Chapter 443: West Buddha East Demon, White Robe Chasing Deer

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Current Location: Chapter 56: Western Buddha, Eastern Devil, White-Clothed Battle for Supremacy

Chapter 56: Western Buddha, Eastern Devil, White-Clothed Battle for Supremacy

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The sun was setting.

On the peak of Mount Lantuo, a clay edifice, which had confined someone for nearly forty years, showed a slight crack. Instantly, brilliant golden light emanated from it, as if a clay Buddha statue were cracking open to reveal a dazzling, undefeated golden body. Besides this mound on the peak, an aged monk sat cross-legged, draped in a tattered kasaya. He was extremely old, his snow-white eyebrows extending beyond his knees and even curling on the muddy ground. His skin, weathered by wind and sun, was dark and wrinkled, like parched farmland, making his two white eyebrows appear even paler. When he saw the clay edifice loosen and dirt fall, though almost imperceptibly, it sounded like thunder in the ears of this Esoteric Buddhist King. His long eyebrows fluttered wildly, and his body remained as still as a mountain. As the venerable orthodox monk of Mount Lantuo, who was said to have never uttered a single false word in his life, and whose actions, speech, and thoughts were flawless, he and another eminent monk had been taking turns waiting there for over twenty years. The white-browed old monk stood up, bowing his head reverently, watching the debris continue to fall and golden light radiate from the figure within, revealing its true form. At this moment, chanting suddenly echoed sonorously throughout Mount Lantuo, and the mountain appeared even more majestic and sacred amidst the hymns. The old monk, who had been facing east, turned his head to gaze westwards. As the sun set, it was unclear if it was an illusion, but as the mound, like a sleeping lion, finally awoke, shaking off the dust and preparing to 'devour mountains and rivers,' the afterglow suddenly brightened. Compared to the midday sun, its brilliance was not diminished in the slightest.

Mahavairocana Buddha.

The aged Dharma King slowly turned his head, his gaze falling upon an old monk who seemed to have returned to the living world from the netherworld. This monk appeared even older and feebler than the white-browed monk, who was over a hundred years old. He was withered and emaciated, likely weighing less than ninety catties, a physique so frail it seemed he could be blown away by a gust of wind. Although Mount Lantuo did not emphasize martial arts, its eminent monks throughout history, such as the Six-Pearled Master, who was considered his junior, also possessed significant cultivation. A Bodhisattva, while compassionate with lowered brows, could also subdue dragons and elephants with a wrathful gaze. However, the old monk in the white-browed eminent monk's vision was silent, lifeless, and unusually still. Esoteric Buddhism preached "attaining Buddhahood in this very body," a concept that the Central Plains of the Eastern Land had always considered heretical, largely due to resentment from Confucianism and Taoism. Now, the Liyang Dynasty and Northern Mang were almost simultaneously suppressing Buddhism, though in reality, they were targeting Chan (Zen) Buddhism. Yet, the white-browed old monk sought to discern the broader trend after this great Buddhist catastrophe. Unable to do so himself, he could only place his hopes on the "Spotless Pure Lion" before him, who had vowed to achieve Buddhahood in this lifetime and enable all sentient beings to become Buddhas.

The withered old monk finally spoke. Before his voice came out, he first slowly exhaled a breath of turbid air, like gray smoke. He said, "The impurities in one's own mind are like a glass bottle, which can be shattered with one hammer. But there are millions of glass bottles among sentient beings, and the great hammer is in the East."

The white-browed old monk's expression changed, and he clasped his hands together, uttering a Buddhist chant.

"From west to east, if I do not enter hell, who will?"

After saying this, the withered old monk, even more ancient than the centenarian Dharma King of Mount Lantuo, extended a hand and placed it on his own head, as if striking himself with a hammer. The golden light dispersed, and the mountaintop was bathed in radiance.

The white-browed eminent monk showed a look of sorrow.

