A wooden rack stood by the bed, from which hung a towel, a strip of black cloth, and two garments of coarse homespun.

Li Muzhan used the towel to wipe his shaven head, then changed into a set of grey coarse cloth clothes. Though washed white, they felt remarkably comfortable to wear. He took off his shoes, sat cross-legged on the hard wooden [Note: Assuming the asterisk denotes a missing word like 'bed' or 'mat' based on context, but preserving the character as instructed], settling into the full lotus position.

He formed a mudra before his navel, closed his eyes, regulated his breath, and became utterly still, like a statue. His breathing gradually slowed, growing finer, deeper, weaving like silken threads, continuous and tenacious as strong silkworm fiber. In the firelight, his severe face softened, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. His expression was solemn

yet benevolent, faintly resembling the Buddha statues within the temple. His breath grew ever finer, ever lighter, until it ceased entirely. One could see the slight rise and fall of his chest, yet no sound of inhalation or exhalation remained.

The cave was silent, broken only by the occasional "pitter-patter" of the burning torch. In the profound quiet, time flowed. An hour passed. His eyes slowly opened, his gaze exceptionally clear, like the spring water on the mountainside. His breath returned, and his hands traced several gentle arcs before him, finally settling below his navel. Then, he extended his right hand and drew a flying knife from the rack by the bed. He fixed his gaze on the wall ten meters away, a surface pitted and scarred with countless small indentations. Looking at this wall, a surge of quiet pride filled him. He had excavated this cave himself, little by little, working continuously for three years. As the space grew larger, so too did his strength, and his temperament grew ever more tranquil—a gain on multiple fronts. His grip on the flying knife was peculiar: the thumb pressed down,

the blade held flush against his palm, the hand facing downward, concealing the weapon from view. He stared intently at a spot on the wall, his body motionless save for the subtle rhythm of his chest and his slow, even breaths. Suddenly, his right hand twitched, and a flash of cold light cut through the air, instantly vanishing. A dull thud followed, like a hammer striking stone.

The flying knife was gone from his hand, now embedded in the wall ten meters distant, half the blade sunk deep within the rock, half exposed. Frowning slightly,

he slowly picked up another knife. After focusing his mind, he threw it again. Another flash of cold light, and the knife buried itself in the stone wall. He proceeded to throw eight more knives, arranging all ten in a perfect circle on the wall, exceedingly neat.

Yet, he shook his head and sighed, clearly unsatisfied. He dismounted from the bed, pulled out all ten knives, returned them to the rack, and picked up the iron rod. Holding the iron rod in his right hand,

his feet set slightly apart, one forward and one back, he lunged forward with tremendous speed. A soft hiss accompanied the thrust, like the sound of tearing cloth.

Once, then again, and again,

he repeated this single action monotonously—thrust forward, thrust forward, incessantly—like a machine. Each thrust was heavier, faster than the last. Soon, the motion became a blur, a field of rod-shadows filling the air.

The atmosphere seemed like a bolt of fabric being pierced by the tip, the sound growing louder with every strike. It seemed as though he practiced spear forms, or perhaps sword forms. After nearly a thousand repetitions, he suddenly stopped. He set down the iron rod and wiped his forehead with the towel. In that short time, his brow was covered in a dense layer of sweat beads,

yet his breathing remained steady, neither labored nor gasping. Hanging up the towel, he assumed a stance: feet shoulder-width apart, palms resting by his thighs, pressing downward.

His breathing grew steadily deeper. This was a system of physical culture he had learned from later generations,

called the Twelve Great Energies,

which he had found online. He had practiced it tentatively for a month, finding it remarkably effective for strengthening his body. Martial arts in this world were extremely precious and kept secret. His Second Sister,

Li Yurong, having become a disciple of the Divine Nun Xueyin, had offered to teach him privately, but he had refused. Unauthorized transmission of martial arts was punishable by expulsion from the sect and the crippling of one's skills. He had begun practicing the Twelve Great Energies at the age of five, though his mind possessed the experience of forty years.

By carefully studying and correlating it with Buddhist principles, he gradually grasped some of its profound essence, unknowingly cultivating immense divine strength. He remained puzzled as to whether this power stemmed from his years of diligent practice reaching a certain level, or from the depth of his meditative discipline clearing his energy channels, but surmised it was likely a combination of both.

Since the age of five, his training had been rigorous: daily meditation to refine his concentration, practice of the Twelve Great Energies, and flying knife drills. Twelve years rushed by in an instant. His meditative practice had entered the realm of Nirvana Samadhi,

allowing him to transcend the realm of desire into the form realm. His mind was crystal clear, thoughts sharp and distinct as strung pearls.

His mastery of the Twelve Great Energies yielded inexhaustible strength, and his flying knives were preternaturally accurate. Only the forward thrust dissatisfied him. He had witnessed his Second Sister strike—it was truly as swift as lightning, invisible to the naked eye. Despite his own incredible strength and more than a decade of practice,

he still lagged behind her. However, the practice was not without utility. Those two bandits a while ago had been easily subdued. Because it was the first time he had attacked a person, he had failed to control his force and had killed one of them. Fortunately, the Mei family held considerable influence, and his Elder Brother served as a deputy steward in the manor, possessing no small authority. Through connections smoothed over by the higher-ups, he had managed to escape repercussions; otherwise,

a trip to the jail would have been unavoidable. Following that incident, his perspective shifted. He realized that no matter how profound his meditative practice, true self-preservation required the cultivation of martial arts. After observing the iron rod for a moment longer,

he put it down and changed into another set of grey monastic robes. He then extinguished the torch and left the cave. Finding a phoenix tree leaf to use as an umbrella to cover his shaven head, he strode purposefully westward toward Chengjing Temple. The rain still fell, a steady drizzle. Chengjing Temple lay quietly nestled on the mountainside,

as if draped in a fine veil, surrounded by lush, green woods that lent the scene an extraordinary tranquility.

