This Is Hei Si

The construction of all temples is largely similar, following standardized forms and specifications, with only occasional minor adjustments.

However, the so-called True Dharma Temple mentioned by the Arhat was built with impeccable precision—strictly adhering to Buddhist architectural standards, though modest in size, roughly two-thirds that of the Zen Forest Temple, making its layout immediately apparent at a glance.

The temple was remarkably plain, constructed mostly of mud bricks and weathered, lacquer-painted wood that appeared ancient despite the finish.

It stood in stark contrast to the opulent structures outside the city.

Yuan Kong remained composed. People were neither good nor bad by nature, nor did cultivation—or what they cultivated—change that.

Cultivators were no exception, and neither were Buddhist practitioners. Power was not the essence; the heart was.

Having lived in a temple since he could remember, Yuan Kong needed no introduction. A brief glance was enough to discern the purpose of each building.

The True Dharma Temple also housed monks, though far fewer in number. Only occasionally would one or two Buddhist cultivators, eyes closed in meditation, be seen as he passed by.

No ordinary mortal practitioners remained here—only cultivators.

And their cultivation levels were far from low. To these monks, Yuan Kong, who would otherwise go unnoticed by common folk, stood out like a glaring beacon.

As Yuan Kong walked past, the monks would open their eyes, bow to him, and then resume their meditation.

To each gesture of respect, Yuan Kong returned a bow in kind.

He walked with purpose, heading straight ahead until he arrived at a slightly more ornate hall, its plaque bearing the name: "Great Hero Hall."

All four doors stood wide open. Inside, a hunched, emaciated monk softly tapped a wooden fish before the Buddha statue.

It wasn’t just the Central Plains’ Buddhist sects that built authentic Great Hero Halls—this one was just as real.

For a novice monk, the difference lay only in grandeur, for the one seated at the center was not any individual, but the Buddha within.

It could be anyone, built anywhere, by anyone.

Yuan Kong’s gaze settled on the stooped monk as he approached, stopping at the threshold and pressing his palms together:

"Buddha’s child, Nan Kong, passing through on my cultivation journey. I seek your guidance."

"This is no place for a pure Buddha’s child like you."

The monk slowly turned his head, revealing a face deeply lined with age, his eyes clouded and voice hoarse—unpleasant to most ears.

He rose with effort, his murky gaze lingering on Yuan Kong before speaking:

"Stay one night, share a vegetarian meal, and I’ll have someone escort you away. There are no answers here for you, nor any guidance to offer."

Yuan Kong met his eyes and asked directly, "Is this not a Buddhist temple? Do you not practice the Dharma?"

The monk gently set the wooden fish down on the table behind him:

"This is a temple, but few here practice the Dharma. My chants are sincere only because I chant for myself. This place holds no answers for you—it may only lead you astray."

A faint smile touched Yuan Kong’s lips. "It sounds almost like a den of heresy."

"No need for 'almost.' It is one." The monk answered without hesitation. "Here, we are wrathful Arhats, blood-stained Rakshasas. No Buddha dwells here—only cultivators on the verge of becoming demons."

"Greed flows through our hearts, wrath burns our six senses, precepts are but empty words, and compassion is dust in the wind."

Even Yuan Kong, who had seen much and heard endless deceit, was momentarily stunned.

He had encountered blunt speech before, but this was beyond straightforward.

No pretense, purely wicked?

The monk’s expression remained calm as he continued, "You are a Buddha’s child, destined to sit upon a golden lotus. I’ve no wish to harm you."

"In all my years, I’ve learned one truth: to live among men, one must blend with the dust."

"You sit on the golden lotus, while others must chant below it. Such is the way of the world, unchanging since ancient times."

Yuan Kong challenged, "Even the Buddha is like this?"

The old monk’s lips curled into a smile as he answered plainly:

"Even the Buddha. The golden lotus was never meant for all."

Before Yuan Kong could respond, the monk gestured for him to enter the hall.

Without further hesitation, Yuan Kong stepped solemnly inside, following the monk’s gaze.

The central Buddha statue nearly touched the ceiling, yet its face was visible—faceless.

Only a smooth, rounded shape, devoid of eyes, nose, or ears.

"The Buddha has no form, or takes infinite forms." The monk spoke quietly. "Once it was so. Now, it has titles, features, and worshippers."

Yuan Kong turned back to him. "With such views, shouldn’t you be elsewhere?"

The monk smiled, took a step forward, and a surge of spiritual pressure rolled off him—an overwhelming force.

Yuan Kong’s eyes widened. That mere ripple of energy confirmed it: this was a supreme powerhouse among powerhouses!

Yet in the next instant, golden chains materialized from all directions—descending from the ceiling, rising from the floor, even extending from the Buddha’s hands—coiling tightly around the monk’s limbs and neck.

Just as swiftly, the monk retreated a step, and the chains vanished like illusions.

"Those who shouldn’t be here must still remain." The monk continued, unfazed. "I’m half-forced, half-willing. My presence here is the boundary."

"If some cannot become Buddhas, why not me?"

"Besides, that Buddha doesn’t seem so great. Isn’t the golden lotus just another set of chains?"

He turned to pick up the wooden fish. "This place holds great secrets. No Arhat here fails to see the skill in your eyes—and those eyes will glimpse what they shouldn’t."

"I should send you away at once, but your timing is unfortunate. Stay one night. Remain in your room, go nowhere, and if possible, keep your eyes shut."

Yuan Kong exhaled softly, asking no further questions. The old monk had already said far more than he should have. Pressing his palms together, he bowed slightly:

"My gratitude for your teachings."

The monk resumed tapping the wooden fish, his tone almost consoling:

"You are a Buddha’s child, a Buddha of the future. The future lies in your hands—whether it shines or remains untainted. We are but dust, soon swept away without a trace."

"Simply do as you will."

Yuan Kong nodded but said nothing more.

In the past, traveling so far only to be dismissed with a few words might have left him disheartened.

But not now.

Experience had taught him that the monk had already spoken the unspeakable.

People wore many faces. To Yuan Kong, this monk was a good man—though to others, he was anything but.

With another bow, Yuan Kong turned and left.

True Dharma Temple, guest quarters.

After thanking the Arhat who guided him, Yuan Kong sat heavily in a chair, his mind burdened.

"Nan Kong, Buddha’s child? I thought you were Yuan Kong of the Zen Forest Temple in Yuzhou City?"

A voice suddenly spoke from behind him.

Yuan Kong's heart skipped a beat, and he immediately turned his head to look back.