“Look there, everyone! It seems like something is inside the pagoda…” At that moment, someone managed to calm down and immediately noticed beams of dazzling light shining from the pagoda’s Tǎpíng (pagoda vessel), wondering what treasure it might be.

Just then, a gentle-faced, benevolent old monk emerged, speaking softly, “Amitabha, this is the Shèlìzǐ (relic) of our sect’s Sixth Patriarch.”

“Relic?”

“The Sixth Patriarch?”

Everyone was filled with curiosity. The old monk seized the opportunity, taking the time to meticulously explain the life and deeds of the Sixth Patriarch. His intention in doing so was to demonstrate that although their monastery was newly established, it possessed a certain historical depth and was not merely a brand-new temple. This approach would not only win the hearts of the local populace but also prevent overly hostile competition from peer institutions—a tactic of killing two birds with one stone.

Furthermore, this was the truth, something that would stand up to any scrutiny. The old monk spoke with righteous indignation, his conscience clear…

While some people were in the Mahavira Hall listening to the old monk recount the glorious achievements of the Sixth Patriarch, a contingent, led by Mrs. Tang, slowly made their way toward the Abbot’s quarters. It could be said that these individuals were all wealthy and influential, moreover, they held Buddhism in high regard, which was why Mrs. Tang brought them to the Abbot’s room, where the Monk Banshan himself would personally receive them and, incidentally, discourse on the Dharma.

Of course, the pretext was merely a pretext; there was undoubtedly another motive at play.

Take the current situation, for instance. A major business leader stepped into the Abbot’s room, looked up, and immediately froze. He stood stock-still by the doorway, utterly transfixed.

“Hey, why aren’t you moving?” someone behind him asked curiously. “Why are you blocking the door?”

As he spoke, the person who peered in let out a sharp cry: “Ah!”

“What is it? What happened?”

“Don’t stand in the way.”

Amidst the urging, the leading business magnate snapped back to reality and immediately turned around with a grave expression: “Quiet, lest we disturb the True Buddha.”

“The True Buddha?”

Under the perplexed gazes of some, the magnate moved aside, and those behind him filed into the Abbot’s room. Upon seeing the interior, they finally understood the leader’s reaction, and they too held their breath, focusing intently on the scene.

Unlike the Hall of the Heavenly Kings or the Mahavira Hall, Monk Banshan’s Abbot’s quarters were strikingly simple. There were no tables or chairs—just a Yúnchuáng (cloud bed) raised a few inches off the ground, a small writing desk, and a few tuánpú (sitting mats).

Wang Guan could attest that this was no affected display. When Monk Banshan was in Singapore, his room was just as Spartan. If there were any decorations at all, they were the calligraphy scrolls hung on the walls. The character Lǜ (discipline/precepts), inscribed by Monk Banshan himself, flowed with rich, powerful ink, showing considerable mastery.

However, at this moment, no one had the inclination to appreciate calligraphy, nor did they find the Abbot’s room meager or plain. This was because all their mental focus was concentrated on the Jīnsī Yùbó (gold-thread jade silk tapestry) suspended in mid-air.

The sunlight streaming through the window fell directly upon the Jīnsī Yùbó. The Sanskrit characters woven into the silk shimmered like celestial bodies—the sun, moon, and stars—or perhaps like a swirling galaxy revolving around a single Buddha figure. The Buddha appeared dreamlike and illusory, faintly discernible, seated in the void, emanating an aura of mysterious grandeur.

This spectacle was far more breathtaking than the phenomenon of smoke manifesting as lotuses outside. To be frank, if not for the presence of others nearby, which prevented a complete loss of face, several magnates would likely have dropped to their knees in adoration right then and there.

Even in the current situation, it was nearly the same; the magnates remained silent, gazing at the Jīnsī Yùbó with longing expressions, performing the ritual of three kowtows and nine prostrations entirely in their minds.

Of course, it wasn't as if no one recognized the Jīnsī Yùbó as an artifact created by human hands. But even if they did, so what? The Gōngfú Jiàn (Gongfu Sword) was forged by ancients, and the Héshì Bì (He Shi Jade Disc) was carved by artisans, yet did anyone dare claim these were not treasures?

By the same logic, the preciousness of the Jīnsī Yùbó was beyond question. After all, the meticulous effort ancient people put into creating such an item inherently represented an incalculable value. Moreover, for devout believers, the process of creation was less important than the ultimate effect presented once the object was complete.

With the Buddha now residing in the eyes of these magnates, their inner Buddhas expanded infinitely, leaving only devout faith in their minds at the instant they saw the Jīnsī Yùbó; questioning anything else was out of the question.

“Amitabha, esteemed benefactors, please be seated.”

Simultaneously, a voice spoke within the Abbot’s room—it was Monk Banshan. By this time, he had changed into a comparatively simple monk’s robe, no longer as ornate as before. He was seated directly beneath the Jīnsī Yùbó, though the magnates, preoccupied with gazing at the True Buddha, had overlooked his presence.

