Chapter Forty-Eight: Piercing Illusion, Returning to Truth

Over the past few years, Liang Yan had fought on many fronts, long accustomed to the carnage of war. The surrounding kingdoms had all fallen before him, their captured soldiers slaughtered in numbers too great to count. Only one enemy remained, his final adversary: the woman in white before him.

She rode alone to the front of the two armies, astride her horse, a jeweled sword in her hand. Her white robes billowed, three thousand strands of black hair streaming in the wind—a vision of heroic grace and beauty.

Liang Yan tried to see her face clearly, but no matter how he looked, it seemed veiled in mist. Yet he knew this battle could not be avoided.

“Kill her!” A surge of desire swelled within Liang Yan, his eyes gradually reddening with bloodlust.

No longer holding himself back, he shouted, “Attack!”

The soldiers of both armies surged forward, clashing instantly in a storm of steel. Liang Yan spurred his horse toward the woman in white, charging with reckless fury.

In a roar, his steed transformed into a massive gray boar, and the sword in his hand lengthened and twisted into a crimson serpent. Wherever Liang Yan passed, bodies piled high, rivers of blood flooding the ground.

The woman in white stood her ground without fear. Drawing her sword, she unleashed a clear, resonant note, a cold gleam flashing—a blade that seemed the only one of its kind beneath heaven.

They exchanged dozens of blows amid the chaos, neither gaining the upper hand. For the first time in his military career, Liang Yan met an equal.

“Who is she?”

A strange thought flickered in his mind; he wanted to see her face, but even at such close quarters, her features remained obscure.

Though unsettled, both the serpent in his hand and the boar beneath him grew more frenzied, hissing and roaring as if nothing would satisfy them but devouring her alive.

Once more, an irrepressible urge to kill surged through him, his eyes blazing a deeper red. His aura soared; the serpent lashed out, and the woman in white began to falter under his assault.

Suddenly, with a ringing clash, her sword was knocked from her grasp, and her horse was killed by a kick from the boar.

She tumbled to the ground, rolling several times before coming to a stop, blood spilling from her lips—clearly gravely wounded.

Liang Yan let out a long howl and rushed forward to end her life. At that moment, thunder rolled across the sky, and a bolt of lightning exploded out of a clear blue sky.

In that brief instant, Liang Yan finally saw her face.

“It’s her!”

But who was she? What was her name? Liang Yan did not know, yet a voice in his heart cried out—she was that “someone.”

“She must not die!”

A strange thought flared up inexplicably within him, but even as it rose, another voice echoed in his mind: “Kill her! Kill her and you’ll sever your final tie; the world will be yours alone!”

That voice grew louder, drowning out all others, pressing him on relentlessly:

“You’ve killed so many already—will you hesitate over just one more?”

“This is the final trial. Cross this threshold, and you’ll no longer be who you once were. Wealth and power without end await you!”

“Kill! Kill! If you don’t kill, how will you claim the world?”

...

“Ah!” Liang Yan threw his head back and howled, feeling as if his skull would split.

“Silence!” he roared, and suddenly thunder boomed above. A series of golden Sanskrit characters appeared in the sky.

The script was strange and unfamiliar, yet Liang Yan seemed to understand its meaning innately, as if the words had been branded in his soul since birth.

He stared, transfixed, at the writing overhead. After a long moment, he assumed a peculiar posture: his upper body arched backward, left hand supporting his head, right arm curved over his back, as if falling into a deep sleep.

Slowly, his eyes drifted shut, as if he truly slept, though his mind was sharper than ever.

Within ten miles, the world fell utterly silent; the clash of armies, the woman in white—everything became motionless, as if the world were filled with wooden puppets.

The golden script continued to shift and change, and although Liang Yan did not look at it directly, his lips moved, reciting the words in perfect time.

“With the Vajra Splinters, shatter the four extremes, discern the truth of all things beyond artifice, dispel illusions and falsehoods...”

