Shifu, what is meant by ‘all sentient beings’?

　You must see it, think about it, and comprehend it yourself.

　The cultivation technique Tanshan practised was called ‘The Aspects of Beings.’ Among the countless Buddhist disciples under heaven, he alone had inherited it.

　And what is perfection?

　You shall know in due course.

　Tanshan observed, contemplated, and understood. Yet he knew that in mastering this technique, he still fell short by a strand. Neither his shifu, his shifu’s shifu, nor any predecessor had ever crossed that threshold. A single thread’s breadth, yet as vast as a heavenly chasm.

　In years past, when he first opened his hall to expound the sutras, he could not even touch the threshold of that line. But now he had surpassed his shifu; all Buddha statues in the world possessed his eyes, and all Buddha statues possessed his ears.

　After ten years of arduous cultivation, the seal was lifted in a single moment. He guided those trapped in the crevices between life and death towards the other shore.[1]

　They finally found peace, leaving behind desires, greed, hatred, resentment, and suffering, all of which were borne by the monk in their stead.

　Yet this suffering is scarcely worth mentioning—just observe the devout men and women before the Buddha, what is it they are seeking day and night?

　Therein lay the true mountain of desire, towering a thousand fathoms high, and the boundless sea of suffering[2].

　Yet this practice was fundamentally intended only for the living. Now, forcibly granting a future life to one unworthy of rebirth, even Tanshan found the deathly qi within the karmic force unbearable, his complexion gradually turning pallid.

　The Marquis of Wanjiang witnessed the town’s living corpse’s expressions turn serene, their forms slowly dissipating. Yet amidst the lotus sea transforming into rain, amidst the most tranquil and sacred of landscape, he suddenly planted his foot, swung his blade, and delivered a stroke as graceful as a startled wild goose—only to see a black shadow which had lurked within the town for an unknown duration. It had endured the demon-subduing Buddhist chants and remained unfazed. Its sole purpose was to strike when the monk’s power reached its zenith, seizing the most defenceless instant to dart forth and strike directly at his chest!

　Only from the closest proximity did Bian Yonglan discern that the shadow was composed of a dense swarm of black insects. His blade cleaved it in two; the rear half, its strike missed, flew backward in retreat. The front half, however, refused to accept defeat at the last moment, transforming in an instant into a pair of sharp claws.

　In the blink of an eye, the slash became a strike. The Qiulong blade struck the claw cleanly, yet it was a fraction too late. Though the claw’s tip failed to pierce the monk’s heart, it still tore savagely across his waist and abdomen.

　“Pursue.” Tanshan paid no heed to his wounds, uttering a single word. Instantly, Linu erupted in a burst of white radiance, the entire creature morphing into a streak of light that pursued the fleeing shadow.

　The word barely left his lips when Tanshan coughed up a mouthful of blood. A surge of deathly qi churned within his chest. His body collapsed, only to be caught securely by a pair of arms.

　The Marquis of Wanjiang, clutching the monk, finally broke through the corpse barrier. Without pausing to observe the chaos unfolding behind them, he raced towards the commandry walls.

　They had been trapped within the barrier for scarcely a shichen at most, yet outside, the world had been utterly transformed. Dark clouds densely covered the sky; though it was broad daylight, the gloom was as though one had jumped into a bowl of ink-washed water. The dense humidity hung thick and heavy, indicating a coming downpour unprecedented in a century for a northern spring.

　“Don’t disturb the physician. My wounds are beyond his skill to mend.”

　“Since you know you’re wounded, shut up.”

　After these two sentences, the monk seemed to have fainted. As the Marquis of Wanjiang looked down at the monk’s tightly closed eyes and slightly furrowed brow, he sensed the man was still conscious, only too racked with pain to speak.

　An eagle which was seemingly unphased by the oppressive clouds flapped its wings fiercely against the strong winds, striving to match the Marquis of Wanjiang’s speed which outpaced even galloping steeds. But after a frantic flight its wings grew heavy and it watched the figure it had pursued grow ever more distant. It circled twice in the air before suddenly rolling its eyes back as if seized by a sudden fit of madness. Like a kite whose string had snapped, it plummeted to the ground, its talons pointing skyward, completely still.

　“You’re really lucky. Injured and then drenched. Even someone made of iron couldn’t endure that.”

　Upon entering the inn and settling the monk comfortably upon the bed, The Marquis of Wanjiang heard the sudden clamour outside—like a drumbeat urging battle. Torrential rain mingled with hailstones, lashing the windows with savage force. Lightning snaked across the sky, accompanied by muffled thunder rolling within the black clouds. The storm gathered its might fully, yet hesitated to unleash its fury.