Upon hearing Monk Banshan’s words, the group of magnates finally snapped back to attention, feeling somewhat embarrassed. Then, without needing further prompting from Monk Banshan, they promptly sat down on the tuánpú.

Their posture while kneeling revealed that they were certainly frequent visitors to temples. Otherwise, their form would not have been so practiced, nor would they have felt no discomfort at all. This was why it was said that the flourishing incense offerings in major temples across the nation were invariably backed by their substantial support.

Once settled, one magnate could not help but point to the Jīnsī Yùbó hanging in the air, asking with reverence, “Master, what is the origin of this Buddhist treasure?”

The others also turned their attention to Monk Banshan, listening intently.

“This Buddhist treasure was formed after Emperor Qianlong specially convened great eminent monks and virtuous masters from across the realm for a grand Dharma assembly to celebrate the Empress Dowager’s eightieth birthday, undergoing seven days and seven nights of kāiguāng jiāchí (consecration and empowerment),” Monk Banshan explained, his words containing a touch of ambiguity.

A careful analysis would reveal a slight padding in the account, or perhaps a deliberate omission of the creation process, but it was not strictly a lie, as the origin had been clearly stated.

In reality, the magnates were satisfied with this explanation and did not press further.

The reactions of the others were similar; their gazes were solemn as they examined the Jīnsī Yùbó, filled with awe. So, it was an artifact empowered by ancient eminent monks; no wonder they felt an extraordinary aura upon entering the Abbot’s room.

Of course, this might also be a psychological effect. But faith itself is a form of psychological suggestion, and this Jīnsī Yùbó maximized that effect. Upon viewing it, people unconsciously developed inexplicable feelings, a psychological urge to convert and worship. In a sense, for a piece of silk to achieve such an effect was naturally a treasure beyond measure.

For these business leaders, faith was largely just mundane spiritual comfort. They felt the intense pressure of cutthroat business dealings and societal competition, leaving their spirits exhausted, thus seeking a moment of tranquility amidst their busy schedules. It did not mean they were weary of worldly life; otherwise, they would have long since renounced the mortal world and become monks.

Therefore, the faith of these individuals was, in fact, tinged with utilitarian motives. Or perhaps, the Chinese approach to worshipping gods and Buddhas is inherently characterized by utilitarianism. If you bless me, I will certainly worship sincerely; if I feel you are no longer blessing me, I might curse you out immediately—this is a common occurrence.

Most people are pseudo-believers; those who genuinely adhere to a religion are likely very few.

In any case, these magnates were undoubtedly pseudo-believers, and their faith was consequently pragmatic. They either hoped the Buddha would protect their business prosperity, health, and fertility, or they sought spiritual liberation, achieving a temporary means of withdrawal from the world.

The essence of religious faith is, after all, the evasion of reality.

However, different sects offer various methods for helping people escape reality. The most common naturally involve chanting sutras, preaching the Dharma, or performing rituals. Otherwise, it might be drawing talismans, adhering to vegetarianism, or practicing martial arts. There are so many sects and so many so-called “divine powers” (Shéntōng) that there is always one suitable for an individual. Therefore, as long as the method works, even the most obscure minor sect need not worry about finding devoted patrons.

Yet, at this moment, these people discovered that the efficacy of the Jīnsī Yùbó seemed exceptionally powerful. After focusing their minds on the Buddha depicted on the silk for just a short while, they felt the worries and sorrows in their hearts gradually subside.

Shéntōng, divine power, perhaps simply means the heart’s ability to communicate with the divine. Evidently, the Jīnsī Yùbó possessed this “divine power,” which explained why these magnates exhibited such fervent excitement. After all, they were accustomed to visiting temples to burn incense and worship at every monastery they encountered. Having traveled extensively over the years, they had paid respects to many great masters and true personages; they could be considered battle-hardened and well-tested.

Ordinary “divine powers” no longer had any discernible effect on them. This was precisely why they understood the profound value of the Jīnsī Yùbó. If they ever felt upset or irritable in the future, they wouldn't need a master or sage to counsel them; they would only need to kneel beside the Jīnsī Yùbó, diligently contemplate the Buddha, and recite a passage or two of scripture, and their state of mind would naturally stabilize.

This is the difference between having faith and not having it. When Wang Guan examined the Jīnsī Yùbó, his attention focused on and his awe directed toward the level of craftsmanship, but Monk Banshan and these magnates approached it from the perspective of faith and cultivation. Consequently, their conclusions differed. Thus, in Wang Guan’s hands, the object was utterly wasted, but under Monk Banshan’s care, it was truly a case of the right object finding the right guardian.

Such was the reality: the instant some magnates perceived the “divine power” of the Jīnsī Yùbó, they resolved that regardless of Monk Banshan’s personal abilities, they intended to become loyal customers—or rather, devout adherents—of Banshan Temple.

However, no matter how devout their faith became, it couldn't alter the shrewd nature inherent in businessmen. Some among them reasoned that a temple possessing two supreme Buddhist treasures could hardly fail to prosper.

Suddenly, many began to understand why the Tang Group dared to take on the project at the foot of the mountain temple, and a few were even considering buying up nearby land just to wait for the value appreciation…