CDJMM – Volume 3 – Chapter 23 Compassion of the Buddha (23)

“…A single spark can ignite a prairie fire.”

“I want to know whether the strength of ants can shake the heavens.”

“Even if it means I’ll fall into eternal damnation, never to recover.”

“…In the world split open by an axe, everywhere stand people who refuse to be slaves.”

The boy who spoke had blazing eyes, within which surged a sun about to break free of the horizon—so brilliant, so dazzling, it made one’s heart tremble.

The autumn wind was sparse and cool, the city desolate. Under the boundless blue sky stretched mountains of corpses and seas of blood. The boy stood amid it all with hands clasped behind his back, his gaze clear, his blood-soaked clothes fluttering wildly—like the dividing line between purity and filth.

Mei Yingliang stared blankly at the youth, straight as a pine tree. A sudden tornado stirred up by the boy swept through his mind—shattering every stale and rule-bound conviction he’d once held, and birthing something new, vigorous, unyielding!

For a moment, even the wind seemed to halt. In that long and brief silence, Mei Yingliang clearly heard thunder crashing inside his chest, roaring without pause.

He never expected… he never expected that the destitute child he once encountered by chance on the street would possess such sky-piercing ambition!

It had been ten years since Mei Yingliang met Le Jing in Yousu City.

Ten years was only a fleeting moment to a cultivator, hardly worth mentioning. But there was no doubt that in these ten years, the youth had undergone earth-shaking change.

The childish boy of the past had grown into a handsome, valiant youth.

Only those eyes remained unchanged through the years.

Thinking back to how he once even suspected Le Jing of being an old monster who had rejuvenated himself, Mei Yingliang now found it utterly laughable.

An old monster weighed down with lifelessness could never possess such eyes.

These were the bright eyes that belonged only to the young.

Fearing neither heaven nor earth—there was nothing in this world that could make a young man tremble. If the sky was unjust, the young would pierce a hole through it. If the earth was uneven, they would split it in half. In the eternal night, they would burn their blood into torches for warmth; and when dawn arrived in blazing glory, they would crawl through darkness carrying its weight upon their backs.

This was the fearless courage and fiery spirit that only youth could possess.

A wave of shame swept through Mei Yingliang—shame mixed with a vague, indescribable excitement.

He too had come from the common folk, a mortal’s son. In his youth he had wanted to bring peace to the world and protect the people. Even after joining an immortal sect, he often descended to the mortal world to punish evil and uphold justice.

When had he changed?

Perhaps it was when bandits slaughtered his entire village, yet his master strictly forbade him from seeking revenge.

Because he was no longer mortal, and it violated the heavenly order for a cultivator to interfere in mortal affairs.

His master even said that mortals had short lifespans. Even if he had saved them back then, it would only be temporary—mortals would still die sooner or later. Compared to cultivators’ long lives, mortals were far too small and fragile.

His master also said that revenge was meaningless—those bandits were mortals too, destined to die sooner or later. In the end, only Mei Yingliang, as a cultivator, would live on.

In a cultivator’s eyes, mortals were like mayflies, born in the morning, dead by night.

So Mei Yingliang’s revenge meant nothing, because mortals were destined to die.

But just now, there was a youth who wanted ants to shake the heavens.

For that, he cast aside all glory, bathed himself in blood, and stepped into the path of Asura to save the very mortals who were fated to die.

Was this foolish?

It should be.

But then why was Mei Yingliang trembling all over, his heart pounding violently?

Why, upon seeing the masses of people kneeling as far as the eye could see, did his blood surge, his eyes burn with tears—and his heart yearn toward it?

Mei Yingliang knew: as a Buddha’s child, Le Jing was born with the Sight of Fate, able to perceive past lives and karmic threads. Of everyone present, he was likely the one who understood the cruelty and inevitability of destiny the most.

Yet faced with that inevitable, nearly sealed fate, Le Jing chose to resist simply because he “couldn’t bear it”—even knowing it would cost him his life.

And he, Mei Yingliang…?

All this way, in pursuit of the Dao, how much had he cast aside?

Even if they severed worldly attachments—before they were cultivators, they were human.

Mei Yingliang asked himself: was this cautious, calculating, coldly detached life truly meaningful?

Cultivators sought longevity, to break free of the shackles of heaven and earth, to attain great freedom—thus they walked against the heavens, transcending mortal limits. But if the pursuit of the Dao required betraying one’s heart, twisting one’s nature—was that not the greatest form of bondage?

Though their bodies remained eternally youthful, perhaps their hearts had long grown old without their knowing.

While Mei Yingliang was lost in thought, Le Jing and Master Huitong had already exchanged several blows.

The previous battle had exhausted all of Le Jing’s spiritual power. He had no strength left to counter Huitong. After only a few exchanges, several deep wounds—so deep bone was faintly visible—appeared on his body.

Master Huitong had held back a great deal; otherwise Le Jing would already be dead and dismembered.

Huitong said, “If you repent now, it is not too late.”

Le Jing shook his head, wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, and smiled brightly without a trace of gloom. “Master, you don’t need to persuade me.”

“This is my Dao—my unwavering path.”

Huitong’s brows furrowed sharply. In the next moment, the boy was struck in the chest by the Great Sun Tathāgata Palm. He spat blood again, sent flying across the battlefield before crashing heavily to the ground in a cloud of dust.

“Le Jing!” Several voices cried out at once. Lu Qingling and Su Jian rushed over, Kunhuo turning into a massive hound, standing guard before Le Jing, baring its fangs at Huitong.

