Chapter 2: II. Do You Want a Bride?

II. Do You Want a Bride?

“You should ask for his dharma name, not his surname—did you hit your head too hard?”

It was that Crane-Cape Old Daoist again; Ouyang Rong found him quite sharp-tongued.

Ouyang Rong ignored the old Daoist and nodded: “Mm, then may I ask your reverence’s dharma name?”

The Gaunt Monk lowered his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Master Unknown, a great honor to meet you.”

The Crane-Cape Old Daoist snorted. “He means he doesn’t know—do you kid want to make me laugh?”

Ouyang Rong shot him a sidelong glance. “Who the hell are you, some little biscuit?”

The old Daoist asked curiously, “Biscuit? What’s that? Do you measure it by ‘piece’?”

Ouyang Rong fell silent, not answering.

He rose from the ground, left the central lotus platform, and walked into the darkness where the three of them were sheltering from the rain.

He looked down: his white lan shirt was soaked through. He remembered seeing this style of Hanfu in some book.

Round collar, wide sleeves, a horizontal hem below, pleats at the waist—the old upper-lower garment system, worn by scholars and officials in ancient times.

He fumbled with how to wear it, finally took it off and tossed it aside; luckily, he had a pale moon-colored inner robe underneath—but Ouyang Rong felt no joy.

Wearing this unfamiliar attire felt “heavy,” and the friction against his skin was rough, like putting on a coarse towel from his balcony—nowhere near as soft or comfortable as his fleece-lined autumn underwear and down jacket.

Yet strangely, though this Confucian outfit was thin, after hours of wandering under the moonlight and getting soaked, he didn’t feel cold at all.

“Has the season changed too…?”

Ouyang Rong muttered, shivered twice more—not from catching a chill, but because this entire situation and its trajectory felt terrifyingly familiar, like returning home.

In the past, Ouyang Rong would’ve scrolled past this opening sequence without even lifting his eyelids; the only thing in the first two chapters that might’ve caught his attention was whether the male lead was half as handsome as him.

Like the Crane-Cape Old Daoist and the other two, Ouyang Rong found a dry spot in the darkness, sat cross-legged, and took off his right shoe.

He’d wanted to do this since earlier—his foot sock was torn; since climbing the rope, his big toe had been sticking out and wouldn’t go back in… a nightmare for his OCD.

He turned the sock inside out, then put the shoe back on.

He stared at the curtain of rain hanging from the center of the underground palace.

He rubbed his right cheek hard.

Judging by appearances, if this really was a rebirth, he’d randomly landed in a… high-cultivation ancient world? This underground palace seemed safe for now, but outside were forces he couldn’t comprehend—some terrifying power held dominance, driving people here to this so-called pure land.

Whether it was soul-transmigration or body-transmigration… his face was still his own; it looked like body-transmigration, but maybe not—perhaps it was a parallel timeline’s identical person, just different circumstances.

Now only one question remained—what was his identity in this world?

Ouyang Rong touched his forehead bandage; the throbbing pain and wet, sticky sensation under his fingertip indicated the wound was one inch and seven fen above his right eyebrow, about two fingers wide and long.

He glanced at the stone lotus pedestal at the center of the underground palace.

Ouyang Rong pointed to his head wound and asked softly, “May I ask, who saved me?”

“How do you know it was us?” came the Crane-Cape Old Daoist’s reply again.

Of the three in the underground palace, the Gaunt Monk always bowed his head chanting sutras, giving Ouyang Rong the impression of profound mystery; the Slender Girl either shivered from cold or was too shy to speak a word.

So only this talkative Crane-Cape Old Daoist could be engaged.

Ouyang Rong slumped his shoulders. “I fell from above. When I woke up, I was lying on my back, and my forehead had a wound—who else could’ve saved me? Surely not something I brought with me before falling.”

“You’ve got some brains… hmm, your guess isn’t wrong.” The Crane-Cape Old Daoist laughed. “But don’t thank me or that dull bald monk—thank her. She saved you.”

Ouyang Rong was slightly surprised, turning to the Slender Girl on his right—so she was cold on the outside but warm inside.

Mimicking the Crane-Cape Old Daoist’s phrasing, he awkwardly clasped his fists and said:

“Thank you… Miss, for your help.”

The Slender Girl merely gave a slight nod—clearly a woman of few words.

Ouyang Rong waited, ear cocked… then felt slightly awkward.

The Crane-Cape Old Daoist burst into laughter. “Hahahaha…”

“Laugh your ass off.”

“She’s mute—did you expect her to speak? Hahahaha…”

Ouyang Rong froze, staring at the Slender Girl twice longer.

Amid the old Daoist’s laughter, her hunched knees trembled slightly; her head sank even lower.

Ouyang Rong shook his head. “All beings suffer—don’t mock.”

The Crane-Cape Old Daoist sneered. “Which eye do you see me mocking with? I laugh because this place is too amusing, hahaha.”

