Tanshan knew he truly fell short of his shifu, not in cultivation but in state of mind.
The Aspects of All Beings was a cultivation technique, yet it had different paths: generations of his sect practiced visual consciousness like Tanshan, while his shifu cultivated mental consciousness.
By cultivating consciousness, one could connect with the hearts of Buddha statues across the land. Even Tanshan didn’t know what the Buddha thought when seated high upon the altar, receiving the worship of millions.
“Shifu, if you never engage with the world, how can you understand the people?” When he reached his teens, Tanshan debated the Dharma with his shifu and voiced this very doubt.
“…………”
“Since you cultivate the mind’s consciousness, might you tell your disciple,” Miaochang remained silent, but Tanshan pressed on, “how the Buddha perceives this world?”
“…Your shifu is human, not Buddha,” the shifu finally spoke, smiling as he stroked his disciple’s bald head. “Truly round—good bone structure.”
“…………”
“Because I am not Buddha, I cannot know Buddha’s thoughts,” the old monk concluded his teasing, growing serious. “I can only speak to you of human thoughts.”
“This world holds both good and evil, yet ultimately, good outweighs evil,” Miaochang explained plainly. “You specialise in visual consciousness. When the day comes that you connect with the eyes of all Buddha statues under heaven, you will see for yourself: those kneeling before the Buddha—some pray for themselves, some for others, some for the world. Not all are driven by selfish desires. Even those driven by self-interest merely wish for a better life. Not even Buddha would criticise them harshly.”
“Those harbouring wicked thoughts in their hearts would dare not kneel before the Buddha to pray.” The young monk, barely over ten years old, already possessed quiet indifferent appearance. His temperament was equally cold, and even when speaking to his own shifu, even his words carried a chill that bordered on icy.
“Precisely,” Miaochang agreed without contradiction, nodding. “Though it’s said goodness outweighs evil, do you realize that to ordinary eyes, evil always seems far more vividly painted than virtue?”
“Why is that? It makes no sense.”
“Because we are human, we do not adhere to reason,” Miaochang smiled, gently touching the furrowed brow of his disciple. “One day you’ll understand: when ordinary people witness a hundred acts of kindness and a single act of evil, that single evil deed outweighs all the kindness, leaving their hearts unsettled. If that evil befalls one’s own household, it becomes even harder to remember life’s other blessings. One fixates on that single misfortune, and torment arises from it.”
“…………”
“Shifu is also human. Though walking the path of cultivation, I dare not claim my heart is truly as unshakable as rock, utterly unmoved,” Miaochang pressed his palms together, lowered his eyes and bowing his head. “I naturally understand that the world holds both good and evil. Even the same person may perform acts of kindness at times and commit wrong at others. As long as one remains human and not Buddha, even this shifu fears… fears becoming fixated on evil and thus failing virtue.”
The old monk did not spell out his meaning completely, yet Tanshan understood his intent.
Though he did not cultivate his mind, he knew well how arduous such cultivation could be—for mortals do not realise that when you bow your head and pray to the Buddha, that fleeting moment of hope, that sliver of relief and liberation, comes only because someone willingly bears the burden of your desires, the karmic obstacles of love, hatred, anger, and delusion.
In ancient temples by the dim lamps some kneel before the Buddha, chanting prayers for all beings day and night, enduring suffering on behalf of humanity every moment. Like Yu Gong moving mountains[1] or Jingwei filling the sea[2], they tirelessly liberate endless karmic debts without knowing when it will end. They vow not to attain Buddhahood until hell is empty.
“…Shifu, if your divinations hold true, you have but a single cycle left to live,” the young monk, though reserved, remained a child at heart. Tanshan couldn’t help but urge, “That is twelve years—neither short nor long. Your disciple will strive diligently to cultivate. You needn’t be so strict with yourself.”
“Your shifu tends the vegetable garden daily for comfort —my cultivation has already grown lax,” the old monk said, running his fingers over the young monk’s head, seemingly pleased with its smoothness. He smiled and asked, “Shall we plant a grapevine next year?”
“…………” Tanshan hung his head in silence, feeling his own resolve fall short of his shifu’s unwavering compassion—that vow to save all beings before attaining enlightenment. A hint of shame flushed his cheeks.
“There is no hierarchy in the ways of cultivation,” Miaochang spoke as if reading his disciple’s thoughts, offering gentle guidance. “For in the end, it all boils down to three words: do your best.”
