Chapter 3 — The Enigma

The old monk did not answer. He only let his gaze rest on the two children, studying them closely, and could not help letting his eyes linger a few moments longer on Lin Jinghong. He thought to himself: "What fine natural gifts—but why is his temper so fierce and unyielding?"

At this, Zhang Qingyue stepped forward and said, "Hey, who are you? How is it I've never seen you before?"

Liu Miao Village lay near the Canglan Sect. Daoism held sway in these parts, and Buddhist monks were exceedingly rare, which was why Zhang Qingyue had asked.

The old monk glanced at him, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, and asked in return: "Young benefactor, just now your life hung by a thread. You had only to admit defeat and that would have been the end of it—so why did you struggle on so bitterly? If this old monk had not intervened, I fear you would have thrown your life away for nothing."

Zhang Qingyue was stunned for a moment. In his heart he felt there was some truth in what the old monk said, yet when it came to the point, he still could not put his reasons into words, and could only stand there blankly.

Lin Jinghong glared at the old monk, took Zhang Qingyue by the hand, and said, "Xiaofan, this old monk is a strange one. Let's pay him no mind." With that he pulled him toward the outside, and the other children all followed along—plainly they had always taken their lead from him.

Zhang Qingyue's feet moved of their own accord, but after he had walked some distance from the temple gate, he could not resist turning back to look. The sky was gradually darkening, and he could just make out that the old monk was still standing there, though his face had already grown indistinct.

Deep night.

A peal of thunder; the wind swept the remnant clouds, and black clouds tumbled at the horizon.

A storm was about to break, and the air was filled with a killing stillness.

The old monk was still in the thatched temple, sitting in meditation on the ground. Looking up, he saw that distant Canglan Mountain was now but a blur, and the fields all around were silent, without a human sound—only the howling wind and crashing thunder filling heaven and earth.

What a wind it was!

A bolt of lightning split the sky, and the little thatched temple, standing alone in the wind, flashed bright for an instant. In that brief moment the old monk was already standing at the temple gate, his face grave, gazing up at the sky, his brows knitting tighter and tighter.

In the village to the west, a black vapor had at some point risen—thick as black ink, churning without cease. The old monk stood within the thatched temple, his eyes fixed dead upon that black vapor.

Suddenly the black vapor coiled and spiraled upward, then shot straight out of the village, heading directly toward the thatched temple. It moved with incredible speed, arriving in the blink of an eye. The old monk's sharp eyes caught at once that it carried a child within it—none other than Lin Jinghong, whom he had seen that day.

The old monk's face darkened. Without further hesitation—and without any visible exertion—his lean, withered body shot straight up from the ground and plunged into the black vapor.

Somewhere in the darkness, an unknown place, came a voice tinged with surprise: "Eh?"

Several muffled thuds, and the black vapor abruptly halted, circling above the thatched temple and refusing to disperse. The old monk, Lin Jinghong tucked under his arm, descended slowly—but a piece of the cassock at his back had been torn away.

By the faint light, Lin Jinghong could be seen with his eyes tightly shut, his breathing steady; whether he was asleep or had fainted, there was no telling.

The old monk did not set him down. He raised his head to look at the mass of black vapor in the air and said, "Your honor's Daoist arts are profound. Why stoop to strike at an ignorant child? I fear it ill becomes your station."

From the black vapor came a hoarse voice: "And who are you, to dare meddle in my affairs?"

The old monk did not answer, but said instead: "This is the foot of Canglan Mountain. If the Canglan Sect were to learn that your honor has been running wild here, I fear your honor's days hereafter would be none too easy."

The man spat. "Pah! What is the Canglan Sect but a crowd of many? Old bald donkey, waste no more words. If you're sensible, hand the child over to me at once."

The old monk pressed his palms together and said, "Amitabha. A monk's heart is moved by compassion; I cannot stand by and watch this child fall to your poisoned hand."

The man said in a fury, "You thieving bald monk, you're courting death."

As he spoke, within the black vapor that had been circling all along, a deep crimson gleam flickered. In an instant, a fierce yin wind rose around the little thatched temple, and the aura of ghosts swelled mightily.

"The Blood-Poison Banner!" Fury suddenly appeared on the old monk's face. "Wicked wretch, you dare to cultivate such a cursed thing—utterly devoid of conscience, a scourge upon the world. Today I will not spare you."

The hoarse voice gave a cold laugh but did not reply. A whistling sound was heard, the red gleam blazed bright, and from midair a stench of blood and rot rose thick. A crimson banner, two zhang long, was slowly raised aloft. Now the wailing of ghosts grew ever more shrill, as though countless vengeful spirits wept in the night, and amid it all came faintly the clatter of bones—a sound to chill the heart.

"Thieving monk, die!" The man in the black vapor gave a sharp shout. Upon the blood-red banner there suddenly appeared a monstrous ghostly face—three horns and four eyes, sharp fangs and jagged teeth. "Crack, crack, crack, crack"—bones rattled wildly, and all four eyes on the ghostly face flew open at once. With a roar, it took on solid form and charged off the banner, trailing an unspeakable reek of blood, straight at the old monk.

Fury deepened on the old monk's face. He knew that the mightier the Blood-Poison Banner, the more innocent lives must have been slain in its making. To forge the power before his eyes, the banner must have been consecrated with the essence and blood of no fewer than three hundred souls.

This evildoer was truly beyond all conscience!

The ghostly thing was nearly upon him, yet the old monk did not set down the child Lin Jinghong beneath his arm. With his left hand alone—the hand holding the emerald prayer beads—he traced a circle in the air before him, formed the Buddha's Lion Seal with one hand, his five fingers flexing, golden light faintly glimmering at his fingertips. In a moment a golden Dharma wheel had appeared before him, blazing with golden radiance, holding the ghostly thing at bay in midair.

"A petty trick, and you dare to make a show—" Before he could finish the word "show," his whole body convulsed. He felt a sudden bite upon his wrist where his right hand held the child Lin Jinghong—a numbness and itching spread at once through half his body, his vision went black, and the Dharma wheel before him began to sway and totter.

At that very moment, the ghostly thing ahead underwent a strange change. In the center of its forehead, between the four eyes to left and right, came two cracks—"crack, crack"—and a huge blood-red eye opened there as well. A foul wind surged up, its might grew all the more terrible; with a ghostly howl and a flash of blood-red light, the thing smashed the golden Dharma wheel to pieces and struck the old monk full in the chest.

The old monk was sent flying backward, and Lin Jinghong fell from beneath his arm to the ground. Several muffled thuds along the way—his ribs, most likely, were all broken. A moment later his withered body crashed against the wall of the thatched temple with a "boom." Dust flew up, and an entire wall collapsed.

"Hahahahaha——" The man in the black vapor burst into wild, exultant laughter.