CDJMM – Volume 3 – Chapter 22 Compassion of the Buddha (22)

For Beihuang City, this was truly a cataclysmic battle, one worthy of being recorded in the annals of history. Even after decades, when the city walls had long decayed in the wind and the dynasty had changed through generations, this battle would become a small legend, circulating through the world under the name of myth.

By then, Beihuang City might no longer be called Beihuang City, yet that would not prevent descendants from learning from their parents about the legends that occurred on this land long, long ago.

The legend went that at the end of the Great Liang, with war and chaos everywhere and the people suffering, gods and Buddhas descended with their guardians, exorcising demons, restoring order, and bringing peace to the world.

But this was another story, one that took place far, far in the future.

A future that no one present could see.

At this moment, the young Han Yong lay exhausted in the mud, bloodied from head to toe, gasping for breath, feeling an intense sense of unreality.

Victory?

They had won?

They had defended Beihuang City?

He struggled to lift himself and stared blankly at the two figures ahead.

Amidst the corpses scattered across the battlefield stood three upright silhouettes. They were neither strong nor mature; their youthful faces bore the innocence of youth. Their bodies were covered with wounds of all sizes, and their clothes were soaked entirely in blood. They looked nothing like ethereal immortals—they resembled street beggars more than anything.

Yet these three figures would forever be imprinted on the hearts of all Beihuang people, becoming legends passed down through generations, eternal heroes in folk stories.

Han Yong knew he would never forget that scene:

Behind the boy, golden mist swirled, condensed, and gradually formed a gigantic golden phantom. The phantom solidified, revealing a solemn Vajra Arhat, holding a demon-subduing staff, eyes wide with fury, emanating divine wrath.

Turning his back to the city gate, he slowly raised the staff in his hand. Behind him, the Arhat manifested its true form with three heads and six arms, each hand gripping weapons—swords, spears, demon-subduing staffs—attacking the Purple Cloud Daoist in the sky.

The final, fatal strike.

Then, the seemingly invincible enemy fell from the clouds to the dust, their arrogant, haughty pride reduced to ashes. Justice ultimately prevailed.

The gods descended; the demons scattered.

What does it mean to “turn the tide of chaos, to save a collapsing hall”?

This is it!

A true man should be like this!

It was they who, in the midst of storm and rain, bore the weight of Beihuang City!

“Hahahahahahaha,” Han Yong couldn’t help but throw back his head and laugh, “This is exhilarating! My life has been worth it!”

…

Le Jing forced his back upright, suppressing the surging blood and Qi, lowering his gaze at the purple-robed Daoist lying on the ground, unsure if he was dead or alive, and let out a long sigh.

So tired.

Even more exhausting than running a marathon.

Just now, he had overexerted his innate talent, paying the price of making it difficult to advance his cultivation in the future. He forcibly activated the Bodhi Buddha Fruit, unleashing its full power to destroy the Purple-Robed Daoist.

The Daoist now had none of his previous presence, lying dirtied in the mud. He had no incoming breath, only outgoing; moments later, he shrank further, revealing his true form—a fat purple-haired rat! About half a human height, chubby with a large head and ears, truly a “huge rat.”

Kunhuo approached, carrying a small figure, striding confidently across the clouds from a short distance away.

Le Jing glanced and understood: “His Nascent Soul?”

“I’ve already bitten his Nascent Soul to death. He’s finished,” Kunhuo said, recalling the little rat’s shocked eyes at death and feeling amused.

The rat had vaguely sensed his identity.

But he would never have imagined that in the end, it would be he himself who killed it.

Who could have predicted this…

Who could have imagined that a ghost, meant to sleep underground, could revive?

Kunhuo reined in his thoughts, shaking his head in a carefree, boastful manner and mumbled indistinctly, “Le Jing, can I eat his Nascent Soul?”

Dust and smoke swirled. Silent iron cavalry appeared vaguely through the haze. Le Jing met the crimson eyes of the leading barbarian chieftain, eyes filled with hatred and fear. He lowered his gaze, smiled faintly, casually clasped his hands, and chanted a Buddha’s name. Then, with genuine compassion, he responded, “My Buddha is merciful. May you ascend to bliss swiftly.”