“This pure land underground palace brings together four of us: a mad bald monk, this dumb mute girl, you—a bookish fool—and me, a wretched, festering thing unfit for public view. Four of us together? Hahaha, how amusing.”

Ouyang Rong glanced at the old Daoist’s neck; his laughter was so violent that the skin beneath his black crane cape had revealed patches of ulcerated, pus-filled sores.

Yet strangely, despite his festering body, the old Daoist’s face and complexion resembled a youth’s—had he not been bald and hunched, he’d have looked no different from a boy.

Truly, white-haired and youthful-faced.

The Crane-Cape Old Daoist suddenly asked: “Hey boy, do you want a bride?”

Ouyang Rong thought a moment. “Daoists don’t lie.”

“Just say yes or no.”

His body nodded earnestly; his mouth said: “Master, how could I possibly accept…?”

The Crane-Cape Old Daoist clapped his hands and pointed at the Slender Mute Girl.

“Then it’s her. Since we can’t leave, you two—a bookworm and a mute—perfect match. A pair of stranded lovers, how fitting. Hahaha, girl, what do you think? If you don’t speak within three breaths, I’ll take it as consent… fine, let’s wed now. Before dawn, hurry and bow and consummate.”

Ouyang Rong stared silently at the old Daoist, saying nothing.

The Slender Mute Girl remained motionless, as if ignoring him.

The Crane-Cape Old Daoist chuckled awhile, noticed no one responded, yet showed no embarrassment—calmly adjusted his mixed-element hat.

“Hmph. Good intentions met with donkey’s liver. Don’t regret it later.”

Ouyang Rong didn’t reply.

The rain outside had stopped—sometime unknown. The clouds cleared, the moon sank, the stars tilted; the whole world grew dimmer.

This night scene was familiar to Ouyang Rong—he often rose early to recite on the rooftop. Dawn was coming.

He looked again at the well-sized hole above the center of the underground palace and murmured: “Is this truly a pure land?”

“How could it be fake? Don’t you believe Master Unknown anymore?” The Crane-Cape Old Daoist smiled sweetly.

Someone sighed softly, then whispered a confession: “Should’ve known better than to read that stuff in a sacred Buddhist place.”

“What kind of stuff?” The old Daoist seemed intensely interested, watching him since the beginning.

Indeed—Master Unknown muttered sutras to himself, the mute girl couldn’t speak, so only these two could have a halfway-normal conversation.

“Something that deducts merit.”

“You scholars still believe in that?”

“I didn’t used to. Now I half-believe.”

“Only half?”

“Because my past education forbade me from believing fully.”

“You’re a bookworm, but you speak interestingly.”

Ouyang Rong suddenly turned. “How do you know I’m a bookworm? Are there other scholars outside? Do you know me?”

“No.” The Crane-Cape Old Daoist sneered. “But your clothes? That’s the Confucian scholar’s style. Your speech? Hesitant, evasive—so unforthcoming!”

“Then outside—”

“Forget about outside. Wasn’t that flood enough to make you give up? Just stay put. We’ve finally reached a pure land—hahaha, I need a good rest.”

“If this is a pure land… why are only four of us here? Where are the others?”

“Because you’re lucky—everyone else suffers outside.” The old Daoist waved impatiently. “And you scholars, stop dreaming of being saviors.”

“Are there sages in this world?” Ouyang Rong asked curiously.

“Of course.” The Crane-Cape Old Daoist nodded toward him. “Aren’t you one? Lacking a sage’s power, yet bearing a sage’s burden.”

Ouyang Rong shook his head. “I’m no sage. I don’t have a sage’s heart.”

“Good. And what are those so-called sages? Thieves.”

The old Daoist sneered, pointing his finger outward: “All these disasters—natural or man-made—are caused by those who claim to be disciples of sages. As long as sages exist, thieves will steal their names and tools. So what’s the difference between a sage and a thief? One has no heart, the other has one—both are sources of chaos. Sages and thieves both deserve death! Sages most of all!”

Ouyang Rong looked up at him. “You’re quoting the Daoist saying ‘When sages die, thieves cease.’ I studied that in my… my course. I know it backward and forward.”

“Oh? You studied this in school?” The Crane-Cape Old Daoist was surprised.

Ouyang Rong hesitated, speaking vaguely: “To be precise, I’ve studied a bit of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism—understand a bit of each.” Damn it—could he not know his major course well? Did he think his postgraduate exam was a joke?

The Crane-Cape Old Daoist raised an eyebrow, glanced at him again, then suddenly asked: “What is the First Meaning of Sacred Truth?”

Ouyang Rong picked the shortest answer: “Vastly empty, no sage.”

It was a Buddhist question—asking what the highest truth of Buddhism was; Ouyang Rong answered: emptiness, no sage exists.

The Crane-Cape Old Daoist fell silent, unusually sober.

