushes forth, a single flickering lamp, a collapsed mountain gate…”
Her voice drifted, filled with immeasurable artistic beauty.
At this moment, she saw the gray-robed monk turn his head, opening his eyes. His voice was low, deep, and magnetic: “Who taught you this song?”
Mur Yunle smiled slightly: “Please forgive the humble folk song, Master. I was fortunate to meet Venerable Zhen Hui, who hummed it. I liked its mood and secretly memorized it.”
“Venerable Zhen Hui…” the gray-robed monk, Zhen Ding, was momentarily stunned. It was indeed Meng Qi. A sudden wave of sadness surged within him:
Zhen Hui has become a revered monk… these ten years have passed so quickly, life and death remain uncertain…
After Mur Yunle finished speaking and saw no response from Master Zhen Ding, she noticed him turning back, resuming the beating of the wooden fish—dum, dum, dum. His lips slightly parted, echoing the song: “Listening to youth, laughter comes, envied by many…”
Flowers bloom and wither in ten years. “Listening to youth, laughter comes…” Mur Yunle was stunned. She saw the dim lamp and the gray-robed monk backlit, the outside sky pitch black, with only the lotus flowers in full bloom. The song’s mood was melancholic and sorrowful.
This scene and mood suddenly enchanted her, and she softly murmured: “Facing the lamp and moonlight beneath the flowers, a decade’s worth of tracks and a decade’s worth of heart.”
The song ended, the wooden fish continued to sound, and the deep voice rose again:
“When troubles end, the mundane world fades away.”
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