Chapter 177 — The Sea of Suffering Is Hard to Cross
The Sword Questions the Heavens · Page 2 of 5
In that instant Master Pu Cheng bowed his head and chanted the Buddha's name; but Ming Li felt in a moment all the blood in his body freeze, not a trace of warmth left to him—he could not even feel his own heartbeat, as though it too had stopped.
He stood stiff as a pillar of ice, staring dumbly into the depths of the light, no other thought in his mind, only two words echoing there:
Pu Zhao!
The ghostly light, white as snow, flowed brilliantly from a round plate pure as jade, radiating a biting chill. And upon that plate, a foot across, sat a man cross-legged—none other than Pu Zhao, the man who had changed Zhang Qingyue's fate in that year, the man graven into Ming Li's heart today.
From a distance Pu Zhao's face looked vivid and lifelike; his skin was deathly pale, without a shred of life, yet on close inspection there was no sign of withering at all. He was still the merciful, serene old monk of Zhang Qingyue's memory, not changed in the least—save that in his expression there lingered a faint hue of hidden pain.
His body, however, was another matter.
Pu Zhao's body had somehow shrunk to less than half its former size, and only so could it sit cross-legged upon that plate of pure white cold jade. The chilling air that filled the room, with no ice piled anywhere in sight, must surely come from this strange treasure; and the preservation of Pu Zhao's remains all this time must likewise owe to its power.
But Ming Li's mind could hold no such thoughts now. That monk seated on the jade plate, merciful and serene, was carved deep into his heart, and in more than ten years he had never once forgotten it.
Was it hatred?
Was it grace?
At one moment his mind was utterly blank; the next it was a tempest, thunder and lightning crashing, a thousand agonies and ten thousand debts of grievance and gratitude all surging up at once.
That kindly monk had saved his life, had taught him true dharma, had treated him as a son—and yet this same seemingly merciful monk had ruined his life, left him in agony day and night, as though he had fallen into the abyss of hell...
Gratitude and grievance entwined, he had thought them buried in his heart alone; who would have guessed that on this day he would see that face again?
Under the turmoil of his heart, Ming Li could scarcely stand; his head swam and he swayed to the side. Just then a warm, gentle hand reached out from beside him and steadied him; at the same moment a familiar breath—the Buddhist true dharma of the Great Brahma Prajna—flowed from that palm, deep and boundless, slowly calming the churning blood and breath within him.
"Amitabha. Young benefactor, do not be so agitated; your health is what matters most." Master Pu Cheng's placid voice came softly from beside him.
Ming Li started as if waking from a dream. He gritted his teeth, drew a deep breath, released Pu Cheng's hand, and straightened himself again—yet his eyes never once left Pu Zhao's face. In the faint light, that hue of pain on Pu Zhao's serene face seemed only to have deepened.
Master Pu Cheng stood to one side, studying Ming Li closely. In his eyes, the young man's anguished, shifting face wavered in the pale glow; at this moment Ming Li seemed no longer the notorious demon of the demonic cult, but only a suffering mortal—like that youth of years ago.
He sighed softly, his gaze heavy, and turned to look at Pu Zhao ahead. Stepping slowly forward, he gazed at Pu Zhao's face and said in a low voice: "Junior brother, your last wish in life—your senior brother has fulfilled it for you. Your brother was powerless; he could not save you then. Evil causes bear evil fruit; each must taste his own debt. Those were your own words. May you soon set down your old sins and pass on to rebirth. Amitabha!"