Kunhuo grinned and, with a pop, tore and swallowed the Nascent Soul.

Thus, the Purple Cloud Daoist was completely crushed by the tides of history. In the end, the only thing immortal was the people of Beihuang City.

Looking around, no sun or moon was visible—only Beihuang.

The brutal, bloody battlefield gradually erupted with cheers, and some even began singing an ancient war song:

“Why say no clothes? I share my coat with you. The king raises his army, we sharpen our spears. United against the enemy!
Why say no clothes? I share my robe with you. The king raises his army, we ready our halberds. Together we fight!
Why say no clothes? I share my armor with you. The king raises his army, we prepare our weapons. Together we march…”

The people cheered, dancing and celebrating, as if the victory was already theirs.

Even Han Yong could no longer contain his excitement and embraced his comrades tightly.

Victory! They had won!

Wu Tie stared at the two men, one woman, and one dog before him, his heart stirred by waves of shock.

He had never expected that a single Beihuang could conceal such hidden talents, attracting the efforts of supreme geniuses from both Buddhism and Daoism to defend it, capable of a Foundation Establishment level practitioner slaying a Nascent Soul level Purple Cloud Daoist!

Wu Tie was not a cultivator, but he had some experience. His heart churned with envy and bitterness—both admiration and jealousy.

In cultivation, the stages are: Qi Gathering, Foundation Establishment, Mind Activation, Golden Core, Nascent Soul, Out-of-Body, Great Ascension, and Tribulation.

Foundation Establishment practitioners are just beginners, a world apart from Nascent Soul practitioners.

Three Foundation Establishment practitioners combining to kill a Nascent Soul practitioner is no mere coincidence; it’s extraordinary! If there were a ranking of cross-level kills, this might rank in the top three!

Wu Tie could already imagine the waves this would cause in the cultivation world.

These three young people could disregard cultivation levels, ignoring the full three-stage gap between Mind Activation, Golden Core, and Nascent Soul. Their advantage, of course, lay in divine treasures and magical techniques.

The two young men—one a Buddhist disciple, one a Daoist—naturally possessed powerful protective artifacts from their sects. More terrifyingly, they were also favored by the heavens, blessed with fortune that turned danger into safety, which is why the Purple Cloud Daoist’s plan backfired.

The blue-robed Daoist’s sword radiated divine light, piercing the Purple Cloud Daoist’s demonic barrier and leaving wounds. It was no ordinary item—at least a high-level magical weapon, possibly even an immortal artifact!

The white-robed girl was also talented, protected by a strong magical artifact, clearly from a powerful sect.

And the yellow-robed monk…

Wu Tie thought he would never forget the enormous Buddha statue that appeared behind the young monk.

It was as if a god or Buddha, looking down from the heavens, had joyfully discovered a favored mortal in the wasteland spanning millions of years, and had decisively descended into the murky mortal world to give absolute protection.

This was the kind of divine favor that could make one tremble; countless mortals sought it but failed. Wu Tie would have been grateful for even a fraction of it. Yet the young monk’s expression was calm and indifferent, as if divine protection was mundane, trivial.

The blue-robed Daoist only wounded the Purple Cloud Daoist; the true fatal strike came from the boy. With a gentle palm from the giant Buddha behind him, the Purple Cloud Daoist fell from the clouds, unable to resist, as effortlessly as swatting a fly.

…How enviable.

And terrifying.

And then there was that beast…

Wu Tie cautiously glanced at it, meeting those cold, beastly eyes, feeling as if he had fallen into an ice pit.

What on earth was this dog’s origin?!

Why did even Master Ziyun fear him so much?

Just now, he had seen clearly that the one who had truly killed Master Ziyun was this beast.

It had personally crushed Master Ziyun’s escaping Nascent Soul, completely shattering any hope he had of transmigrating into a new body!

What kind of monster had they provoked this time?

Wu Tie frowned, a deep bitterness spreading in his mouth.

He could easily see that the three were already exhausted, likely too weak to fight. With a few thousand soldiers under his command, along with some magical treasures, even if Master Ziyun had fallen, he could still take the city.