“…All phenomena are unborn; with strength, break through them.”

In the teachings of the Buddha, there are five great causes: “Vajra Splinters,” “Shattering Existence and Non-Existence,” “Transcending One and Many,” “Breaking the Four Extremes,” and “Great Interdependent Arising.”

The path Liang Yan had studied contained the “Vajra Splinters.” The “four extremes”—self-generation, generation by others, generation by both, and generation without cause—are the root of worldly attachments and desires. “Vajra Splinters” demands the use of inner strength to break delusion—not physical force, but the steadfastness of consciousness. When the mind is unshakeable, all evil and illusion are swept away.

As Liang Yan chanted, a golden energy began to rise within him—spiritual power, long absent, now flowed through his veins. The serpent-sword and the gray boar sizzled, dissolving into wisps of smoke and vanishing.

Above, the golden light intensified. The earth rumbled as if the end of days loomed near.

Liang Yan slowly opened his eyes, now clear and bright, the redness gone. A faint smile played upon his lips as he turned toward the horizon, where a figure approached—clad in coarse blue cloth, head bowed beneath a straw hat.

His steps were unhurried, ambling as if wandering through fields, yet, impossibly, he was instantly before Liang Yan.

“I knew you would come,” Liang Yan said with a smile.

The newcomer was none other than Liang Yan’s father, Liang Xuan. He looked at his son, bewildered.

“Why? Why did you stop? Just one more step and we could be together forever—don’t you want that?”

Liang Yan replied obliquely, “You stole six years of my memories and wanted me to sever them with my own hands—your intentions could not be more cruel. But rest assured, I won’t kill you. In truth, falsehood lies within truth, and truth within falsehood; the fatherly love you gave me was real. Killing you here would be killing my former self.”

Liang Xuan’s expression darkened. “Are you sure? The world is yours for the taking—just cross this last threshold and you will be master of all!”

Liang Yan raised his right hand, pointing skyward and laughing.

“Unfortunately, what I wish to break is the very sky itself!”

As he pointed, the golden script overhead blazed forth, and vast cracks split the heavens. Light poured through the rifts, and a chorus of chanting resounded across the land.

In the next instant, the world collapsed—mountains and rivers shattering as if the end of days had come. Liang Yan fell into a black abyss, the ten years he’d spent in this realm flashing before his eyes like a lantern carousel—a fleeting dream, gone in a blink.

Awakening from his long dream, the details quickly faded from memory.

...

Liang Yan felt the world spinning. Suddenly, his feet touched solid ground. A man’s startled voice sounded at his ear.

“Hm?”

Liang Yan shook his dizzy head, looking around.

He found himself in a cavern deep underground. Beside him lay a woman in white, her brow furrowed as if trapped in a dream—it was none other than Tang Diexian.

Seeing that she was unharmed, Liang Yan breathed a sigh of relief, then turned toward the source of the voice.

There, he saw a stone platform surrounded by four pillars. Upon each pillar rested a wooden fish, a monk’s staff, a crystal lamp, and a begging bowl. Each radiated a holy light, unmistakable treasures of the Buddhist faith.

Seated at the center of the platform was a man in red robes, with narrow pupils and crimson lips—a handsome face, but exuding a chilling, murderous aura.

Chains ran from the pillars to the platform, binding the man’s hands and feet—he was sealed there, a prisoner.

At that moment, the man stared at Liang Yan in astonishment, a trace of fear flickering in his eyes, his body trembling.

“Bodhi Bright and Pure? ... Who is this ‘Angry Monk’ to you?”

A strange look flickered across Liang Yan’s face. He did not answer directly, but thought, “So the old monk’s title is ‘Angry Monk,’ and this pose is truly called ‘Bodhi Bright and Pure’...”

He almost laughed aloud, recalling how he’d randomly named the technique he taught the old monk five years ago.

But outwardly, he remained composed, fixing the man in red with a solemn gaze.

“He is my master.”