Zanxing ultimately couldn’t change anything.
The Emperor, having sought the divine child for many years, immediately ordered the ignorant young son of Zanxing to be brought to the palace. The poor child, still in his early years, met such a tragic fate. The sorcerers used his heart’s blood in the ritual to make the elixir of immortality, and within a few months, the child perished.
Zanxing, however, survived.
Zifeng asked the Emperor to spare Zanxing’s life, citing Zanxing’s sacrifice of his son as an act of merit. Perhaps the Emperor wanted to see him live in utter destitution, with nothing left.
In one night, Zanxing lost his entire family.
Zifeng fabricated false evidence, sold military secrets, and brought disgrace to the Yang family, leading to their downfall. He then rose to power through the supposed merit of the divine child, ascending smoothly and enjoying great success.
The Emperor rewarded Zifeng with the Yang family estate, which Zifeng had extensively renovated. He married the daughter of a high official and no longer showed any trace of the former gentleness and humility.
Zanxing tried to seek revenge, but times had changed. Zifeng was now a powerful official, surrounded by bodyguards. Zanxing was thrown out by Zifeng’s guards, like a stray dog, rolling and wailing in the mud, helpless and despairing.
The flower trellis covered with honeysuckle in the courtyard had been removed, but the delicate, slender flowers had somehow regrown. They quietly grew in the cracks of the stones, opening golden blossoms bit by bit in the cold wind.
In one night, his parents perished in disgrace, his wife died tragically, and his young son was used as a sacrificial ingredient for alchemy. Once a favored son of heaven, Zanxing became a traitor despised by all. The instigator, now occupying his place, looked at Zanxing as if he were just a speck of dust on the sole of his shoe.
And Zanxing was powerless to change anything.
Hatred grew uncontrollably, and endless anger consumed him, leaving him unable to escape.
Zanxing stared at the small yellow flower swaying in the cold wind, his expression growing colder with each passing moment.
He resolved to take revenge.
“I will have my revenge,” he said softly.
*
Zanxing left his hometown and journeyed afar.
Being a man marked by sin, he did not want to draw attention to his true identity. Thus, he shaved his head and became a monk, donning a brown robe and calmly traversing places of suffering. Sometimes he walked through battlefields strewn with corpses, other times through villages ravaged by plague, and often through lands afflicted by disasters. More frequently, he carried a golden Zen staff and prayer beads, quietly walking through serene places untouched by others.
He was always gentle and benevolent, helping others and accumulating virtue. People often said he might be the incarnation of the Buddha, as he was known for his kindness and good deeds. His reputation spread far and wide, and gradually, people forgot his original name, calling him Master Jingshan instead.
He became a Buddhist practitioner.
Buddhist practice involves not only self-cultivation but also spiritual refinement. Over the years, Jingshan traveled throughout the entire prefecture, seeing through the suffering of worldly attachments and understanding the fleeting nature of love and hate. His demeanor became increasingly serene and detached, and his reputation grew. Everyone knew of the esteemed Buddhist practitioner Jingshan in the prefecture, renowned for his profound cultivation and revered for his virtue.
This reputation reached his hometown.
People spoke of the master’s compassion, treating every plant and tree with kindness. Yet, he alone knew that he had never let go of his hatred. His focus on spiritual and personal growth was solely for the day he could return to his homeland, avenge his parents and wife, and settle the past.
On the day Jingshan reached a significant breakthrough in his cultivation, he decided it was time to return home and resolve his past.
But the prefecture faced a severe drought.
The drought came with relentless force, scorching crops to ashes under the blazing sun and causing a shortage of food in the city. Many people starved to death, and incidents of cannibalism occurred daily. The dead were often left unburied, merging with the living in a grim way.
The world seemed to have turned into a purgatory overnight.
In this purgatory, someone was distributing food and making porridge to aid the disaster-stricken.
The one providing aid was Yang Zifeng.
Once rising through the ranks due to the blood debts of the Yang family, Yang Zifeng was now the current Prime Minister. His household was wealthy, and he had many wives and concubines. Upon hearing about Master Jingshan’s return, he grew increasingly anxious and regretted not having eradicated all potential threats back then, fearing that even with his guards, it might be of no help.
The drought had arrived with such perfect timing that it seemed like a divine opportunity sent just for him.
He found out the date Master Jingshan was returning and began distributing aid to the disaster-stricken people in the city half a month in advance. The reputation of his ‘benevolence’ spread everywhere, and the people were grateful for his timely help, showering him with gratitude.
On the very day Master Jingshan stepped into the old city, Yang Zifeng, bare-chested and carrying a bundle of thorny branches, knelt before him in a gesture of penitence.
The monk, clad in a brown robe, looked at him calmly, his gaze as deep as the sea. Yang Zifeng, in a state of panic, knelt down, tears streaming from his eyes as he confessed his past sins and sincerely sought forgiveness.
In the end, Yang Zifeng said, “I am willing to aid the disaster victims every day until the drought ends. Please forgive me for my past sins and grant me a chance to atone.”
Master Jingshan remained silent, simply watching him with a faint, indifferent gaze.
His entire life had been spent traveling far and wide, tirelessly cultivating himself, all for the day he could confront his enemies and avenge his wronged loved ones. Now, with his profound cultivation, he had the power to reclaim everything he had lost, but it was precisely at this moment.
Behind him, golden honeysuckle flowers bloomed, their sprawling vines reminding him of the fallen trellis stained with blood.
However, the people behind him could not help but speak up.
They said, “Master, please forgive him.”
“Forgive him, he is truly repentant. Give him a chance to atone.”
“Master, we don’t want to starve to death.”
An elderly man, frail and trembling, bowed deeply. A young child tugged at his clothing, a woman wept, and a youth pleaded. Just yesterday, they had called him a benevolent being with a kind heart, but today, they stood on the side of his enemy, pressing him relentlessly. He suddenly felt a pang of confusion.
The once formidable and ruthless villain was now old, appearing humble and deferential, but with a hint of cunning and smugness in his eyes. He said, “Yesterday, you were the fierce Yaksha, and today you are the Bodhisattva. The Bodhisattva and the Yaksha are not separated by a single line. Master, are you not a good person? Isn’t it said that by putting down the butcher’s knife, one can become a Buddha? The sea of suffering is boundless, but turning back is the shore. The Buddhist way is to be compassionate. I have truly repented. Why can’t you give me a chance?”
Why should Yang Zifeng be given a chance?
Who would give him a chance? Who would give a chance to his aged parents who died in misery, his wife who died in bitterness, and his young child who passed away for no reason?
The dead cannot be resurrected, the sins committed cannot be easily erased. The karma of the past had led to the present retribution.
Master Jingshan’s eyes narrowed slightly as he tightened his grip on the golden prayer staff.
With a thud, a woman closest to him suddenly fell to her knees.