But behind these three young people stood countless ancient monsters. The status of Buddhist and Daoist masters in their respective sects needed no explanation.

And the troublesome thing about these “second-generation heirs” like them was—strike the small, and the old come running. Once a grudge was formed, an endless stream of ancient monsters would come for revenge.

Wu Tie came from a minor noble family. In the past, he would have avoided clashing with such prestigious cultivators at all costs.

After all, he had no ancient monsters backing him, nor any trump cards to save his life.

Yes, logically speaking, he should have retreated.

Wu Tie gritted his teeth. These monsters… why did they interfere in mortal affairs? Master Ziyun had been their ultimate trump card, and now that he was dead, his puppets wouldn’t be a match. The smart move would have been to withdraw, minimize losses, and plan for the future.

Plan for the future…

That would have been wise.

But at the moment of defeat, Wu Tie had no future left.

As a defeated general, not only had he lost so many soldiers in this siege, but Master Ziyun had also perished. Without a strong family backing, he would certainly be executed by the Khan upon returning.

Wu Tie clenched his teeth. Since death was inevitable anyway, he might as well risk everything.

Although these two had killed a master, it had been a hard-fought victory. They were badly injured—surely even monsters would feel fatigue, right?

Perhaps he still had a chance.

Maybe he could turn death into survival.

Le Jing lifted his eyelids, glancing at the barbarian leader on horseback, and coldly commanded, “Aren’t you going to leave?”

Wu Tie rode out of formation and, in awkward Chinese, said, “Cultivators shouldn’t meddle in mortal affairs.”

The monk in yellow lowered his eyes, smiling lightly, his gaze cold. Golden light shimmered behind him—perhaps the radiance of Buddha. “Slaying demons and eliminating evil is the duty of us cultivators.”

“What demons? What evil?” Wu Tie grinned menacingly. “We are merely ordinary mortals. You slaughter us, violating the Way of Heaven. Beware the heavenly thunder—your end will be ashes!”

“You know quite a lot, don’t you? If you’re colluding with demons, how can you still claim to be ordinary mortals?” Su Jian gripped his sword, the tip carving deep lines into the ground. “The Way of Heaven lies in balance. Since the demons have meddled in mortal wars, we cultivators cannot remain idle. Naturally, we must intervene to maintain fairness.”

The barbarian leader sneered. “Balance? You think that’s balance! The Way of Heaven is also about impartiality. You accuse us of colluding with demons, yet you’ve just commanded demons to kill mortals yourselves. Moreover, you cultivators meddle in mortal wars, disrupt human fortune, and slaughter innocent people. How is that different from evil?”

Watching from the side, Han Yong almost laughed at their audacious counterattack!

Could these uncultured barbarians be any more shameless? So cold-blooded and ruthless—they truly live up to what the scholars say about being beyond reform!

Before he could curse them, a hum of angry voices rose from below the city walls.

“Bah! Who are you calling evil? You came here to attack us! It was the three immortals who saved us!”

“No matter what you say, the three immortals are our benefactors! You beasts deserve the eighteen levels of hell—you’ll never die a good death!”

“That’s right, we saw it all! You colluded with the rat demon—you’re the real evil!”

“Your rat dad is dead—why aren’t you leaving? Still squawking here? Let’s see how bold you are when your head falls!”

Peeking down, Han Yong saw that the terrified expressions of the townspeople had vanished. Their faces now showed pride and relief. Empowered by the three immortals’ feats, they shouted and cursed freely, no longer afraid.

Le Jing took in every voice behind him and smiled. “It seems the people have a scale to measure who is righteous and who is evil.”

Wu Tie glared disdainfully at the little pests shouting nonsense. Such ignorance! If not for the wrong timing, he would have had them chopped to pieces and fed to dogs!

He suppressed his fury, darkened his face, and glared at them sharply. Then, feigning calm, he smiled:

“You misunderstand. I am here by royal decree. Our Khan, hearing of mortals suffering under demon oppression, dispatched me with compassion to protect the people of Beihuang. I am not here to slaughter, but to promote friendship between the two tribes. Please, allow me to carry out my duty without conflict.”

The townspeople were stunned by his audacious attempt to turn black into white.