　The inn did stock some common remedies for wounds, and Bian Yonglan summoned a server for hot water and medicinal ointment. Reaching to unfasten Tanshan’s monk’s robe as he remarked, “My apologies for this inconvenience.” His tone paused briefly, seemingly uncomfortable at undressing another’s clothing. Though the situation was awkward, he pressed on with a jest: “Last time I apologised for removing the cloth binding your eyes; this time it’s for undressing you. Who knows what I’ll be apologising for next time.”

　Tanshan kept his eyes closed, whether he heard the inappropriate joke or not was unknown. His lips were pale, almost devoid of colour. After a long moment, he seemed to speak with effort: “Thank you.”

　The torrential rain washed away all light, plunging the room into almost-nighttime darkness. Bian Yonglan loosened the monk’s outer robe, slipping it off along with his inner robe. He reached back for the candlestick on the table, placing it beside the hot water and medicinal ointment at the bedside to tend to Tanshan’s wounds across his waist and abdomen.

　“Those insects… what manner of things they are, I cannot say… This may hurt somewhat, bear with it.” The Marquis of Wanjiang, hands cleaned, bent over and wiped the bloodstains near the wound with a damp cloth. He observed that the monk’s body seemed truly forged of copper cast-iron. Though the wounds were gruesome, he saw no signs of the monk having stopped the blood flow by sealing the vessels, yet barely any blood flowed out.

　“Those were not insects, but gu. It matters little.”

　Tanshan closed his eyes, pressed his hand over the abdominal wound as though unaware of pain, and forced his fingers deep into the gash. Only then did blood surge forth, flecked with scattered specks the size of sesame seeds. They resembled the corpses of dead insects.

　The Marquis of Wanjiang momentarily faltered, unsure how to react—his instinct had been to fling aside the cloth and seize the monk’s hand, to stop him from treating himself with such careless disregard. Yet upon seeing the strange objects in the blood, he felt it unwise to intervene. His hand froze, clasping the monk’s palm loosely, neither grasping nor releasing.

　But Tanshan moved—this was likely the most human gesture the Marquis of Wanjiang had ever witnessed from this man. With a sudden reversal of his wrist, the monk seized the hand that had been loosely cradling his own. Amidst the slippery warmth of blood, their fingers intertwined. The monk drew a faint breath, his eyelashes threatening to lift before he forced them shut once more. Beads of sweat traced the contours of his collarbones, winding their way down his muscles.

　“…So you know pain after all.” The Marquis of Wanjiang clasped the other’s hand, his words as soft as a butterfly’s wingbeat. The monk’s fingers were icy but the blood was warm. Bian Yonglan glanced at their intertwined fingers, his gaze darting away to fix upon the bedside candle. His heartbeat grew erratic, as uncertain as the flickering flame.

　A sudden gust of wind lashed against the windowpanes, forcing an unsecured window open several cun. The chill swept through the room, causing the candle flame to lick wildly before flickering and dying. Only then did Bian Yonglan realise he too was sweating, his damp clothes clinging coldly to his back.

　“You’re wounded. You mustn’t be exposed to drafts.” He rose to close the window, using the excuse to withdraw his hand. Yet he lingered at the window for a long while, using his body to block the cold draft. His hand remained stretched through the window gap and allowed the falling water to wash away the blood from his fingertips.

　Tanshan leaned against the headboard, not entirely sure what he had just done—only a sliver of clarity remained. He knew the true trouble lay neither in the wound at his belly nor the deathly qi surging in his chest. He had nearly attained the body of a true Buddha; the gu could not devour his flesh, and the death qi entering his body was but a momentary pain, something that would eventually be worn away by the power of Buddha if left alone.

　The true affliction lay within the karmic burdens he had gathered from the vast expanse of mortal affairs. Every Buddha statue’s eyes were his eyes; every Buddha statue’s ears were his ears. The colossal karmic force, amassed from daily supplications and fervent prayers, was a burden beyond comprehension to anyone but Tanshan himself: At the zenith of his spiritual prowess, this very karmic energy could be harnessed to his advantage. Yet should his vitality wane even a minute, this immense weight of karmic energy would stir restlessly, poised to turn upon its master.

　The craving of those living corpses filling the town boils down to a single word: life. They wish to continue living.

　Had it not been so, they would never have erected such a corpse barrier. Even if it were the very last day of their existence, even if they could only live within that single day, they would still cling to life.

　The human will to live is the most persistent, and yet the hardest to succumb to. This unyielding desire had seeped into Tanshan’s sea of consciousness, unsettling even him—for it was not merely a sea of consciousness, but a sea of desire constantly suppressed by the monk. Every craving in this world, every shred of greed, every infatuation could find its traces in this ocean.

　“The bleeding has ceased. I shall wrap your wound.”

