Chapter 50: Celestial Being, The Great Monk

On this clay token, there was a line of tiny characters—“Young master, come quickly; it is tied to the prophecy, and great matters are to be discussed.”

Ji Ming hung the clay token around his neck, his palm touching each of the three pouches in turn. All his worldly possessions rested in those three bags.

After two months of solitary cultivation in the cave, his shell was beginning to itch; now was the perfect time to visit his benefactor from a previous life and reminisce.

“Prophecy? Words to predict fortune and calamity!”

He pondered for a moment, and interest sparked in his heart.

“Caw!!”

He called twice, and instantly, the flock of crows took flight, leading the way ahead.

His previous life’s crow tongue had not faded entirely; he would need to practice more in the days to come, for it was, after all, a foreign language.

Before long, Ji Ming alighted upon the great locust tree before the old temple, warmly conversing with his crow brothers from a former life.

Through their exchange, he learned that his former crow father and mother had passed away, which left Ji Ming somewhat sorrowful.

“Caw!”

“Caw, caw!”

“……”

No sooner had their conversation begun, than something golden and dazzling flew from the temple, circling the great locust tree.

In an instant, the flock of crows tumbled down, bodies and heads separated, many branches severed and left dangling haphazardly.

“Monk, that was my messenger bird!” From within the old temple came the furious roar of Lord Bo Ni.

Upon a certain leaf swaying in the wind atop the locust tree, Ji Ming lay tense, fearful that the whirling object above might descend upon him.

Below, several headless crow brothers still fluttered, wings scattering dust, necks spurting blood.

“May you find a better fate in your next life!”

Ji Ming, lying on the leaf, silently mourned them.

Only when the whirling artifact was retrieved into the temple did Ji Ming dare to move even a little.

That was undoubtedly a magical instrument, carefully refined; it meant that at least one cultivator of the second realm resided within the old temple.

Just as Ji Ming prepared to fly away, a deep, kindly voice issued from the temple.

“Fellow Daoist, since you have come to discuss great matters, why do you use crow speech to steal secrets?”

“It is not theft,” Ji Ming replied swiftly, calling out from beyond the temple, “But the matter is grave and demands caution.”

Having spoken, he dispelled the Small Wish spell and took down the three pouches hanging from the branch.

“So be it!”

The person within the temple seemed to accept this explanation, and again sent a voice message, “Wu Daoist, please come into the temple for a discussion.”

Hearing himself addressed as “Wu,” Ji Ming’s heart settled.

This person had seen through his true form, yet still invited him in—surely not with ill intent.

Moreover, Ji Ming possessed an iron back and skill in shrinking at will; should anything go awry, he could flee swiftly.

“Let me tidy my appearance.”

Ji Ming donned a monk’s robe, grasped his prayer beads, and slung an old sword behind him.

As the saying goes, clothes make the man, gold adorns the Buddha.

His attire barely concealed his wild air, but sufficed to give him an air of legitimacy.

Those rootless spirits, like wandering practitioners of the left path, were always looked down upon wherever they went.

He pressed his palms together, chanting “Namo, Namo,” feeling a touch of Zen still within.

Pushing open the door, Ji Ming entered the dilapidated temple, greeted by its familiar desolate scene.

Beyond the threshold, several blue stone slabs lay cracked, moss and grass thriving in the crevices, a damp, musty odor assaulting him first.

The temple was dim; shafts of sunlight pierced holes in the roof, dust danced in the beams.

A familiar clay horse stood there, illuminated by a stray ray or two.

Beside the half-collapsed central statue, Lord Bo Ni, with his short mustache, seemed long past his prime.

Apart from his bulging belly, new cracks marred both the clay body and his face.

Besides the clay lord, two unfamiliar faces occupied the temple.

On the altar sat an old ape, legs slung carelessly, posture wild, yet the crimson gold carp necklace around his neck lent him a hint of nobility.

The old ape toyed with the aged incense burner, kneading rain-soaked, hardened ash into little balls.

On the western wall, before a faded mural, a monk stood, palms pressed in prayer, chanting softly.

Ji Ming carefully drew one foot inside the temple.

Perhaps it was psychological, but upon entering, he felt like a lowly minion intruding upon a circle of elites.

The monk before the mural kept his back turned for a long while before slowly asking, “Did the young master send you?”

Ji Ming stood at the threshold, not moving another step inside. “The young master is studying in the reed hut, so he sent me to observe the proceedings.”

“I heard the young master’s exam this time will…”

“A puppet show!” Ji Ming cut him off.

The monk at the mural turned, revealing a kindly, dignified face, and continued to ask several questions.

Ji Ming, having spent time in the Fox Society, read the “Wild Hill Chronicles” detailing the fox lineage’s history, and heard many stories within the society, so he answered fluently.

“Great Monk Da You, the Fox Society sent this spirit here because they wish not to meddle in this matter,” Lord Bo Ni said worriedly, new cracks appearing, “That man will certainly force me to submit, to be used by him.”

“Da You of Bald Pen Peak,” Ji Ming thought, scrutinizing the monk. Aside from his radiant eyes and solemn bearing, there was little remarkable about him.

“If we refuse, what can he do?”

On the altar, the old ape produced a fresh fruit, wiped it on his side, and bit into it with a nonchalant air.

“Little spirit!”

The ape suddenly looked at Ji Ming, offering another fruit. “Here, take one.”

Ji Ming took the fruit, inhaling deeply; spiritual energy mingled with the fragrance, filling his nose, and curiosity about the old ape’s identity grew.

Within the temple, Ji Ming dared not stash the spiritual fruit, lest he appear petty, so he tasted it carefully.

After finishing one, the old ape tossed him another.

“This…”

Ji Ming could only eat again.

Another fruit was tossed, another eaten, until juice ran down his chin and embarrassment grew.

He did not suspect the old ape had any designs against him, rather sensed that this gesture was meant to convey something to the other two within the temple.

“We must devise a strategy.”

Lord Bo Ni could not help but interrupt the ape, knowing it was a signal—the ape’s wealth made him fearless of coercion.

“You are the son of the River Lord of Nanpan River’s Water Mansion, governing the river network of Hengshan. You may be of noble lineage, yet before Taiping Mountain, you are nothing!”

“Screech, screech!”

Lord Bo Ni’s words enraged the old ape, who shouted from atop the altar.

“That scoundrel struts about in his own territory—how dare he try to control the mountain deities of our Lan Yin region? He deserves divine punishment!”

“Silence!”

Great Monk Da You suddenly unleashed a lion’s roar, a deep, oppressive bellow reverberating through the temple.

Within that echo, Ji Ming nearly spat out the fruit he had just eaten—it would be a shame to waste the precious spiritual energy.

So he forced himself to swallow it.

The old ape, realizing he had spoken out of turn, said, “Great Monk Da You, this trouble arose from your Buddhist sect’s heterodoxy—give us a solution!”

“Heaven’s will blocks the path; how can this humble monk have any solution?

If we can devise no plan, we must wait for that man’s disciple to arrive and see if there is room to maneuver.”

As he spoke, Great Monk Da You looked at Ji Ming. “A pity the young master is absent; otherwise, we might leverage the old patriarch’s connections.”

“Divine punishment!

Buddhist heterodoxy!

Taiping Mountain!

Heaven’s will blocks the path!”

These phrases flashed through Ji Ming’s mind, a spark illuminating his thoughts, and the conversation atop the Watchfire Tower echoed in memory.

“Is it the ancestor master of Four Sorrows Cloud Temple?”

The three within the temple all turned to stare at Ji Ming, even the clay horse tilted its head, surprised and scrutinizing him.