Le Jing raised an eyebrow. This man was shameless, cunning, and flexible—a capable politician. Given time, he might even reach high office.

“Cut the crap!” Su Jian crossed his sword over his chest. “If you want to fight, then fight!”

Wu Tie hesitated.

He had assumed the three were at the end of their strength, but now they seemed different.

Though wounded, their energy was stable, their stance firm, their attitude defiant—they still had strength left.

He watched Le Jing intently, his mind racing. His horse snorted, hooves tapping lightly, and his few thousand remaining soldiers stood silent like ghosts, observing.

These were no ordinary humans.

Humans fear death, and the battlefield allows no cowards.

Thus, before leaving, the immortals had turned them into puppets—unafraid of pain, reckless in battle, obedient, ruthless. These puppets were the ultimate soldiers: iron-blooded, loyal, and excellent.

With such soldiers, he might not lose.

The puppets gave Wu Tie some confidence, and his muddled mind cleared slightly, realizing something—the two youths were talking too much.

“You nearly fooled us. You’re stalling! You killed Master Ziyun ahead of your level, but your energy must be heavily drained—you’re all talk now!”

Le Jing smiled calmly, without anger. “Then feel free to try and see if I’m just all talk.”

Su Jian chuckled in agreement. “Why waste words? If he’s looking for death, we’ll oblige.”

“These trash aren’t worth the immortals’ effort,” Han Yong gripped his cleaver and stepped forward with a laugh. “We’re not here to just stand around!”

Naturally, many echoed him. The fight had awakened their bloodlust, and they eagerly readied to give the barbarians a lesson.

Wu Tie looked down at them disdainfully, ignoring the little insects. Only cultivators were worth fearing!

Though he had spoken confidently, he still hesitated. Facing their defiance, he paused a few seconds before deciding to take a gamble.

He formed a hand seal and shouted, “Attack!”

Flags fluttered, hooves pounded, and a silent army surged forward through the rolling mist.

Le Jing sat down to recover. “Kunhuo, I’m counting on you.” He smiled weakly, feigning frailty: “Our lives are in your hands—protect us.”

Kunhuo lifted his head proudly, wagging his tail. “Just watch! I’ll tear them all apart!”

Su Jian smiled. “Kunhuo, you’re really reliable.”

…

Confident Wu Tie was soon slapped down by reality. The foolish mortals were no match for his puppet soldiers, but the one thing he had miscalculated was the dog!

He knew the dog was powerful, yet instinctively thought a beast couldn’t cause trouble. After the recent battle, he assumed it had little power left.

He hadn’t expected this dog, transformed into a giant hound, to effortlessly block dozens of puppet soldiers’ attacks and tear them to pieces.

Seeing the dog move through the puppet army like a phantom and slowly advance toward him, Wu Tie’s eyes bulged in terror. He dared not linger and spurred his horse to flee.

These are monsters! Monsters!

He had to survive!

As long as the mountains remain, there’s firewood to burn. Once back, he would spend all his wealth to secure… survival…

Suddenly, his horse stumbled, letting out a pitiful cry as it fell. Wu Tie was thrown hard, and in the next moment, everything went black.

A head hit the ground with a dull thud.

Han Yong, gripping his bloodied blade, also collapsed laughing uncontrollably. “That was exhilarating!”

‘A man who lives so that others cannot, his fate is visible.’

Le Jing sneered.

His own spiritual veins were drained, leaving him unable to cast a spell. If not for Kunhuo, escaping unscathed would have been difficult.

After a brief silence:

“Ahhhh! Victory!!!”

“We won!!!!”

“Ha ha ha ha ha! Evil cannot prevail over righteousness!”

“Father! Mother! We won! We won!”

Inside and outside the gates of Beihuang City, people were jubilant, dancing and shouting, their voices of celebration rising to the clouds. Everyone was screaming and yelling, venting their emotions in pure ecstasy.

Han Yong clumsily got up from the ground, staggering slightly before steadying himself. This man, whose body had several blood holes yet hadn’t even flinched, now bent his knees and knocked three resounding prostrations before the three towering living bodhisattvas, his voice hoarse: “I, Han Yong, dare to ask the honored names of the three immortals. I shall erect a Shrine of Longevity in your honor and offer prayers day and night!”

