Little Journey to the West (Lingjizi Chapter) 028

Lingjizi could no longer remember how long ago he had been brought to Lingshan, the Sacred Mountain.

He only vaguely recalled that he used to be incredibly powerful—once, even a big bald man who passed through his territory was torn to shreds by him.

But that bald man was like a ghost; a few days later, he showed up again.

He ripped the bald man apart once more.

Yet the bald man appeared yet again, this time muttering words Lingjizi couldn't understand.

And so it went—the bald man died countless times, until Lingjizi finally grew weary of it all. Even when human caravans passed by, he could no longer muster any interest. His mind was consumed by the gibberish the bald man kept chanting.

Those words he couldn't understand.

This time, when the bald man appeared again, Lingjizi had lost all desire to tear him apart. Instead, he simply listened to the man's endless muttering.

Later, he followed the bald man back to this temple, where there were many bald men. They called it Lingshan.

And he was given a new name: Lingjizi.

His daily duties were simple—when the one called Buddha gave his sermons, Lingjizi had to stand below and listen. Even if he understood nothing, he had to put on the appearance of comprehension.

The reason was that there had been a monk standing in front of him who always dozed off during Buddha's lectures. A few days later, that monk was never seen again.

His master said that Golden Cicada had been exiled to the mortal realm to reincarnate and comprehend the Dharma.

Lingjizi didn't quite understand. Reincarnation could lead to enlightenment?

His master Jingfan laughed gently and said, "Only by entering the mortal world can one truly experience the Dharma. Otherwise, even if you chant scriptures and recite lessons all day, it's nothing but empty talk."

Lingjizi didn't care much for the other monks. They treated him poorly—especially the two arhats guarding the Sutra Library, who were all meek and respectful before Buddha but strutted around arrogantly in front of him.

But his master had told him to practice tolerance, so he did.

Not because Jingfan was particularly powerful, but because Jingfan was a good man. He was kind to everyone, and especially patient with Lingjizi. Lingjizi could feel a sense of peace radiating from Jingfan, a calm that was deeply comforting.

One day, Lingjizi overslept. When he hurried to the great hall, he found the monks weren't discussing scriptures as usual, but were instead talking about his master.

He asked around and finally learned that his master, too, had entered the cycle of reincarnation. There had been a dispute with an arhat. The arhat argued that human suffering was predetermined by heaven—they merely needed to wait for mortals to come and seek the Buddha's help. But Jingfan said that having a compassionate heart wasn't enough; one had to act on it, to put the teachings into practice, in order to spread the Dharma across the world.

The arhat then mocked Jingfan for being naive. Jingfan did not argue. He simply made a vow on the spot: he would enter the cycle of rebirth to seek the greater truth.

Throughout all of this, Buddha had said nothing. He never said anything.

Just like a great leader always does.

Lingjizi couldn't help but worry about his master. Jingfan often gave his own meal to Lingjizi—that alone was reason enough for Lingjizi to feel deeply grateful.

Before long, he heard that his master's physical body had died.

Then it came back to life.

Then it died again.

Each of Jingfan's deaths was tied to some act of ingratitude or insatiable greed. The arhat who had wagered with his master was grinning from ear to ear.

Finally, one day, Lingjizi learned from Guanyin that Jingfan had completely dissipated—gone for good.

He didn't understand. Why didn't Buddha or Guanyin save his master?

Guanyin said, "That was the path Jingfan chose for himself. We are powerless to help."

Lingjizi was indignant. Were these buddhas just going to sit here and stare with their eyes wide open?

He couldn't wrap his head around it, and so he stopped thinking about it. Lingjizi decided he too would enter the cycle of reincarnation. As his master had said, no amount of preaching could compare to experiencing something for yourself.

No one objected to this. All the buddhas in the hall were eager to see him make a fool of himself.

No one believed that a fierce beast could comprehend any sort of truth.

And so Lingjizi began his own journey through reincarnation.

In every life, his memories were wiped clean, and he became an ordinary mortal. Sometimes he had parents; sometimes he didn't. Sometimes he was a wealthy young master; sometimes he was a poor beggar.

He met evil people, but he also met good ones. After each death, Lingjizi would reflect—but he remained lost and confused.

What was human nature, really? Why would a good person suddenly turn into a villain?

Once, to save a child, he killed an entire family of tyrants. The child's family hid him in their home. Even when the husband lost his life protecting him, Lingjizi was never turned in. But then, overnight, the cellar where he was hiding was pried open by a spear, and the wife stood there, weeping, saying, "I'm sorry."

Lingjizi didn't hate her. He just didn't understand.

In his next life, he became a young monk. After hearing his master tell the tale of a pilgrimage to fetch scriptures, he resolutely decided to undertake the journey himself. He, too, wanted to see Lingshan, that mountain cloaked in immortal mist.

But luck was not on his side. Lingjizi hadn't walked far before he encountered bandits.

The region was full of mountains, with little arable land, so some people had turned to banditry. The imperial court had no power to control them.

The bandit didn't intend to kill him, though. What he hadn't expected was that a single shout from a young man would end his life in this incarnation.

Since he was dead, he might as well go reincarnate.

But with just one glance, he spotted an object brimming with the power of reincarnation. That thing seemed to notice him too.

Lingjizi immediately subdued the black object.

That was close—if it had been any stronger, he might have lost his grip.

He began to probe it.

As an ancient ferocious beast, he was no weakling, so it was easy for him to glimpse a world he had never seen: flying iron boxes on wheels, winged lizards the size of dragons, and skeletons that moved like demons.

Lingjizi realized: the person before him was also a seeker who had entered the cycle of reincarnation, except the world he had reincarnated into was not the same as Lingjizi's own.

He locked the black sphere away. It wasn't out of malice—mostly, the thing just wouldn't stop chattering, almost as bad as the old monk who had once enlightened him.

Lingjizi wanted to ask the reincarnator whether every decision he made carried deeper meaning. To make sure he'd get an answer, he pointed at his own physical body—meaning, you killed me, so you can't just walk away.

But before he could organize his words and figure out how to say it, the reincarnator suddenly grabbed the monk's robe from Lingjizi's body and put it on.

Lingjizi was baffled.

“Isn't it just fetching the scriptures? Fine, I'll do it for you!”

Lingjizi said nothing. This reincarnator seemed quick-witted. If that's what he proposed, it didn't sound impossible. He remembered that Golden Cicada was also supposed to retrieve the scriptures, and maybe that journey would answer all his questions.

Probably?

So Lingjizi decided then and there to go along with it. After all, it would give him plenty of time to examine this reincarnator's past lives.

To be fair, every single one of this reincarnator's lives was far more entertaining than any sutra.