Chapter 177 — The Sea of Suffering Is Hard to Cross

The plain little courtyard was like the one outside—a simple room set against the mountain wall, a narrow path of grey brick running down its middle to the door, weeds crowding both sides. From the look of it, no one had tended the place in earnest; wild grass had taken root in many corners. What set it apart from the meditation hall beyond was the door: a heavy black cloth curtain hung across it, and apart from that single opening, the room seemed to have no windows or other outlets at all.

Ming Li stared at the ordinary little hut, his throat dry, his hands clenching of their own accord. He glanced at Master Pu Cheng and saw on the old monk's face a complexity of feeling—regret, anguish, something beyond words—and the master, too, was gazing at that small doorway, lost in thought.

For a time no one spoke. In the stillness, from somewhere unseen in the weeds beside them, came the faint chirring of insects, calling out no one knew what.

After a long while, Master Pu Cheng sighed softly and said, "Let us go in."

A muscle twitched in Ming Li's cheek. "Very well," he said, his voice low.

Master Pu Cheng stepped slowly forward, reached out, and drew back the curtain. With a creak, he pushed the door open.

The sound came mournful and low from the hinge—no one could say how long it had been since anyone had pushed this door. Heavy and desolate.

A rush of cold air surged out of the room. Ming Li stood yet outside the threshold, but the chill struck him so that even with his cultivation he could not suppress a shudder. This little room seemed to be the coldest place under heaven.

Ming Li frowned, hesitating—and just then Master Pu Cheng's voice came from behind the curtain: "Young benefactor, come in."

Ming Li drew a deep breath, tossed his head, pulled the curtain aside, and strode in.

The curtain fell slowly back; the door gave its desolate creak once more and closed gently. The little courtyard returned to its calm. Fa Cheng's figure came slowly forward from ahead; gazing at that plain, unadorned hut, he softly chanted the Buddha's name, then bent and bowed once, his face solemn and reverent.

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The curtain came down, the wooden door shut, and because there were no windows the room was plunged at once into darkness.

A piercing cold rushed in from every side, as though countless icy needles sought to pierce the skin. Ming Li, barely recovered from his grave illness, shivered several more times; but he was no ordinary man after all, and after a few circulations of true dharma to regulate his breath, he gradually adjusted. Even so, though the cold could not enter his body, that bone-deep chill was still hard to endure.

This little room on Mount Sumeru seemed colder than the bitterest reaches of the northern ice plains.

Astonished, Ming Li stood in doubt and alarm, when he heard Master Pu Cheng, just before him, give a low sigh and say: "Junior brother, we have come to see you. This is the man you have long wished to meet, is he not?"

His voice was deep and strangely moved, and the chill in the room suddenly deepened further, until it seemed it could freeze a man's very blood to ice. Then a faint glimmer, white with a trace of silver, slowly kindled ahead of Master Pu Cheng and Ming Li, at the far end of the hut.

The light was airy, like snow. First one thread bloomed; then at its edge another faint silver-white glow slowly kindled, drew near, and merged with it; then thread after thread lit in turn, until gradually a round plate about a foot across could be made out.

The light was soft, pure white as snow, rising no more than a foot high; at its upper reaches it seemed to dissolve into flecks of snowflake, or white fireflies, dancing lightly and drifting slowly down, almost like a dream.

Then the threads of light slowly merged, growing brighter and brighter. Ming Li and Master Pu Cheng heard a clear, crisp cry rise in the room, sweet to the ear; the white light blazed, flooding the whole hut in an instant.

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!"