　Bian Yonglan finally turned from the window. Without lighting a lamp, he relied on the dim light of night to take the monk’s inner robe and tear it into strips with a few swift motions. His tone was cold, yet his words carried a hint of concern: “There’s nothing to bandage it with. We’ll make do with your clothes for now. Once the rain stops, I will buy you new ones. If you develop a fever, I’ll take you to see a physician.”

　Tanshan paused for a moment, regaining some clarity. He silently propped himself up, cooperating with the other’s movements—the Marquis of Wanjiang sprinkled medicinal clotting powder onto the wound, then drew close to the monk. His hands circled around the monk’s waist, wrapping the cloth strips around and around his abdomen.

　“Speaking of good luck, you owe it to my good fortune,” The Marquis of Wanjiang remarked in his usual tone as he finished bandaging, chatting nonchalantly with the monk. “I always told you I bring good luck. In critical moments, I always manage to turn peril into safety[3]. See? I’ve saved you once more.”

　“…………” Tanshan’s mind cleared slightly at these words—he had been devoting all his focus to suppressing the raging storm of emotions within him. Many things he hadn’t considered before now struck him as odd upon hearing the man’s words.

　“Yonglan, you saved me?”

　“What else?” The Marquis of Wanjiang raised an eyebrow. “Did I not save you? Did I watch you die?”

　“But you must have seen me to save me in time.”

　“Obviously I saw you. Where exactly are you injured? Your head?”

　“Yonglan, you said you heard me preach ten years ago…” The monk suddenly closed his eyes and asked, “Do you recall what you saw afterwards on that day?”

　“Of course I remember,” the Marquis of Wanjiang replied. Though puzzled by this sudden reference to the past, he found himself rather uncomfortable as they stood so close to each while bandaging his wounds. Using the excuse of a chance for casual conversation, he added, “I recall how your sermon stirred quite a commotion in that tranquil Buddhist sanctuary—Dashi, did you manage to repair the temple gates before setting off on your travels?”

　“So what did you see that day?” Tanshan ignored the hint of amusement in his words and continued to ask.

　“I saw… people who seemed both sorrowful and joyful,” the Marquis of Wanjiang, pressed relentlessly, found himself recalling the scene of that day. He fell into a moment of reverie before continuing, “Some wept, some laughed, yet none jostled or shouted. Inside and outside the temple, hundreds dispersed in utter silence…… Tanshan, what did you do?”

　“I did what I did today,” the monk replied flatly, offering no further explanation. He merely repeated his question, “Yonglan, what was the last thing you saw that day?”

　“A monk preaching the sutras, what else could it have been?” replied the Marquis of Wanjiang with evident impatience, though his hands worked gently, adding another layer of bandage to the wound. “The crowd dispersed as if their souls had been stolen. No one listened to your prattlings. You were left alone on the platform, eyes open, watching…”

　At this point, the Marquis of Wanjiang abruptly fell silent, his movements also stopping. They were less than a zhi[4] apart, almost embracing. His lips brushed the monk’s ear, and in this dimly lit space, he realised he had nearly let slip out: …Could you open your eyes and look at me once more?

　Amidst the torrential downpour, one propped himself up while the other sat, neither uttering another word.

　Bian Yonglan felt he ought to say something, yet no words came to mind. After a long silence, he knotted the bandage around Tanshan’s wound, rose to take the tinder-stick box from the table, and drew a stick to light. Catching the flame, he held it close to the candle wick.

　The candle remained unlit, only a flame the size of a bean flickered briefly before dying.

　In that fleeting light, he saw the monk seemed to have sensed the unspoken meaning in his words. His eyelids lifted slightly, and his eyes met his squarely.

　And in that single spark—a thunderclap echoed within the Marquis of Wanjiang’s mind, spreading like wildfire across the plains. The flames engulfed ten years of his life, consuming a matter he had been bewildered by ten years ago and still failed to comprehend ten years later, revealing a truth both spectacular and terrifying: At sixteen, the youth had been ignorant, knowing nothing of love, yet he had sensed emotion in the monk’s eyes, heavy and lingering at the corners of his eyes and brows. At twenty-six, gazing into those same eyes, he finally understood them—those eyes belonging to a devout Buddhist disciple held no trace of affection whatsoever.

　They were filled entirely with a sea of emotion so deep you could not see the bottom.

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[1] 彼岸 bian, a Buddhist term referring to Paramita which means ‘perfection’. The etymology can be taken to mean ‘that which goes beyond’ or ‘gone to the other side’. The idea is that achieving enlightenment is like crossing a river and arriving on the opposite shore.

[2] In Buddhism this is the endless cycle of birth and rebirth, it will come up a lot

[3] 化险为夷 idiom, lit. turn danger into safety

[4] 25cm