Chapter 413: Chi Master

Chapter 413 The Chi Master

Sang Yan Temple sought to reach into the Cursed District, a move that Ming Wang had anticipated all along.

For these Non-Han Buddhist sects, the bloodlines of their followers were of little consequence. Their origins lay beyond the Empire’s borders, and if lineage mattered at all, they were no more noble than the Cursed folk themselves.

Thus, in the eyes of the Non-Han Buddhist order, the distinction between illuminating the Buddha’s path for the Ming people or the Wokou was negligible.

The Non-Han Buddhist sects’ ascendancy, aside from their own formidable strength, owed much to their alliance with the Han Buddhist schools in confronting rival factions, jointly securing their place among the Three Teachings.

They were dragged, kicking and screaming, into the imperial fold, thrust into the realm of the Three Teachings and Nine Schools.

Hence, the various Non-Han Buddhist factions had long coveted the Cursed District, that juicy morsel left behind by Emperor Xuanwu.

Previously, they had held back, as the others feigned indifference, allowing the Cursed District to wither in obscurity while secretly guarding against any premature aggression. Each faction watched warily, waiting for another to make the first move.

Under the wolf pack’s encirclement, striking first meant facing united opposition.

But now the tide had shifted.

The New Policies were being implemented across all Cursed Districts, a sweeping endeavor of unprecedented scale and force—the largest administrative undertaking since the New Forest Party’s rise to power following the new emperor’s ascension, save for the “Great Debate of the Capital.”

The New Forest Party’s influence was now scattered across the empire’s Cursed Districts, their lieutenants abandoning their scholarly pursuits to don spoons and chopsticks, waiting eagerly for the harvest, their bellies ready to burst with satisfaction.

Thus, the New Forest Party lacked the strength to impede other factions from infiltrating the Cursed Districts.

The actions of Dao Sequence in the Wokou Cursed District served as undeniable proof.

With Dao Sequence leading the charge, the Buddhist Sequence saw an opportunity to swim in the murky waters.

After all, they required no population base, no genetic stock, no martial or civil prowess to uphold rites and ceremonies. Their aim was singular: coin.

They would welcome further chaos, even rejoice if the Confucian and Daoist schools clashed, their faces stained with blood.

The greater the commotion, the more casualties among the people—more recipients for their “merit money,” their “virtue” and “karma” bestowed by the Bodhisattvas, ensuring endless generations of beneficiaries.

“Have you considered the consequences of your actions?”

Ming Wang’s expression grew uneasy, his gaze falling upon the nun, who mistook his concern for fear.

“We knew the risks, yet so what?”

The nun spoke with haughty defiance: “The age of the mighty Wu Sequence has long passed. Su Cai is but a lone traveler, a mere mortal whose rage cannot withstand the Buddha’s will.”

“You will die in the Wokou District.”

Ming Wang’s voice was cold, matter-of-fact.

“Perhaps not.”

Her contempt deepened. “As long as we leave before Su Cai reacts, even his strength cannot touch us. You forget—he can only leave the Wokou District once a year for his report. That was his promise to the Confucian Sequence.”

“Amidst the lotus.”

Ming Wang murmured a Buddhist invocation, “A raging warrior, even his survival instincts cannot restrain him. How could a mere promise challenge the Buddha’s decree?”

“Even in death, Sang Yan Temple will uphold the Buddha’s teachings, spreading the Dharma’s light across the Wokou District.”

The nun folded her hands, her face stern.

Her sleeve slipped down, revealing a Buddha carved into her arm.

On the lotus platform of imperial coin, a half-gold, half-iron figure of a female Bodhisattva sat, her form majestic and commanding.

Her right hand formed a gesture of offering, her left palm cradling a stack of thick banknotes.

Ming Wang’s eyes narrowed with scorn, his pupils sneering.

Their “decree” was but a guise for greed.

The Buddha’s salvation burned the fat of the ignorant.

Yet he found no surprise in the nun’s selfless fervor.

For the path to enlightenment demands oceans of coin.

Salvation, protection deities, Peach Blossom Land Buddha realms—these were the Buddhist Sequence’s core, their most glaring traits.

And of all, the Peach Blossom Land Buddha realm consumed the most wealth.

It was known that the Peach Blossom Land’s creation was directly tied to Dao Sequence.

