Chapter 130

Rong Tang had heard similar words before. At that time, he had been swept along by his mission, consumed by guilt, and crushed by despair. He had also wondered what it would be like to gaze upon the world with eyes devoid of desire.

But now, upon hearing Huimian say the same, Rong Tang only hesitated briefly before answering candidly, “After all, I am just an ordinary man.”

In this mortal world, to live is to desire. Rong Tang, too, was merely a speck of dust among the countless grains of the Ganges, not an ancient Buddha perched upon a high pedestal, untouched by joy or sorrow.

Huimian smiled faintly but made no comment. Instead, he bent down to pour tea for Rong Tang and asked, “What brings you here, devotee?”

Rong Tang replied, “To return a painting.”

The young monk glanced at the brocade box but instead asked, “Have you opened it?”

Rong Tang nodded. “I have.”

“And did you notice anything unusual?”

“Buddhism teaches compassion. I only felt a sense of time’s passage. Nothing unusual,” Rong Tang said.

Huimian opened the brocade box, revealing a Buddha painting. Years of incense and candle smoke had left their mark on the paper. The ancient Buddha’s eyes were shut, as if unable to bear witnessing the suffering of the world. Behind him, an expanse of lotus buds awaited bloom.

The monk studied it briefly, then closed the box again and calmly slid it back to Rong Tang. “This is your karmic connection, devotee. I am merely its keeper, not its owner.”

Rong Tang asked, “What kind of connection?”

Huimian replied, “What doubts trouble your heart?”

Rong Tang had too many.

Why had he come to this world? What exactly was his relationship with Sheng Chengli? Between Sheng Chengli and Su Huaijing, who was the true protagonist? And was the heavily favoured Heavenly Way truly the orthodox path?

Countless questions clashed in his mind. He cast Huimian a glance, then lowered his gaze, took a sip of tea, and finally asked, “Have we met before?”

Huimian smiled. “At the beginning of previous third month, devotee and I chanted scriptures together for two nights.”

Rong Tang pressed, “And before that?”

The mountain gate lay blanketed in snow, the Buddhist temple silent. The brazier before them burned steadily, its embers glowing in the cold.

Huimian’s voice was soft. “The snowfall in the Third-rank Scholar’s courtyard was particularly beautiful.”

Rong Tang’s pupils contracted, then relaxed in understanding.

At the funeral in the eleventh year of Qingzheng, Ke Hongxue had invited countless monks to his home, hoping their prayers would grant his senior a peaceful rebirth.

Back then, in his fleeting glance, all faces had blurred together. But now, Huimian’s words brought those hazy memories into focus. Amidst the crowd, there had indeed been a tonsured monk who looked exactly like him.

In his past life, that monk had borne the scars of his vows. Last year, he had worn black robes and long hair. And today, as they met again, he had a head full of silver.

For such a monk, any change no longer seemed surprising.

So Rong Tang asked, “What is the connection between us, Master?”

Huimian held his gaze for a long moment before offering a faint smile. He recited a Buddhist invocation and instead posed his own question: “And what is devotee’s connection to this world?”

The system had gone silent. Rong Tang had not heard its voice in some time. In this quiet courtyard, there was only the crackling brazier, a pot of tea, snow-laden branches, and the two of them seated opposite each other.

Rong Tang pondered for a long time before answering honestly, “I don’t know.”

He had once thought himself the saviour of this small world. Yet, after three lifetimes, he had failed even to save himself.

Perhaps, from the very start, he had been nothing more than a pawn in an elaborate deception. What salvation could he offer?

His connection to this world was tenuous at best. He was merely passing through, stopping here by chance.

The air was bitterly cold, but inside, warmth lingered. A faint sound stirred from the Buddha hall, drawing Rong Tang’s gaze.

A white cocoon had appeared at an inopportune time, its shell beginning to crack.

It was out of season, an anomaly in this winter chill.

Huimian asked, “Do you miss home, devotee?”

Rong Tang hesitated. The question pulled him back from his thoughts. He considered it carefully before shaking his head. “I don’t remember.”

Nine years in this foreign world had blurred the twenty years of his modern life into little more than an illusion. Much of it was lost to memory.

