Chapter 308: Chan Monastery

Bai Lang disguised himself again, then swaggered out of Luoyang City, preparing to visit the Pure Thought Chan Monastery to see what it was like. From the books he could tell the monastery was full of bald thieves, each big‑armed and thick‑waisted, clearly preparing to launch a rebel uprising. Among them were the four great monk‑soldier leaders, and of course the hardest to deal with was the monastery's abbot—the one who practices silent Zen, what's his name again?

This bald thief seems to have cultivated silent Zen to the point of almost reversing aging; he's said to be only slightly younger than the four great holy monks, yet he looks like a young, handsome monk—this reminded Bai Lang of the white‑fat monk royal younger brother he would meet many years later.

"That abbot's name is Wuhua? No, it seems to be Liaokong." You say you're already empty, why bother with this mundane world? If you want to cultivate the bodhisattva path, why not simply melt that cast‑bronze Buddha hall into coins to save all beings?" So this monk is really bad.

If Liaokong were studying the Hinayana sutras, seeking only his own arhat liberation, that would be fine—but isn't it them who label Hinayana as an external path? Bai Lang shook his head, dismissing these thoughts; he's not well versed in Buddhism, so if a monk asked him why he doesn't like Buddhism, he could only say the teachings sound wonderful, even better than the storytellers under the bridge—but he vaguely recalls that these pleasant Buddhist doctrines and philosophies were likely studied and developed by scholars in the Central Plains after they were transmitted there.

Was the original Gautama Siddhartha that profound? Moreover, finding the teachings pleasant doesn't mean he'd like monks; ordinary monks are fine with him, but the higher a monk's rank, the less he likes them. If this monk were a layperson who earned a little money by reciting sutras and lecturing the neighbors, he'd actually quite like that kind of monk.

Or perhaps it's those monks in his world who became Buddhas and patriarchs; they are admirable, some even venerable—suppressing demons for a lifetime isn't something just anyone can do.

As for the monks in Tang Dynasty Twin Dragons, Bai Lang could only say the four great holy monks are probably good people, Liaokong is definitely a political monk, and as for the nuns in the nunnery, every single one of them is surely a political nun—when swords, spears, and words are useless, they can still sell themselves.

This actually fits Bai Lang's memory of ancient nunneries—many of them are simply dens of filth. The Pure Thought Chan Monastery lies dozens of li outside Luoyang City, but it actually does not accept outsiders for incense offerings; even on the rare first and fifteenth days or Buddha's birthday, it merely opens the front hall for worshippers to offer incense.

The monastery's grandeur is almost comparable to a small city; the glazed tiles reflect golden light in the sun, and to Bai Lang it looks even more magnificent than the imperial palace inside Luoyang City. "These monks really are damn rich!" he muttered.

Not to mention the rear copper hall, three zhang deep and one and a half zhang high; just the seven front halls, each ten zhang tall, would cost a fortune to build, let alone the glazed tiles on top. And since the Buddha hall is so grand, its statues couldn't be small—perhaps the gold foil peeled off its surface would weigh several hundred catties.

And if they are bronze statues, the total weight of the bronze images in those halls might well match that of the copper hall, showing the monks' extravagance, which Bai Lang has witnessed. The so‑called huge bronze statues of later ages are merely an internal frame with an outer bronze skin; building one tens of meters high would use perhaps a thousand tonnes of copper.

The gate of Pure Thought Chan Monastery is open, yet outside the Benevolent King Gate stand several bald, scar‑headed strongmen with their hands folded; the locals should know the monastery doesn't welcome visitors, so really no one loiters by the gate.

This made Bai Lang quite conspicuous.

A burly man standing not far from the Benevolent King Gate, wearing a veil that hides his ears and steals bells, would hardly be believed if he claimed he wasn't a villain. But the area outside isn't the monastery's territory, so the few gate‑guarding monk soldiers merely heightened their vigilance and watched Bai Lang.

He wasn't particularly worried—true experts basically come and go high above, hardly anyone walks the ground‑level Benevolent King Gate. Bai Lang gazed at the Pure Thought Chan Monastery before him, sensing the flow of qi inside—there were indeed masters within, though he couldn't tell how many.

Bai Lang laughed heartily and stepped forward to enter—he didn't actually want to seize the Heshibi; that thing is a hot potato, bringing trouble to anyone but the emperor who holds it. He merely wished to see its miraculous nature, which should be far easier than stealing it.

As Bai Lang walked toward the gate, the several monk soldiers instantly grew tense, raising their staffs; the leader widened his eyes at Bai Lang, an expression Bai Lang found familiar—upon reflection he recalled it wasn't the signature look of a rock?

Such an expression might be all right coming from Johnson, but from a bald monk like you—never mind lacking a refrigerator‑like physique, the intimidation is nil in Bai Lang's view. He merely approached slowly, without emitting any aura—delaying the alarm to any inner masters would also be fine.

When Bai Lang stepped within seven chi of the Benevolent King Gate, the other side already bellowed and swung several staffs down upon his head and face, with additional thrusts from left and right; the aim was to pin the madman before them, then beat him and throw him out—though the ruffian might end up bruised, swollen, miserable, possibly with broken bones, there would be no danger to his life—this too is the compassion of the Buddhist Sect.

Yet the staff strikes and thrusts all missed; the madman seemed to have some footwork trick, and as his pace varied, the warrior monks could only watch their weapons fall short, unable to adjust— to an outsider it looked as if these monk soldiers were clumsy beyond compare, like children who don't know how to wield a staff.

This is Bai Lang's martial cultivation— merely by varying his step speed, using a technique akin to bending and extending, he can control the rhythm of these low‑level fighters' movements; using it to toy with such low‑handed opponents is the simplest. Killing these warrior monks? Not necessary now; Bai Lang had also inquired and found that the monks of Pure Thought Chan Monastery really don't bully men or women. There's none of that later‑era notion of 'good daughter‑in‑law farms good land, bad daughter‑in‑law farms bad land' either.

Pure Thought Chan Monastery isn't even the landlord of the surrounding fields; its income must come from elsewhere.

Since that's the case, Bai Lang isn't keen on killing either; he merely used the bending‑and‑extending trick to deceive those monks, then stepped forward like a gust of wind, lightly tapping each bald thief's head—while creating huge meat buns, he also plunged them into a 'beautiful dream,' meaning they'd wake up with a slight headache.