Chapter 52: The Origin of Chanlin Temple
Heavy snow blanketed the land as the main hall of Chanlin Temple stood quietly in the cold.
Inside, the Buddha statue still appeared somewhat worn. The golden paint on the Buddha's outstretched palm had already peeled off, but during such a harsh winter, when Chanlin Temple could barely afford food, who would care about the Buddha's fading gold?
Five-year-old Yuan Kong sat cross-legged on a meditation cushion beneath the statue, sniffing as he turned the pages of a Buddhist scripture.
He had been reading this same scripture for half a year. With his bright, clever mind, he could already recite it backward with ease.
Yet his senior brother and abbot still insisted on sitting beside him every day, chanting without end. Yuan Kong truly could not understand what the abbot was thinking.
When his small nose could no longer hold back, he cast a cautious glance at the seemingly half-asleep abbot beside him.
Then, decisively, he wiped his nose on his sleeve. After all, he didn't have to wash the clothes himself.
Just as Yuan Kong finished wiping, the abbot's faint voice sounded.
"You will wash your own clothes today."
Yuan Kong felt deceived and pouted. "Senior Brother! You weren't asleep?"
"While alive, there's no need to sleep long. Once dead, there will be endless slumber." Yuan Jing opened his eyes and smiled kindly on his aged face. "Boy, if your conscience is clear, why should you care whether I'm asleep?"
"Senior Brother, you have your cultivation to protect you from the cold," Yuan Kong complained. "But you won't let me cultivate. In this freezing winter, I've barely any clothes to wear. I'm colder than a stray dog."
At those words, Yuan Jing instantly became "deaf," hurriedly picking up the wooden fish beside him and gently striking it.
Yuan Kong knew resistance was pointless. When his senior brother decided to act shameless, there was no arguing with him.
Every time he asked about cultivation, Yuan Jing either ignored him or said the time was not yet right—never teaching him a single thing.
So Yuan Kong didn't press further. He simply picked up the thick Buddhist scripture, placed it reverently before the altar, and slowly walked out of the hall.
The sound of the wooden fish echoed softly as Yuan Jing listened to the child's fading footsteps.
When the footsteps disappeared, he stopped striking the wooden fish and opened his eyes, gazing at the scripture on the altar.
That very scripture, which Yuan Kong had been studying for over half a year, was the highest Buddhist Heart Sutra of Chanlin Temple—brought from the Central Continent.
Yuan Kong was undoubtedly a Buddha's Child, blessed with extraordinary insight. Whether Buddhist doctrines or scriptures, he comprehended them instantly.
Even now, if he were to debate dharma with Yuan Jing, the abbot himself might not prevail.
Most importantly, the monks from the Central Continent had confirmed it—Yuan Kong was born a Buddha's Child.
Such a being should have been treasured, even fought over by the great Buddhist temples. Yet Yuan Kong remained here in the humble Chanlin Temple, never taken to the Central Continent.
There was only one reason.
Though born a Buddha's Child, Yuan Kong could not cultivate any heart method.
His very body rejected all forms of external energy—be it Buddhist or immortal.
No temple in the Central Continent wanted a Buddha's Child who could only recite scriptures but not practice them.
Thinking of this, Yuan Jing couldn't help but laugh. They had all cultivated Buddha to the point of absurdity.
Was the path of Buddhism about methods, or was it about the heart of Buddha itself?
Still, it didn't matter. Staying here was better than being scorned elsewhere.
If they wouldn't cherish Yuan Kong, he would.
That Heart Sutra, read by Yuan Kong for half a year with no effect, proved the judgment of the Central Continent correct.
Yuan Jing reached out, his expression a mix of irony and warmth, and finally put the scripture away.
After all, the Buddha once said that even mortals could attain freedom through transformation.
No need to force it, no need to force it.
Yuan Jing looked out at the thick snowflakes falling beyond the doorway, thinking the little one might end up disappointed.
Lowering his gaze, he turned around and resumed striking the wooden fish.
In the vast and empty hall, only the crisp rhythm of the wooden fish echoed.
He did not know how long he had been striking when suddenly hurried footsteps broke the silence, followed by the anxious shout of a monk from the temple:
"Abbot! Grandmaster Yuan Kong fainted while washing clothes! Please come quickly!"
Yuan Jing calmly set down the wooden hammer in his hand.
This little rascal was getting bolder by the day! Wasn't it just one small punishment?
And now he dares to fake an illness to make trouble for me?
He would definitely give him a proper spanking this time!
Yuan Jing said evenly, "Don't panic. Take me to him."
Seeing the abbot's calm demeanor, the flustered monk gradually steadied himself.
"Please follow me."
The monk led Yuan Jing toward a side chamber.
Inside, a few monks were gently wiping Yuan Kong's body with warm towels.
At that sight, Yuan Jing felt a deep sense of unease. He hurried forward and grasped Yuan Kong's hand.
The moment he touched it, his expression changed—the hand was ice-cold, completely devoid of warmth.
He turned to the monk beside him, disbelief flashing in his eyes.
"How… how did this happen?"
The monk gave a strange look and hesitated before speaking in a low voice.
"I saw Grandmaster Yuan Kong washing clothes earlier. I wanted to help him, but he said it was your punishment, Abbot. And then…"
Yuan Jing fell silent.
Never mind. Now wasn't the time to assign blame.
Since any foreign energy entering Yuan Kong's body would instantly dissipate, Yuan Jing could only rely on the most ordinary method—taking his pulse—to assess his condition.
Yet after checking for a long while, the result was baffling. Yuan Kong, unconscious and ice-cold, was physically… perfectly healthy.
This…
If he weren't a monk bound by precepts, Yuan Jing would have already cursed aloud in frustration.
His face darkened like still water before he finally spoke.
"Take care of him. I'll summon someone."
The monks in the side chamber quickly responded, "Yes, Abbot."
Yuan Jing rose and hurried back to the main hall. Stepping up to the altar, he reached behind the Buddha's right ear and retrieved a golden relic bead. Without hesitation, he crushed it in his hand.
The relic burst into radiant light and scattered into the air. Yuan Jing softly recited, "Amitabha," then immediately turned and rushed back to the side chamber.
Pushing open the door, he spoke quietly to the monks inside.
"All of you, leave. No matter what happens, do not come back in."
"Abbot…"
"Go."
The monks exchanged glances, then sighed helplessly and withdrew.
Once they were gone, Yuan Jing closed the door behind them. He approached Yuan Kong, picked up the bowl of warm water and the coarse linen cloth nearby, and personally began wiping the boy's body.
About half an hour later, a deep and authoritative voice suddenly echoed through the room.
"You should know when that relic is meant to be used."
Yuan Jing turned around.
A bald, muscular middle-aged man stood there, his upper body bare despite the freezing winter, his kasaya draped loosely over one shoulder. Between his brows burned a faint mark shaped like a dark golden flame.
Yuan Jing's expression remained calm, entirely unfazed by the fact that the man before him was a Luohan of Nascent Soul cultivation.
"I know. But it seems the Luohan does not."
The Luohan showed no anger at the remark. "Whether I understand or not is a matter for the Teaching Hall. You summoned me—for his sake?"
Yuan Jing nodded. "I must trouble the Luohan to lend a hand."
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The Luohan came swiftly and left just as swiftly.
Now, only silence filled the chamber—Yuan Jing standing quietly beside the still-unconscious Yuan Kong.
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