The roads he had walked daily, the trees that lined the streets. Those still surfaced in his dreams. But his family? Their faces had faded beyond recall.

Huimian asked, “When did you arrive here?”

Rong Tang understood the deeper meaning behind the question, but his expression remained unchanged as he replied, “At noon today.”

Huimian paused, then smiled.

He rose from the meditation mat, retrieved the silkworm cocoon from the floor, and placed it by the fire.

“The answers you seek about your connection to this world, and to those two people. You will understand when the time comes,” Huimian said gently. “As for the purpose of your visit, that, too, will soon be resolved.”

He continued, “The tea is only half-drunk, the play only half-performed. If you do not choose to leave of your own accord, you needn’t worry about an early exit.”

Rong Tang blinked and found himself exhaling, a tension he hadn’t realised he was holding easing slightly.

He had come to Tuolan Temple under the pretext of returning the painting, but in truth, he had sought an audience with Huimian.

As for the hidden truths of this world, he did not expect Huimian to know everything. Or even if he did, he doubted the monk could lay it all bare.

—After all, even Rong Tang himself could not speak to Su Huaijing about The Emperor’s Journey.

World consciousness imposed its restrictions. Such was certain. All he sought was a measure of peace.

How much longer could he stay by Su Huaijing’s side?

Would he, like in previous lives, endure until the predetermined moment of history? Or would his illness claim him first?

Huimian had given him his answer: Even if sickness wracked his body, even if he bled and fell unconscious, he would not die so easily.

That was enough.

His most urgent question had been answered.

Rong Tang pressed his palms together and bowed. “Thank you, Master.”

Huimian’s voice remained gentle. “There is no need for thanks, devotee.” His gaze fell upon the silkworm cocoon.

The crack widened. A pair of delicate wings trembled, and Rong Tang, intrigued, lowered his eyes.

A pale blue butterfly emerged from its cocoon, struggling feebly in the icy air before fluttering low by the fire.

Without thinking, Rong Tang reached out.

The fragile creature landed lightly on his fingertip. Soft blue against pale skin, like the gentlest painting in the world.

The butterfly folded its wings. Huimian murmured, “Devotee is kind. The millions of disaster victims in Jiangnan should remember your compassion.”

Rong Tang studied the butterfly for a moment before lifting his gaze to the monk. His eyes lingered once more on that striking white hair.

He asked, “Master, how did you come to have such hair?”

Huimian smiled. “It is my fate.”

“And it has nothing to do with me?”

Huimian did not answer directly. “Everything in this world is interconnected.”

Within moments, the newly born butterfly took flight again. It circled Rong Tang’s finger twice before turning towards the fire.

Without hesitation, it dove into the flames and was reduced to ashes.

Huimian murmured, “Amitabha.”

Before leaving, Huimian called Rong Tang to stay and handed him five brand-new safety talismans.

“It’s almost New Year’s Eve. The safety talisman you requested at the beginning of the year must be old by now. Take this back and replace it.”

Rong Tang was momentarily stunned. Before marrying Su Huaijing, he had sought a safety talisman for him, promising the main villain he would request one for him every year. Two years had passed, and indeed, he had two safety talismans at home.

Now, five more had suddenly appeared…

He hesitated briefly before accepting the talisman pouch, rubbing it lightly between his fingers. As expected, he felt the traces of incense ash and the texture of paper inside. It was clear that each safety talisman contained a slip of paper with a birthdate and eight characters, each belonging to a specific owner.

Rong Tang had little curiosity at first, but he was unsure whether it was the striking white hair or the sheer number of talismans that made them seem like a deliberate message. He paused for two seconds before asking, “The fate you speak of, Master. Is it familial?”

The eminent monk Huimian was renowned across the land. Some said he was a seventy-year-old sage on the verge of sainthood; others claimed he was a living Buddha, ever-changing in form. Even the emperor himself struggled to meet him, yet Rong Tang had encountered him twice, each time with ease and informality, always receiving gifts from the revered monk.

If past lives were taken into account…

When the Junior Minister of the Imperial Court of Justice passed away, why had Huimian personally recited three days’ worth of Rebirth Sutras?

He thought again of the fire that had consumed Tuolan Temple, and the answer in his heart became almost certain.