He pushed open the courtyard gate and walked briskly across the yard to his meditation cell. Stopping outside the door, he placed the phoenix leaf on the windowsill. He listened intently for a moment, then cleared his throat and softly called out, "Master?" Disturbing a session of deep meditation was the greatest concern.

"Master Zhanran, please enter," Master Jikong’s voice drifted from within.

Li Muzhan frowned, detecting a weakness, an exhaustion in the voice. His master’s condition had evidently worsened since yesterday. He pushed the door open and was immediately assaulted by a wave of foul stench that churned his stomach,

almost causing him to retch. His expression unchanging, he stepped slowly inside. Master Jikong was seated cross-legged on the [Note: Preserving the character as instructed], his face covered in festering sores, a truly dreadful sight. Yet, his eyes held an air of peace as he quietly watched Li Muzhan. Li Muzhan turned and closed the door, then approached the bedside, asking gently,

"Master, are you feeling any better?" Master Jikong nodded slightly and spoke slowly, "This old monk is much improved... Is it raining outside?" "Yes, a light drizzle," Li Muzhan confirmed. Master Jikong offered a faint smile. "Zhanran, listen. The sound of water dripping from the eaves—so crisp, so soft. It is truly the sound of ultimate truth and beauty!" Li Muzhan inclined his head. "All things in heaven and earth possess marvelous wonder. A single flower holds a world; a single leaf contains a life. It is a pity that most men look but never truly see." "Indeed..." Master Jikong sighed softly, murmuring, "A lifetime is like the flourishing and decay of flora, all part of the cycle of reincarnation." Seeing his master, Li Muzhan gently advised, "Master, what joy is there in living, and what fear in death? Why linger in worry?" "This old monk has lived sixty years, a full cycle.

That is sufficient," Master Jikong murmured, gazing toward the window, a slight smile playing on his lips. Li Muzhan stepped forward and pushed the window open. A rush of cool air swept over his face,

seeming to penetrate every pore, instantly easing the oppressive feeling in his chest and driving away the nausea. The air carried a faint, clean scent of water, wonderfully refreshing.

The light rain continued to patter down, forming a curtain outside the window. Master Jikong stared fixedly at this watery veil, his smile widening. "Master Zhanran, my life span is nearly complete. I am about to depart." Li Muzhan started, turning back to look. "Master..." Master Jikong shook his head, smiling faintly. "I have practiced for half a life, yet achieved little. Since falling ill, however, my spiritual attainment has greatly increased.

I can depart whenever I wish... I merely cling to this world because one matter remains unfinished." "What is this matter, Master? If there is anything you require of me, please command it." Master Jikong smiled, sighing. "To have met Master Zhanran—this must be fate!" Covered in foul sores and reeking, he had stayed in Jinyang City for two days, ignored by all, save for this Zhanran, who showed no aversion. Only a heart filled with boundless compassion could manage such a deed. Even more remarkable was that this monk Zhanran’s profound understanding of Buddhist doctrine was no less than his own. Such a person must surely be the reincarnation of some great Buddhist adept.

Master Jikong drew a thin booklet from his robes and placed it gently on the [Note: Preserving the character as instructed]. "This scripture, the Heavenly Being Divine Illumination Classic, is something this old monk obtained by chance, yet I have never found the key to its entrance. Master Zhanran, with your superior wisdom, you may be able to fathom some of its meaning, perhaps even unravel it completely." Li Muzhan looked on with puzzlement. Master Jikong performed a heshi salute and spoke slowly. "This old monk was originally a disciple of the Great Leiyin Temple. I was later expelled for breaking the monastic precepts and had my cultivation stripped. My only remaining wish is for my ashes to rest within the stupa of the Great Leiyin Temple...

I implore Master Zhanran to fulfill this for me." Li Muzhan asked, "The Great Leiyin Temple?...

Where is it located?" Master Jikong smiled and shook his head. The placidity in his eyes vanished, replaced by flashes of melancholy, vexation, pride, longing,

and fervor—as if witnessing the manifestation of the Buddha himself. "Master...?" Li Muzhan sensed something was amiss. "Cannot be spoken,

cannot be spoken..."

Master Jikong shook his head and smiled. His eyes suddenly blazed, like twin bolts of lightning erupting, and immediately a crimson light enveloped his body, dazzling and brilliant. Li Muzhan closed his eyes; the red light felt powerful enough to pierce his eyelids, leaving a swirling patch of red in his vision,

like a cheerfully dancing flame. A moment later, the crimson light slowly receded, and the room returned to normal. He slowly opened his eyes. The ethereal figure was gone.

All that remained was a string of purple sandalwood mala beads, and several smooth, warm objects the size of longans, resembling agate, their luster flowing gently. Li Muzhan sighed, shaking his head.

He had not expected Master Jikong to be so eager for nirvana. These were his śarīra,

equivalent to ordinary people’s ashes.

Six of these radiant relics now lay there, indicating Master Jikong’s considerable mastery of concentration.

Li Muzhan showed no surprise or astonishment; he had witnessed such a phenomenon upon his own master's passing. This was common when meditative attainment reached a certain level. If one progressed even further to the next tier, one could transform into a rainbow light and vanish completely, leaving nothing behind.