Such a weak voice, under normal circumstances, would have been drowned out by the deafening cheers. But what if it were not one voice, but dozens, hundreds, or even thousands, tens of thousands?

Han Yong’s kneeling seemed to trigger a domino effect. One by one, others fell to the ground, prostrating themselves before the three, paying their respects.

These people, unwilling to be slaves, these warriors who bravely defied fate, bowed their heads and bent their knees before the three bloodied figures standing back-to-back in the center of the battlefield, offering the highest tribute.

From all directions rose their shouts:

“Your immortal grace shall never be forgotten!”

“In the next life, we vow to serve you as oxen and horses, repaying your kindness in every way!”

“My life now belongs to you, Immortal! I shall brave mountains of blades and seas of fire without hesitation!”

“I will offer incense day and night at your shrine!”

The cheers gradually faded, leaving only the vast sense of gratitude drifting through the heavens and earth.

These faint expressions of thanks, belonging to mortals, merged together into a collective voice that roared like a tidal wave of public sentiment.

Le Jing silently swallowed the blood rising in his throat and looked up to see a mass of prostrating figures across the city walls.

These people, brave enough to resist invaders and determined to stand tall, were expressing their simple gratitude through prostration.

Lu Qingling watched in near panic, but slowly, her eyes shimmered with crystal clarity, and the smile on her lips widened.

Even now, she didn’t fully understand why they had to defend the city.

But she couldn’t deny that being appreciated and admired by mortals felt pretty good.

Le Jing clasped his hands and smiled lightly. Before he could speak, a sudden piercing pain hit his third eye. From afar, a radiant golden light approached them, and behind it, several slightly dimmer light clusters followed closely.

It was a Buddha light.

And it was familiar.

Le Jing had often been influenced by this light over the past decade.

He hadn’t expected their next encounter to be on a battlefield.

Recalling the conversation before descending the mountain, a faint chill passed through his gaze. If he could, he truly didn’t want to fight that person…

When the monks of the Pure Land Sect and the Daoists of the Linqing Sect arrived, they saw this scene.

The Buddha’s disciple and the Daoist stood facing each other, both disheveled, covered in wounds and blood, surrounded by heaps of corpses and rivers of blood.

The people lay prostrate beside them, like devotees worshiping gods and Buddhas. Sunlight broke through the clouds, slanting across their sides, adding a sacred religious aura to the scene.

Amid the overwhelming expressions of gratitude, a sigh suddenly rang out.

“Ah.”

The voice was quiet but cut through the crowd like thunder, reaching Le Jing and the others with shocking clarity.

Su Jian instinctively scanned for the speaker. Seconds later, a group of Daoists and monks emerged from the city gate.

At the front were an elderly monk in red robes and a white-bearded Daoist in blue.

The old monk had kindly eyes, while the Daoist exuded authority without anger; neither seemed ordinary.

Lu Qingling sighed inwardly.

She had sent a secret plea for reinforcements as early as their confrontation with Master Ziyun. Cultivators can traverse thousands of miles in an instant; it wasn’t surprising they arrived so quickly.

But…

She hadn’t expected them to win. Their arrival now might be meaningless—or worse, could cause trouble.

She glanced anxiously at Le Jing. The Daoists were one thing, but the monks… Le Jing, as a Buddha’s disciple, had not merely spared lives; he had killed extensively. Even if she understood his actions were to save others, the fact remained: he had killed.

The old monk walked toward them, and the prostrating crowd instinctively parted to give him a path.

Le Jing closed his eyes. After a brief silence, he avoided the old monk’s pitying gaze, bowed slightly, clasped his hands, and smiled wryly: “Master, long time no see.”

In his mind, he recalled the elder’s parting words: “If that day ever comes… I shall personally deal with you, to settle the bond between master and disciple.”

Huitong looked at his most outstanding disciple, complex emotions in his eyes, and asked with a sliver of hope: “All these people… did you kill them?”

