CDJMM – Volume 3 – Chapter 6 Compassion of the Buddha (6)

Luo Jing’s fortune-telling business on Antique Street did not start off smoothly.

Which was only normal.

Even someone like Mei Yingliang had to disguise himself as a white-bearded, blind old man just to get customers. Luo Jing, on the other hand, looked like a child—eight or nine at most. Naturally, no one would ask a kid to read their fortune.

Even though he had hung a white banner over his stall that read “Divination Without Omission—Tenfold Compensation for Any Mistake”, few people believed him.

He sat there bored for a while, realizing that simply waiting wouldn’t solve anything. Just as he was about to go pull in a customer, his vision suddenly went black.

Amid a sharp burst of dog barking, the boy collapsed to the ground, his breathing steady, as though he had fallen into a deep sleep.

……

Luo Jing suddenly found himself dreaming.

In the dream were iron cavalry cutting through frozen rivers, mountains of corpses, seas of blood. Foreign armies burned, killed, and plundered—advancing through the world like demons marching out of hell.

It was hell on earth.

It was also the scene the “fool” had once witnessed—the final moments of a dying dynasty.

Luo Jing watched the one-sided massacre quietly when a timid, childlike voice sounded beside his ear:

“Save… save them.”

Luo Jing paused for a moment, understanding everything. He sighed lightly and asked, “Is this your wish?”

“To save people. Don’t let them die.” The childish voice grew firmer.

Luo Jing smiled.

“As you wish.”

“…Thank you.” The voice faded away like a breeze and disappeared.

Luo Jing let out a soft laugh, his eyes carrying a hint of mockery.

The world had always called that boy a fool.

The world kissed you with pain, yet you returned it with a song.

In the end, even with only a remnant soul left, that “fool” still thought only of saving his country.

In Luo Jing’s eyes, the fool was the true saint.

He would fulfill the fool’s wish—not because he was moved, but simply because he wanted to.

War was a meat grinder that chewed up fascinating souls, destroyed human civilization, buildings, and art—everything beautiful. He hated war. It was an atrocity against humanity, the ugliest hell in existence.

And anything ugly—he would oppose.

So at some point in the future, by any means necessary, he would stop this unjust war.

For a beautiful new world.

Luo Jing opened his eyes and found himself face-to-face with a pair of bright, anxious beast-like eyes. Only then did he notice that the stray dog had wolf-like dark yellow pupils.

Seeing him awaken, the dog immediately grew excited, desperately licking his face.

Luo Jing dodged with a laugh. “Stop, stop—don’t lick me! Sorry to worry you. I’m fine.”

He stood up, patted the dust off his clothes, and stretched.

“Kid, you do divination?” A young man stood before his stall, brows raised in doubt.

Luo Jing instantly put on an innocent, childlike smile. “Yep! Big brother, want a reading? If it doesn’t work, I’ll compensate you.”

……

Beihuang City sat in the far north, blanketed in snow year-round. Deep within the endless snowy plains stood a bright yellow temple, a black plaque above its doors bearing three powerful characters: Pure Land Sect.

The gentle sound of chanting drifted out and merged with the howling blizzard, softening even the harsh northern winds.

Inside the main hall, solemnity filled the air.

A dozen young monks sat in three neat rows, listening intently to the Buddhist teachings. From time to time, someone would reveal a look of sudden enlightenment, gazing toward the head of the hall with even greater reverence.

At the head sat an elderly monk, his brows and beard completely white. Sitting cross-legged upon a cushion, he slowly explained the Dharma word by word. As he taught, golden light and white lotus illusions occasionally appeared behind him. He sat peacefully, like a deity reborn, earning the disciples’ profound admiration.

Just as the young monks eagerly absorbed the teachings, the sacred chanting came to an abrupt halt.

The hall fell silent.

They looked up in surprise—only to see the elder monk gently closing his eyes, motionless, as though he had fallen asleep.

Impossible. And yet it had happened.

The elder monk, Huìtōng—the current abbot of the Pure Land Sect—had fallen asleep while chanting. And not only that… he was dreaming.

It was no pleasant dream. It was better described as a nightmare.

He found himself upon a battlefield.

War drums thundered. Blades clashed. Flags whipped in the wind. Thousands of soldiers collided, the sound deafening.

People fell one after another. Lives vanished by the second. War was the cruelest meat grinder.

Huìtōng rarely dreamed.

But whenever he did, it always meant something.

Before he could ponder the dream’s meaning, he noticed something out of place.

Ahead of him stood a child.

The child wore a bright yellow monk’s robe, his back facing Huìtōng, silently watching the burning battlefield.

A strange impulse urged Huìtōng to approach him. He wanted to see the boy’s face.