The imperial court, seeking eternal dominion, sought to embed imperial ideology into the populace, resolving governance’s myriad challenges at their roots. They adopted proposals from Dao, Confucian, and Yin-Yang Sequences to construct the Peach Blossom Dreamland.

The process was riddled with treachery and deceit.

In the end, Dao Sequence emerged victorious, founding the Jade Capital, narrowing the chasm between dream and reality.

Frequent, prolonged cycles of rebirth became routine for Dao practitioners, no longer rare treasures.

Dao Sequence’s power thus surged.

The Buddhist Sequence watched with eyes full of resentment, hearts heavy with grievance.

Excluded from this “revolutionary” affair due to court favor, they gained no benefit.

Yet the Buddhist Sequence, enduring centuries without extinction, retained their own formidable strengths.

Drawing from the Peach Blossom Dreamland, they forged the “Buddha Realm”—a personal domain, independent, unshared with others.

Compared to the Jade Capital, a communal treasure, the Buddha Realm was an individual asset, a private sanctuary.

Each had merits, destined to endure.

Even Dao Sequence found inspiration, introducing the “Void Palace” concept for lowly practitioners barred from the Jade Capital’s celestial ranks.

The measure of a Buddha Realm’s power was singular: karmic calculation capacity.

To expand this, one could strengthen the Peach Blossom Host, refine spiritual force, or master Dharma techniques—all requiring vast coin.

This was evident in the refined Dharma of today.

The Buddhist Sequence now preached innocence at birth, yet suffering plagued the world.

In life’s journey, one inevitably faces birth, aging, illness, death, separation from loved ones, grudges, unmet desires, and the wrath of spirits—the eight torments of Buddhist doctrine.

These ills stemmed from the vice of merit-based currency, and could only be resolved by that same vice.

Thus, the emergence of Bodhisattvas from imperial coin became inevitable.

Hence, Ming Wang’s decision to join the Wokou Guard upon his return to the Cursed District prompted Sang Yan Temple and Han Mountain Temple to jointly elevate him to a mandarin, aiming to one day extend their reach into the Wokou District.

After Su Cai’s neglect, Ming Wang anticipated Sang Yan Temple’s approach.

He envisioned numerous methods for them to reclaim the granaries, yet never imagined they would scheme to kill Su Cai, using violence to reclaim their goal of subduing the Wokou.

This wasn’t about finding a new path anymore—it was about cutting off the root cause directly.

Or, to put it another way, it was insane.

Seeing the nun’s unusually firm attitude—she’d been pretending to be stupid all along—the Ming King stopped trying to persuade her. After a moment’s contemplation, he asked, “Do you have the confidence to kill Yan Jun? I can give you some details: he’s now a lone martial artist of the fifth rank.”

“The culprit!”

The nun clenched her teeth. Every wrinkle on her fleshy face radiated a murderous aura.

“We know that, and we know more than anyone else about this new sequence that was born on the corpses of the sect’s martial order.”

The Ming King glanced in surprise, unable to understand why the other party suddenly became furious.

“To fulfill the Buddha’s will, we’ve made all necessary preparations. If Yan Jun doesn’t wish to accept enlightenment, he’ll only have to be transcended.”

The nun said, “Ming Wang, instead of worrying about whether we can succeed, why don’t you think about how to distance yourself from us in front of Su Ce? This is something you should be able to figure out yourself, isn’t it?”

The Ming King suddenly let out a long sigh. “This is indeed something that needs to be considered carefully.”

Suddenly, the room fell into a deathly silence. Not even a needle could be heard.

The Ming King and the nun, both sitting cross-legged, closed their mouths simultaneously, as if they’d entered a state of meditation at the same time.

The Ming King’s recuperation house was located in the mountains outside Edo Castle. At that moment, the wind blew through the withered forest, making a sound like a mountain ghost crying.

Suddenly, a chilling terror arose from nowhere in his heart.

The two turned their heads toward the window almost simultaneously.

The moonlight was sinister, and the night wind was cold.

Tiny black ashes swirled and drifted in through the window, landing on an empty yellow mat.

The nun’s figure appeared in the courtyard. She widened her eyes but still couldn’t find the source of the terror.

“What on earth is going on?”

Before the words were finished, the terror that had been swirling in her heart suddenly reached its peak. The shrill scream of genes made the nun instinctively raise her head in horror.

In the midst of wind and rain, a large moon hung in the air.