“No!” Su Jian replied quickly. “I… I—”

“They’re mine to kill.” Le Jing pressed Su Jian’s arm, signaling him to be silent. Meeting the disappointment in Huitong’s eyes, he calmly said, “They deserved it.”

In an instant, Huitong seemed decades older. He sighed: “In the end, you still reached this point.”

The youth smiled faintly, serene and radiant, “Master, have you come to kill me?”

Huitong nodded: “I am your master. I cannot watch you err repeatedly, falling into the path of asura and demons.”

He looked at his disciple, unable to restrain his words of Buddhist counsel: “You are a Buddha’s disciple, born of heaven and earth, destined for greatness. If you cultivate properly, you could achieve Bodhi in the next life. The mortal world is but illusion; seeing through it, one knows all is emptiness. Will you continue to cling to ignorance?”

Le Jing smiled, “I understand your good intentions… I just can’t bear it.”

Indeed, he couldn’t bear it.

Not even a fool could bear it; neither could he.

In a chaotic era, human life is as fragile as grass, toppled by a single gust of wind. Humanity, compressed by time, survives in shame, enough to stain millennia of civilization.

He only wanted to live in a free world.

Huitong shook his head: “Life and death are fated; the rise and fall of dynasties follow their own course. Your righteous anger cannot change anything.” He turned his back to Beihuang City and said softly: “Human effort has its limits. Even if you protect this city, can you protect the world?”

Le Jing smiled, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the people on the walls. His eyes were clear, like a child’s.

He fully understood Huitong’s reasoning.

Since ancient times, Chinese history spoke of three-hundred-year cycles. Few dynasties lasted beyond three centuries. Invasion by barbarians was not uncommon.

Yet China was great—its civilization magnificent. A culture with such a long history, elegant script, and brilliant thought could not be resisted by the shallow nomadic civilizations of the steppe. In the end, those tribes would inevitably be assimilated.

When barbarians enter China, China assimilates them.

Those horse-riding tribes laid down their weapons, mounted horses, and began speaking Chinese and drinking tea.

This invasion of the barbarians was merely a minor ripple in China’s vast history, recorded briefly in the annals. China remained China.

But…

“Master, look at them,” Le Jing pointed to the hopeful faces of the people on the walls. “They know no magic, seek no longevity. In this chaotic age, they are candles, easily extinguished by a breeze.”

Huitong replied calmly: “When people die, it is like a candle going out. Not only mortals, but we cultivators too.”

“But a candle, though small, can still illuminate others. If millions of candles burn together, they can light the long night, illuminate civilization for thousands of years!” The youth’s gaze locked on the densely packed people, eyes ablaze: “I know I am like a mantis trying to stop a chariot, overestimating myself. But…” He spoke firmly, “Some things must be done. My power is small, but if I can ignite a spark, inspire millions to resist, then my actions have meaning.”

“Someone once said, a single spark can start a prairie fire.”

“I want to try.”

“I want to see if the strength of ants can defend the heavens.”

The fire in his eyes almost burned Huitong. In that moment, he finally understood Le Jing’s obsession and intent.

His actions were not shallow pity—they were righteous anger, anger at fate and the heavens.

He wanted to challenge destiny, defy the fates of mortals and cultivators alike, even at the cost of eternal suffering.

“…Even if it leads to endless calamity, destruction of life and death?”

“Even if it leads to endless calamity, destruction of life and death.”

At that realization, Huitong nearly trembled, unable to restrain his pitying gaze.

This was their Buddha’s disciple.

“You are too arrogant,” Huitong said. “You are yourself, not others. What right do you have to make decisions for others? Do you realize that your pride and recklessness could bring death and suffering to countless families, expose countless corpses to the wilderness, and create even greater calamities?”

Le Jing nodded: “I know.” Going against the heavens is never smooth; the road to freedom is paved with corpses, and peace must be won through war.

Huitong nodded, disappointment deepening: “You know, yet you still choose this path.”

“Because…” The youth gestured to the injured citizens on the walls, smiling, eyes burning with clear flame, “Master, look. Amid the chaos, there are people unwilling to be slaves.”

This nation has never lacked fools who would “rather stand and die than sit and live.” It is these fools who have carried the spirit of this nation for five thousand years.