But just as he stepped forward, the battlefield shattered like a mirror. The boy vanished. The sky turned blood-red, the air thick with killing intent. Even the dark clouds were streaked with crimson.

Something soft pressed beneath his feet—warm, slightly yielding. Of course.

Because what he stood on were corpses. Piled so densely that no ground was visible—only mountains of bodies and seas of blood.

The corpses were old and young, male and female, all with twisted expressions, clearly victims of brutal deaths.

Even with Huìtōng’s serene cultivation, he was briefly stunned.

Was this hell?

He blinked and found himself on yet another battlefield.

But calling it a battlefield was wrong—this was a massacre.

Soldiers pointed spears and blades at unarmed civilians, launching round after round of inhuman slaughter. Amid the blood, Huìtōng heard them howl with excitement—sounds more beast than human.

Wolves followed behind them, waiting eagerly for scraps of “leftovers.”

This was the endless cycle of killing that plagued the mortal world—inevitable as karma itself.

Huìtōng had long grown accustomed to such things.

He sighed and began chanting prayers of release for the dead.

The boy appeared beside him without warning.

Caught off guard, Huìtōng met those fog-lit, glass-like eyes.

But the boy looked past him—at the corpses behind. Light flickered within those eyes, and Huìtōng thought he heard thunder rolling.

“I ask the Buddha—if killing one could save ten thousand, is it sin… or merit?”

“I ask the Buddha—if slaughtering a city could preserve a nation, is it divine punishment… or enlightenment?”

The boy spoke softly, as if to himself, yet also questioning Huìtōng.

Huìtōng froze. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

He wanted to say that monks had left the cycle of reincarnation; they should not meddle in worldly karma.

He wanted to say that light and darkness coexisted—so long as light existed, shadows would remain; evil could never be fully eradicated.

He wanted to say that birth, aging, sickness, and death were mortal destinies; cultivators should not interfere lest they fall into heart-devil’s temptation.

But before he could speak, the boy had already found his answer:

“The Buddha said: A Vajra’s fierce gaze subdues the demons; A Bodhisattva’s lowered eyes show compassion for all six realms.”

The boy’s clear gaze softened. He smiled gently, as though the Buddha once again smiled while holding a flower.

“Thunder and rain—both are the Buddha’s compassion.”

Huìtōng’s mind trembled.

Not because the words were extraordinary—but because behind them, he heard boundless courage. He heard the boy’s path.

He was walking a road destined to be long and full of suffering—a road he might never see the end of.

A road paved with corpses and blood, yet leading to the Pure Land.

And then, exactly as expected, the boy moved.

He sat cross-legged, chanting solemn verses. His body rose into the air; white lotus blossoms bloomed beneath him, fragrant and pure. A colossal golden Buddha appeared behind him, raising its palm and striking down upon the murderous soldiers—one blow after another.

The boy’s eyes remained closed, his smile serene, like a deity seated upon a lotus.

“The Buddha is compassionate,” he murmured.

In that instant, Huìtōng understood.

A revelation struck his mind like lightning.

He finally understood who this strange boy was.

And why he had seen this dream.

It was a future that would inevitably come to pass.

It was the Buddha’s guidance.

……

Huìtōng opened his eyes to see his fellow monks’ worried faces.

Huìjué asked anxiously, “Senior Brother, we heard you fell asleep while teaching. Are you unwell?”

Huìtōng blinked, still seeing those glass-like eyes in his mind.

“…I had a prophetic dream.”

The monks had half-expected this and were not entirely surprised. They immediately asked:

“Senior Brother, what did you see?”

“Was it about the movements of the demon race?”

Huìtōng shook his head. His cloudy old eyes suddenly gleamed, burning with tomorrow’s radiance.

“The Buddha Child has been born.”

“B-Buddha Child?!”

The monks cried out in shock. They never imagined he had seen something so momentous.

Since the previous Buddha Child passed away, the Buddhist sect had gone nearly a century without one.

The Daoists had natural-born Dao Seeds; the Buddhists had the Buddha Child.

Both were the pinnacle of cultivation talent—one destined to lead the Daoist sects, the other destined to lead the Buddhist ones.

After the great Xiangguo Temple was destroyed a century ago and the Buddha Child died with it, Buddhism had declined—leaderless, weakened, its future bleak.

Now, the return of a Buddha Child was a miracle—one that filled them with joy.

“Senior Brother, where is he?”

Huìtōng shook his head. “I do not know where he is. But one thing is certain…”

The old monk revealed a smile filled with both pity and admiration.

“He has chosen a rugged, endless road—and he will keep walking it.”

“So we must find him.”

“Find him—protect him… support him.”

Seeing their bewildered expressions, Huìtōng merely smiled and instructed:

“Notify all Buddhist sects immediately. Tell them the Buddha Child has appeared. Stop everything—no matter what. We must find him.”