Huimian said, “Once one enters the Buddhist path, one should sever ties with the mortal world.”

Rong Tang refused to be brushed off so easily and countered, “If one enters Buddhism, then why has Master not yet taken full ordination?”

Huimian chuckled softly. “I have.”

Rong Tang froze. Huimian continued, “You have seen it with your own eyes, have you not?”

He had taken his vows.

In the winter of the eleventh year of Qingzheng, at Mu Jingxu’s funeral.

By then, the Crown Prince of Dasui had died en route to the Longevity Festival, Mu Jingxu had succumbed to exhaustion, and though Su Huaijing still lived, hatred had already consumed him.

At that time, Huimian had taken his vows.

His long hair was his bond. Both his fate and his kinship.

And now, these five safety talismans were his ties to the mundane world.

Rong Tang’s voice was slightly hoarse as he asked, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Had he spoken up back then, perhaps Su Huaijing would not have gone down that final path.

Huimian pressed his hands together, softly chanting a Buddhist prayer before saying, “Those who watch a chess game do not speak, and those who read the heavens remain silent. I have glimpsed the shifting of the stars, but the variable was never mine to control.”

In other words, the will of heaven could not be divulged, and thus he could not speak;

The variable was not within himself, and thus he had no need to speak.

Rong Tang understood. “I was the variable?”

Huimian said, “Where did you come from, why did you come, when did you come, and where will you go? Once you recall these things, you will naturally understand what the variable is.”

Rong Tang met his gaze in silence, emotions churning within him.

Clearly, nothing had been said, yet somehow, everything had been revealed.

A butterfly thrown into the flames, a handful of snow falling from the treetops, wisps of sandalwood incense drifting through the air. As Rong Tang stepped out of the courtyard, he suddenly became aware of the bustling surroundings.

A famed ancient temple, always teeming with worshippers—how had it felt so serene and still just moments ago?

Someone was waiting at the corner, the deep red walls of the temple behind him, resembling a devout believer who had waited for his deity for years.

Rong Tang’s eyes grew inexplicably hot. Clutching the peace charms tightly, he quickened his steps toward him. His breath came more easily, and he felt a lightness he had not known for many days.

Su Huaijing’s eyes lit up upon seeing him. He hurried over, reaching out to grasp Rong Tang’s wrist, shielding him from the chill wind, and whispered, “Slow down. You’re still not fully recovered, and the wind—”

Before he could finish, Su Huaijing’s eyes widened in disbelief. He instinctively lifted Rong Tang’s wrist higher, carefully feeling for his pulse.

Rong Tang had an inkling but still felt a pang of nervousness at Su Huaijing’s reaction. His voice trembled slightly as he asked, “Am I better?”

Su Huaijing nodded, then hesitated and shook his head.

Not fully well, but no longer critically ill.

His pulse had returned to what it was before this sickness, still in need of nourishment, but no longer weak to the point of vanishing, as if he could slip away at any moment.

The near month-long signs of terminal illness seemed like an illusion… one that had never existed in Rong Tang, despite the constant fear it had brought Su Huaijing.

Again and again, Su Huaijing checked, unwilling to believe it was merely his imagination.

Snow fell upon the eaves, incense ash drifted through the ancient temple. Rong Tang let him examine him for nearly half a quarter of an hour before murmuring, “It’s cold…”

Su Huaijing snapped back to reality. Without another thought, he took Rong Tang’s hand and led him out of the temple.

Before turning away, he hesitated for a brief moment. Walking alone to Huimian’s small courtyard, he bowed deeply, respectfully, and solemnly, and said in a low voice, “Master’s kindness is boundless. Sheng Fuya is deeply grateful. If there is any price to be paid, let me bear it alone.”

Only after these words did he turn back, grasping Rong Tang’s hand and stepping toward the mountain gate. “Let’s go home.”

“Can I eat something delicious now?” Rong Tang asked softly.

Su Huaijing chuckled. “How about hotpot?”

“Yes!” Rong Tang said excitedly, pausing for half a second before suggesting, “Let’s bring xiong zhang too.”

“Alright.”

On the first day of the twelfth lunar month, the skies were clear, and old friends were meant to return home.

For the first time in a month, Su Huaijing smiled. A genuine, heartfelt smile.