Old tales, but in the blink of an eye, Tanshan feared there might be other arrangements lurking in this stone chamber. He simply reached out and pulled Bian Yonglan closer.
They had been standing near each other anyway. As Tanshan pulled and guided, The Marquis of Wanjiang shifted his body with the motion, finding himself nearly colliding into the monk’s embrace.
In the pitch-black darkness, he couldn’t make out the monk’s expression. But free from any idle thoughts, he simply seemed weary. He lowered his head, resting it against the monk’s shoulder, sighed, and found a glimmer of humour in the misery: “The old man understood it well. The most deadly form of murder is to destroy one’s spirit.
“Let’s leave this place first,” Tanshan said softly, patting his back as he guided him out of the dark chamber. Only once they reached the stone entrance did he release his hold.
“I never knew why he lingered here with that seal,” Tanshan remarked under the bright sunlight, gazing toward the village buried beneath the mountains years ago. “Judging by this cave, it’s been carved out for quite some time. He must have visited this place more than once over the years.”
“Could the natural disaster twenty six years ago be connected to that seal?” The Marquis of Wanjiang was no fool. He had long grasped the crux of the matter.
“Yonglan, do you believe that beyond the heavens lie other heavens, and beyond the earth lie other earths?”
“Though I’ve never witnessed it myself, I cannot say I disbelieve,” the Marquis nodded. “Don’t you Buddhists speak of the Three Thousand Worlds?”
“My sect has passed down this teaching: that seal supresses another realm. The two worlds cannot coexist. Should that other world break free from the seal, calamities would inevitably plague the mortal world.” Such profoundly mystical matters were recounted by the monk in a casual calm tone: “Not only you, but even I cannot say whether this is true or false. After all, I have never seen that other world.”
“But if someone has seen it…” The Marquis of Wanjiang and Tanshan exchanged glances, recalling that madman who claimed to have visited the immortal realm and narrowly escaped annihilation. “It seems some words are dismissed as nonsense by some, yet truly believed by others—Xia Chunqiu must have seen that person.”
“Xia Chunqiu should never have known of such a seal, its location, or its significance,” Tanshan murmured, lowering his gaze. “My shifu would never have revealed such important matters to him.”
“Dashi,” the Marquis of Wanjiang suddenly laughed, pointing at himself, “look at me. I shouldn’t know such important matters either.”
“…………”
“You chose to tell me precisely because you trust me,” the Marquis of Wanjiang laughed heartily, though it was unclear whether it was because he had choked the monk speechless, or at his own delight that the man had finally lowering his guard. “For you know I harbour no yearning for immortality or enlightenment. Who in their right mind would waste their time tampering with a seal, gambling the lives of all under heaven on some obscure, unverified tale?”
“…The Chang’an Seal is entrusted to the palace. You’re close to the current emperor. Have you ever heard him mention,” Tanshan glanced at him indifferently, countering, “that behind this seal lies a mysterious tale, its truth unknown?”
“No, I haven’t. If there were…”
“Generations of emperors have passed down the oral tradition that this seal is an auspicious symbol and keeping it within the palace ensures the eternal stability of the country. That was the reasoning my sect gave when we entrusted the seal to the palace years ago,” Tanshan interrupted him. “I tell you this because once we recover the seal, I will not return it to the palace.”
“…You haven’t met Wenqing. He is far from the ignorant fool you imagine him to be.” The Marquis of Wanjiang caught the monk’s implied meaning, his voice suddenly turning cold—if anyone in this world dared to stake the nation’s fate and human lives as a gamble, it could only be an emperor, the sovereign of the realm. Not only daring to gamble, but possessing the power to do so—that was the essence of supreme imperial authority.
“I met him once. He is an elegant and enlightened ruler,” Tanshan remained unfazed by the Marquis of Wanjiang’s sharp words, merely nodding calmly. “I went to see him only to confirm the seal was indeed no longer in the palace. This monk understands that ordering you to accompany me in searching for the seal likely carried some intent to monitor me, but it matters not.” The monk shook his head slightly, his tone devoid of harshness, as if merely chatting pointlessly. “Yonglan, consider it my own overthinking. Should that day ever come… know this: if I decide to take the seal, no one can stop me.”
