Chapter 176 — A Mortal World's Buddha Hall
The Sword Questions the Heavens · Page 1 of 5
Morning bell, evening drum, day after day, as though it would never end.
Each day seemed identical to the one before; some found it dull, others found it reassuring. The long, quiet years—whether they felt long or short—were always a matter of the heart.
In the blink of an eye, Ming Li had been at the Fanyin Temple for many days, listening to the bell at dawn and the drum at dusk, sounding at their appointed hours from some nameless corner of the temple, as he passed the time in silence. He could not say why, but after only a few days he seemed already to have melted into this strange place, saying little each day, sitting lost in a daze.
He was in the prime of life, and his constitution was excellent. Though his injuries had been severe, he was young, his cultivation was high, and the temple had been unexpectedly generous—never stinting on good medicine, which they lavished on him freely. Given Fanyin Temple's standing and renown, its fine medicines were naturally first-rate even by the world's standards; their effects came swiftly, and his wounds and sickness mended remarkably fast.
Within a few days he could just manage to get out of bed and walk, though every step sent a sharp pain through his chest, and after a few paces he would be gasping for breath. Even so, Fa Cheng and the others who came to visit were delighted, marveling that they had never seen anyone recover so quickly, and predicting that within a month he would be fully well.
Ming Li kept a cool distance from them day to day. When they did talk, both sides avoided the awkward truth of their opposing allegiances, as though in the eyes of Fa Cheng and the other monks, Ming Li were merely an ordinary man they had kindly taken in to heal—not a demonic sect heretic wrested from the grasp of Canglan Gate at the risk of offending the whole world. And Ming Li, for his part, never again asked why the monks of Fanyin Temple had saved him.
So the days drifted by, and Ming Li's body grew stronger day by day. In recent days he could walk about with relative ease; sometimes when the morning bell or evening drum sounded, he would drag a chair to the window, open it, and sit listening, as though the temple's bell and drum held a flavor all their own for him.
During his convalescence, only Fa Cheng and Fa Jing came regularly to see him; the other monks scarcely appeared, to say nothing of the venerable monks of the Pu generation, such as Abbot Pu Cheng. And because he was recuperating, Ming Li never once left that room. Apart from the occasional glance out the window, all that met his eyes was a small courtyard—red walls, green tiles, and a few low trees planted within.
Yet to Ming Li, this plain, humble little courtyard carried a faint, long-missed familiarity. From the first day he opened the window, though he never showed it, he had taken an immediate liking to the place.
Listening to the morning bell, hearing the evening drum—such calm, unhurried days, and in so short a time they had already become something he could not bear to part with, something that left him steeped and content.
Who could know that the greatest luxury he had once dared hope for was simply to live a quiet life like this...
Mount Sumeru, Fanyin Temple—amid those vast, magnificent halls and pavilions, in a remote, unfamiliar corner, in a tiny courtyard, there he stayed, and stayed, and stayed...
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"Creak"—the wooden door was pushed open, and Fa Cheng entered alone. He swept a glance around the room, then his eyes fell on Ming Li lying in bed. Ming Li's eyes were closed; whether he was asleep was impossible to tell.
Fa Cheng smiled faintly, turned, and closed the door. "How do you feel today?" he asked. "Does your chest still pain you?"
Ming Li shifted, slowly opened his eyes, glanced at Fa Cheng, and said mildly, "Every time you come you ask the same thing. Doesn't it weary you?"