Shattering the "glass bottle of mental impurities" should have led to immediate Buddhahood and the achievement of the supreme Dharmakaya Buddha. However, the eminent monk knew that the monk before him was not like this. Above the western mountains, a gloriously bright sun, unnaturally luminous, seemed to lose its support. After the monk's self-initiation, it quickly dimmed, its afterglow fading as it rapidly plunged below the mountain.

The monk, whose two white eyebrows reached his knees when standing, looked up again, but the old monk who had meditated for forty years was nowhere to be seen. There was a saying of sudden enlightenment at Liang Chan Temple, but this 'sudden' enlightenment had lasted quite a while. With only the sound of chanting filling the mountain, the old monk sighed softly.

Beyond Iron Gate Pass, an old monk swept across deserts and Gobi. Once, he stopped to use his finger as a knife, scraping flesh from his arm to feed young eagles in the crevices of a mountain wall. Another time, he squatted in the desert, watching insects crawl. When the old monk, whose appearance had been on the verge of death, arrived outside Kuimen Pass, he seemed to have grown younger by over a decade. He stood fixed outside the mighty pass, lost in thought, his eyes dim, merely observing the hurried comings and goings of travelers entering or leaving the pass for days and nights. By the time the garrison guards prepared to question him, the old monk had vanished without a trace.

Western Shu's northern region was replete with perilous mountains and deep ravines; the Shu Road was harder than ascending to the heavens. An old monk in monastic robes, his form like a wild goose, moved as if riding the wind, crossing mountain peaks and treading on river surfaces when encountering great rivers. His withered skin began to glow, like winter trees encountering early spring, yet his eyes grew increasingly clouded and dazed. His kasaya fluttered, and his next step seemed entirely arbitrary. He occasionally encountered boat trackers pulling boats on a shallow bank, and the monk appeared at the stern, stepping into the icy, bone-chilling river water. Listening to the calls of the Shu men, he slowly pushed the large boat for twenty *li*, then vanished in a flash. He swept dozens of *zhang* through deep mountains and old forests. With a 'thump,' the old monk suddenly stopped, cradling a winter bird he had accidentally killed. Its flesh was mangled in his palm. The old monk's eyes were dazed; first, he awakened with sudden clarity and silent sorrow, then he fell back into confusion, his eyes vacant. He stood there for a full half-month, enduring torrential rain and bone-chilling snow that added to his suffering. Until one morning, as the sun rose, he suddenly turned and continued eastward. Along this path, he traversed thousands of *li* of yellow sand, passed by impregnable fortresses, deep ravines, and winding narrow paths, finally stepping into the Central Plains. He then sought shelter from the rain under a shoulder-high wall in a small town, observing umbrella-carrying pedestrians. He watched people washing clothes by a knee-high stream, listened to the night watchman's calls under a bright, sparse moon, and in ancient famous cities, he saw people frozen to death by the roadside. On this particular day, the old monk, whose age now appeared to be merely sixty, stood by a lonely grave mound in a desolate wilderness. On the weathered tombstone, he saw a single character. For some unknown reason, after traveling thousands of *li* and seeing countless people, he had forgotten who he was, where he was going, and whom he had met, yet at this moment, he only remembered one character: "Liu."

The muddled old monk continued eastward, one day arriving at a green mountain where the wind rustled the pine forest, sounding like waves. Guided by his mind, he floated onto an ancient pine tree, gazing into the distance, listening to the continuous sound of the wind in the pines. Only after a full ten days did he hoarsely utter, "Songtao" (Pine Waves).

The character "Liu" was firmly etched in his memory. Now, the sound of the pines was like a drum.

The old monk was no longer old; he appeared to be a man in his forties, 'forty without doubt' (a Confucian saying meaning one is free from perplexities at 40). For this Lantuo Mountain monk who had traveled thousands of *li* eastward and forgotten his past, this moment truly marked being 'unperplexed.' He smiled and said, "Liu Songtao."