“…………”
“Though I cannot say if the seal truly holds some so-called immortal realm within, I can sense that whenever it stirs, calamity unfolds in the mortal world.” The Marquis of Wanjiang remained silent, his face cold. It was unclear whether from anger or frustration. The monk continued in a light tone, “As a follower of Buddha, I would not lightly shed blood. But should the day come… you…”
Tanshan almost said, “Do not blame me for not remembering our old friendship,” but stopped himself.
“…Wenqing isn’t that kind of person. You don’t understand him.” Bian Yonglan repeated this single sentence over and over, his face stern as he tossed out the words before striding down the mountain alone.
Tanshan followed silently, keeping a steady pace half a step behind. Only when they reached the foot of the mountain did he speak: “Come to think of it… in his later years, my shifu planted a grapevine in the temple.”
“…………” The Marquis of Wanjiang didn’t turn back or respond, yet he heard every word. He wondered what this monk meant by suddenly bringing up such a thing.
“My shifu said he and his shifu… as well as Xia Chunqiu all loved grapes,” Tanshan continued indifferently from behind. “Even as monks, they cherished old friendships. After tens of years apart, my shifu would occasionally mention that perhaps one year when the grapes ripened, the old friend might return for a visit, and they could renew their bonds.”
“…………” The Marquis of Wanjiang seemed to grasp the monk’s meaning yet felt he couldn’t quite accurately fathom it. He inwardly cursed the monk as a scoundrel, twisting every word into cryptic remarks.
“Yonglan…”
“Alright, alright,” the Marquis of Wanjiang waved his hand, unwilling to waste energy on imaginary grievances. “If you’re finally in the mood for idle chatter, at least pick something auspicious. Listen to yourself—are your words auspicious?”
“…………”
“You mentioned your shifu liked to eat grapes. What about you? Is there anything you particularly enjoy?”
“…………”
“Forget it. Never mind.”
And so, with nothing more to say, they walked side by side to the foot of the mountain to retrieve their horses.
The Marquis of Wanjiang remained silent, still pondering that seal. His thoughts drifted to his own origins—how much of it could be trusted? Twenty six years ago, between summer and autumn, disasters had indeed struck across the land. Amidst all the ominous signs, the only auspicious one was standing right here, alive and breathing—Tanshan had once remarked that his soul seemed different from ordinary men. If the phenomena back then were connected to the seal, could it be that he himself was somehow linked to that very seal?
But judging by the monk’s expression… The Marquis of Wanjiang stole a glance at the man beside him, thinking to himself that though the monk usually wore little emotion, prolonged observation revealed this was clearly not the look of someone contemplating serious matters.
Tanshan wasn’t dwelling on trivialities, but rather felt a restlessness stirring within his sea of consciousness.
Cultivating visual consciousness proved scarcely less taxing than cultivating the consciousness of the mind. The affairs of this world, the desires of sentient beings… Once glimpsed, they lingered. Within the heart, the sea of desire churned; the slightest relaxation unleashed its turbulent undercurrents.
In the illusion, the monk had no time for deep reflection. Now, upon careful consideration, he realized the disturbance in his sea of knowledge stemmed from a thread of selfish desire—within the battlefield illusion, he had witnessed The Marquis of Wanjiang as brave as Asura, yet each strike fell empty. The monk was not oblivious; the sight had pierced his heart with pain.
That sliver of selfish desire, in this very pang, flows into the sea of desire; to try and retrieve it from that bottomless ocean is utterly beyond one’s grasp.
And so, in that bottomless sea of desire, another craving belonging to the disciple of the Buddha took root: for a fleeting moment, he had desired that one person could live a life free of worry, a life of pure joy, a life utterly ignorant of what sorrow and suffering even meant.
Author’s note: 1. Rest assured, this story won’t present you with a ‘life-or-death dilemma’ like ‘The great master and the emperor gege both fell into the water—who would you save first?’ 2. When monks speak of ‘old affection,’ they simply mean old friendships and ties. After all, one can’t expect too much from monks. 3. Whenever the word ‘desire’ appears in this story, please avoid interpreting it narrowly as romantic or erotic longing. The term itself is highly neutral—and (in my view) deeply Zen-like. Replacing it with ‘hope’ or ‘wish’ would alter the meaning entirely.
[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Foolish_Old_Man_Removes_the_Mountains
[2] a myth about a woman who drowns in the ocean and is transformed by her grieving father into a bird
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