Lu Qingling’s face was deathly pale, but when she saw the boy slowly blinking, a trace of color returned. Kneeling before him, she didn’t dare touch him, and asked in a choked voice, “Le Jing, are you alright?”

Le Jing’s vision was dimming to black. He forced a smile. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. Master is soft-hearted—he held back.”

Huitong snorted coldly. “If you continue in this delusion, this old monk will not hold back next time!”

“You were chosen by heaven as the Buddha’s child, raised and nurtured by the entire Buddhist Sect. I spent ten years pouring my heart and soul into teaching you. Yet this is what I have raised—an ungrateful, lawless creature who defies the heavens and lacks any understanding of reason!”

“What I ask again: will you put down the butcher’s blade and spend the rest of your life repenting?”

Le Jing struggled to get up, refusing Su Jian’s hand. He swayed for a long moment before standing firm. Wiping the blood from his mouth, he straightened up and smiled. “Master need not ask. My answer has always been the same.”

For an instant, Huitong’s expression twisted with pain, relief, anger, helplessness—all blending into one. He finally sighed and muttered a Buddha’s name.

“Since this is the path you insist on… this old monk shall personally cleanse the sect.”

A stone suddenly flew toward him. Huitong did not dodge. The stone shattered against his body.

Han Yong lifted a larger stone and roared each word: “Get out! You’re not welcome here!”

Pa. Another stone struck him.

“Ptui! You wicked monk! What crime is it for an immortal to save us?!”

Pa. Pa. Pa. The sound of stones hitting him rose endlessly.

“Get out! Beihuang City doesn’t welcome you!”

“The immortal saved our entire city—if you want to kill him, step over my corpse first!”

“If you dare harm him even a little, this old lady won’t let you go even as a ghost!”

“What kind of merciful monk are you?! You’re with those demons from earlier, aren’t you?!”

Huitong stared in shock. The people who had been kneeling like docile sheep were suddenly wolves, baring their fangs at him. These frail mortals used their flesh and blood as a wall, layer after layer, shielding Le Jing.

In all his years of cultivation, he had seen mortals’ fear often—but never their naked hostility. In their eyes, he was not a righteous monk, but a jackal no different from the invaders.

The people were sheep; officials were shepherds; the emperor ruled the world. And they, the cultivators—were spectators at the chessboard.

A true gentleman does not interfere with the match. That was the principle he had always upheld.

He never once imagined that the gentle masses would one day become this brave. Nor that one day he himself would become the villain in their eyes.

Was it the people who were foolish?

Or had he truly done wrong?

“What fault have Le Jing and the others committed?” A clear voice sounded behind him.

A young daoist in blue robes, face as fair as jade, stepped out from the crowd and stood among the people, shielding Le Jing alongside them.

“Mei Yingliang?” someone whispered in astonishment.

Mei Yingliang cupped his hands and met Huitong’s gaze, his eyes blazing. “Le Jing only did what I have long wanted to do but never dared. What fault is there?”

“If saving lives is considered a crime, then it is the standard of judgment that is wrong.”

Huitong looked into that clear gaze and saw, unsurprisingly, the same burning brilliance he had seen in Le Jing’s eyes.

After several breaths of silence, a young monk in yellow robes stepped forward and stood beside Mei Yingliang.

Huitong recognized him—Konghuan, his junior brother Huiwu’s personal disciple.

Konghuan spoke earnestly: “Buddhism is compassionate, but even compassion has its wrathful side. Although the Buddha’s child has opened a killing ground, slaying karma is not slaying life. He killed to save. He acted to end suffering sooner, allowing souls to return to reincarnation and reach bliss earlier.”

Then came a third person. A fourth. A fifth.

One after another, they stepped forward, standing firmly in front of Le Jing, facing their own elders.

Their personalities differed, their paths diverged—yet they shared one thing: their young faces were still tender with youth.

But it was precisely this youth, this immaturity, that made them refuse to accept the rules the adult world obeyed, that let their blood ignite easily, courage soaring, ready to fight for their beliefs.

Simply because they were young.

Huitong and the elders let their silent gazes sweep over each face. These youths were their sects’ prodigies, once the pride of their masters. Yet now they stood on the opposite side—clear-cut, like two different worlds.

They had their youthful stubbornness.

The elders had their mature obstinance.

Such was youth.

Reckless, childish, naive, rebellious, troublesome…

“You little ingrates!” roared Baiyuan Zhenren of the Linqing Sect, beard and hair bristling in fury. “Do you want me to cleanse the sect as well?!”

“Disciple does not intend to anger Master,” Mei Yingliang bowed again, apology in his eyes—but no regret. “I simply… do not want to do anything I would regret again.”

Konghuan added softly, “I simply… cannot stand by and do nothing.”

If they had the power to save—why shouldn’t they save?

“Good, good! Your wings have grown hard! Do you think I don’t dare cleanse the sect?! I’ll—Huitong, why are you stopping me?” Baiyuan stared at Huitong in disbelief.

“…Let them go,” Huitong said quietly.

“What did you say?” Baiyuan blinked, wondering if he’d misheard.

Huitong sighed, and a serene smile rose on his face. “This old monk has cultivated and revered the Buddha for many years. I do not wish to become a demon monk who in the eyes of the people cannot tell right from wrong.”

He waved his hand and turned away, leaving only a faint voice drifting on the wind: “Let me see, then—how you intend to make ants shake the heavens.”

Le Jing bowed. “Thank you, Master, for granting us this chance.”

These young ones who stayed behind out of a moment of righteousness could never imagine the waves they would soon stir in Great Liang—a magnificent, resplendent era was about to begin.

History would call it: The Wrath of the Gods—When Buddhism and Daoism Walked Together.