The martial arts world soon learned of a young mad monk from the Western Regions who was traveling eastward. He would alternately sing and chant, and wherever he went, he would sometimes kill people who displeased him, and other times personally impart Buddhist teachings.

On a vast, boundless plain, the young monk, appearing to be in his twenties, chanted loudly, moving as if riding the wind. It was still the "Song of Uselessness" that had begun to circulate across the Central Plains.

"Heaven and Earth are useless, they don't enter my eyes. The Sun and Moon are useless, they cannot coexist. Kunlun (mountains) are useless, they don't come to me. Compassion is useless, merely a pious facade. Purity is useless, two sleeves empty. The Great River is useless, it flows east and never returns. Wind and snow are useless, they provide no warmth or sustenance. Green grass is useless, it withers every year. Practicing Chan (Zen) is useless, what kind of Buddha can you become…"

The swaggering young monk suddenly stopped, gazing into the distance as if observing scenery hundreds of *li* away. He burst into uproarious laughter, a series of 'wah-ha-ha's' immediately echoing through the heavens and earth. His laughter unabated, his tattered kasaya began to flutter and dance. Where his figure passed, no footprints were left, only a gully was torn into the ground. The young monk sprinted for six hundred *li*, breaking through walls, snapping trees in forests, and leaping over mountains.

Finally, he collided with a white-robed monk who had also rushed over from six hundred *li* away.

The ground within a three-*li* radius instantly caved into a huge circular pit.

After the collision, the young monk merely paused and shifted slightly before continuing his sprint, like a mighty river flowing eastward. He still laughed loudly, "Emperors are useless, their reign no more than a hundred years. Yama (King of Hell) is useless, envious of my freedom. Immortals are useless, even mortals laugh… The sun rises in the East, sets in the West, where am I? Where am I going…"

Who in the world could stop this young mad monk?

Deng Taia had already gone to sea to visit immortals, and Cao Changqing was dedicated to restoring his nation. Could it be Wang Xianzhi from Martial Emperor City?

The world was unaware that a mountain lay between the mad monk and Wang Xianzhi.

On the main peak of Mount Zhulu (Stag Hunt Mountain), there were three thousand steps of white jade. A white-robed devil, newly arrived to rule Mount Zhulu, reigned supreme. Two large spirit fish, one red and one blue, resembling neither carp nor dragons, with extremely long whiskers, floated in the air as if swimming, subtly circling the white-robed figure. Besides the two mystical creatures, near the steps stood and sat two men of vastly different ages. The younger, not yet thirty, was short and expressionless, sitting on the steps with his chin in his hand, gazing at the mountain scenery. The older, around forty, carried a long cloth bag on his back, which concealed a broken spear.

The middle-aged man softly asked, "Sect Leader, should we have Deng Mao intercept that monk from the Western Regions?"

Surprisingly, it was the Northern Mang language.

The white-robed figure calmly retorted, "Can you stop Tuoba Pusa?"

The man, who called himself Deng Mao, gave a self-deprecating smile and shook his head. The Sect Leader's meaning was simple: only if he could stop Tuoba Pusa would he have the ability to stop that gray-robed monk. After all, even the white-robed monk Li Dangxin had failed to stop him.

The short man spoke, "Even if he is Liu Songtao, who escaped calamity back then, he might not be able to defeat the current Wang Xianzhi and Tuoba Pusa at his peak."

The white-robed figure sneered, "Speak of this again once you've defeated Deng Mao, the ninth strongest under heaven."

Deng Mao chuckled softly, "It's only a matter of time. Northern Mang will have to rely on Hong Jingyan and this kid to maintain its prestige in the future."

The white-robed figure did not retort, slowly descending the steps. Nearly a thousand devils, great and small, prostrated on the steps, all lowering their heads. The white-robed figure looked westward without expression.

"If Li Dangxin is unwilling to be entangled endlessly, then I, Luoyang, will fight a match with you, Liu Songtao!" (To be continued)

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