In the bright moonlight, a black shadow the size of a bean expanded at a visible speed.

Boom!

Dirt flew everywhere, stones rolled, and the ground shook.

A pit several zhang in diameter and depth appeared in the courtyard.

“What?”

The nun looked in horror at the towering figure in front of her, which was over a zhang tall.

Dark golden armor covered his entire body, adorned with ancient animal patterns, blue leather straps, embroidered rings, and tiger mouth and beast-swallowing devices on both shoulder pads. He wore a golden phoenix-wing helmet, lion-tooth devil horns, and blood-red eyes like flames.

Thud.

A round black shadow landed on the ground and rolled toward the nun’s shoes.

Under the torn flesh, a metallic skull was exposed, densely inscribed with gold-lettered Sanskrit characters the size of fly heads.

There was no doubt that this was the head of a Buddha-order guardian deity.

“The leader?!” The nun let out a sharp, knife-like scream.

“It’s you, you ugly woman, who wants trouble?”

A cold voice came from the black armor. “Daring to bring a Buddha-order fourth-rank guardian deity to the Japanese district—you nuns of Sangyan Temple are not afraid, but you are quite bold.”

“Xie Chan, dare you betray us?!”

The nun suddenly turned her head, angrily staring at the Ming King standing under the eaves, and shouted his real name in anger.

Cold Mountain Temple of Buddhism, Xie Chan.

The Ming King ignored the furious nun and bowed with his fists, saying, “I am the hundredth officer of the Japanese District Imperial Guards, paying my respects to the leader.”

“I’m not in your Imperial Guards roster, so you don’t need to call me ‘Lord.’”

Two fist-sized blood-red eyes fell on the nun. “Do you want to go to the prison or to reincarnation? Choose.”

“Leader, you should think carefully. Su Ce won’t live long, and when he dies, your only way out is to return to the Black Order. Sangyan Temple can help you avoid the punishment of the Black Order.”

“Woman, you’re so talkative.”

Bang!

A vicious wind swept across the courtyard. Water droplets falling from the eaves flew everywhere.

The Ming King grabbed his sleeve with his right hand and wiped the liquid sliding down his face with his facial expression.

There was a patch of crimson at the cuff!

The nun standing in the courtyard had disappeared, leaving only two small legs sticking out of the mud. The rest of her body had been blown to pieces, turning into a shower of blood.

The moon was still there, but its light was blocked by the towering figure, casting a dark shadow over the Ming King.

“Have you thought it through?”

“I’ve never wavered since the day I entered the Japanese district. I was first the Ming King of the Imperial Guards, and then Xie Chan of Cold Mountain Temple!”

The oppressive feeling was so heavy that the Ming King’s face turned pale. He clenched his teeth and tried to straighten his back.

“Offending Sangyan Temple will cause you no end of trouble in the future.”

“As long as you have a knife in your hand, trouble is just trouble and will never become a threat.”

The Ming King’s face began to turn blue, and his voice became hoarse.

“With such a strong killing nature, have you forgotten that your foundation is the Buddha Order, Xie Chan?”

“That’s a choice of genes—I can’t control it.”

The Ming King spoke slowly. “But I can choose my own identity.”

Suddenly, the suffocating pressure dissipated completely.

The Ming King was like a fish pulled out of water—his pupils widened, his mouth opened involuntarily, his tall body bent over, and the mechanical heart in his chest hummed intermittently.

“Old Su asked me to give you a message. He won’t force you to betray your sect, and he doesn’t need you to shed blood for the Imperial Guards. He knows why you came to the Japanese district as Imperial Guards. Times have changed, and now we only talk about profit, not righteousness.”

“I…”

“You’re a smart person. Go back and take good care of Edo Castle. Once the new policy is fully implemented, there’s not much point in staying in the Japanese District Imperial Guards. But before that, Su Ce will have Cold Mountain Temple bring you back, place you on a shrine, and make you a Buddha or an ancestor.”

“Thank you, Lord Leader, and thank you, Lord Thousandth Officer!”

The Ming King, who was bowing and bowing, waited for a long time, but there was still no answer in front of him.

He slowly raised his head, and the shadow that had been covering him had disappeared by now. The thunder of the awakening was still rolling, but the raging wind and rain could no longer reach him.

“Only talk about profit, not righteousness.”

The Ming King repeated these words, his expression complex, but his eyes gradually became sharp.