After chewing on it for a moment, he looked at Ouyang Rong. “You’re not just ‘a bit.’”

Ouyang Rong sighed. “That’s why I must go back.”

The Crane-Cape Old Daoist sneered. “You say ‘vastly empty, no sage’—yet you still want to go up and save the world.”

Ouyang Rong didn’t explain. His “go back” and the old Daoist’s “go up” weren’t the same thing.

Feeling his strength mostly restored, Ouyang Rong pushed himself up from the ground and walked again toward the central lotus pedestal.

For the first time in his life, he’d prepared earnestly for something—devoting all his time and energy—only for heaven to suddenly tell him:

It’s over…

It’s all over.

Ouyang Rong disagrees.

“I don’t save the masses—I save myself.”

He answered softly, as if speaking to himself.

The Crane-Cape Old Daoist shook his head and fell silent, closing his eyes against the wall.

The Unknown Master, sensing movement, paused his chanting and again urged with sorrowful compassion: “Venerable one, this place is the Lotus Pure Land; above lies the Avici Hell…”

The old Daoist closed his eyes: “Don’t waste your breath. He’s a Sage—his realm is not ours.”

“A Sage!” The Unknown Master seemed to recall something, lowering his head to murmur: “The Sage is dead. The Dao Ancestor is dead. Even the Buddha… is dead. Why do people still cling blindly, climbing up to die?”

The monk chanted a Buddhist verse, clasped his palms, and resumed reciting:

“Thus have I heard: there are suffering beings who have fallen into hell, where ox-headed jailers and horse-headed rakshasas wield spears and lances, driving them through the city gates toward the Avici Hell—to become beasts, ghosts, pus, blood, ash, miasma, shattered by flying sand and gravel, crushed by lightning and hail, torn open and rotting into vast flesh mountains, with hundreds of thousands of eyes, countless mouths devouring…”

Ouyang Rong walked past, ignoring it all; as he passed the Slender Mute Girl, she suddenly reached out and ‘stopped’ him.

Looking down, he saw the girl hugging her knees and burying her face—she was offering him a leather water bag.

He licked his dry lips, took it, and noticed her right palm had only four fingers.

Ouyang Rong tilted his head and drank without touching his lips, then returned it.

“Thank you.”

The mute girl retracted her missing-fingered hand and did not stop him again.

As he walked past her, he finally saw she had been sitting atop a straight, rod-like object—like a sword.

Ouyang Rong picked up the broken half of the lotus gold lamp on the ground; luckily, the rope was still tightly tied to the base, still usable.

Same place. Same method.

This time, perhaps because he was familiar with it, or perhaps due to luck, Ouyang Rong, standing on the lotus pedestal, succeeded on his fifth attempt to throw the broken lamp out of the cave.

It tightly wrapped around some fixed object outside.

The desperate man began to climb—this time, he focused intently, carefully watching for movement outside.

Finally.

He climbed safely again to a position near the exit.

Ouyang Rong realized this exit truly resembled a well: a cylindrical shaft, about one meter long, connected the ceiling of the square underground palace below.

Ouyang Rong observed for a moment, preparing to enter the final stretch of the shaft.

But at that moment, a wild beast’s roar erupted from outside the well—neither human nor beast, something Ouyang Rong had never heard. Worse, the rope clutched tightly to his chest began to sway without wind—it was being gnawed and tugged by some creature above, the rope fraying and about to snap!

At the last moment, Ouyang Rong’s body bent like a drawn nine-stone bow, snapping upward in one violent lunge, flinging the rope into the air, and gripping the well’s edge with both hands— the severed rope fell back into the underground palace beside him.

Ouyang Rong hung alone above, his chest heaving like a bellows, yet the unknown beast outside kept him from breathing deeply—he could only suppress, suppress.

He breathed in short, rapid gasps; his trembling fingers gripping the well’s edge could clearly feel the roughness of rock mixed with the slickness of blood and morning dew.

His palms were raw with blood, yet the man remained utterly still, as if still processing the sudden chain of events moments ago.

Below, the Unknown Master, the Crane-Cape Old Daoist, and the fingerless mute girl all looked up at him.

Ouyang Rong looked down.

The Unknown Master shook his head. “Namo Amitabha Buddha.”

The Crane-Cape Old Daoist closed his eyes and for the first time that night chanted: “Fusheng Wuliang Tianzun, inconceivable merit.”

The mute girl stood, softly uttered “Ah,” unsure what she meant to say, her eyes filled with reluctance.

Ouyang Rong pulled up his muddy lips and smiled at them.

He truly wanted to go home.

Even if heaven was playing a cruel joke by rebirthing him, he would climb up to see with his own eyes.

Even if this truly was the Avici Hell, Ouyang Rong had to see it with his own eyes before he could finally let go.

Ouyang Rong looked up—the sky above the well opening was bright, he was hungry and exhausted, yet he summoned the last ounce of strength he’d used to barely pass his final physical exam’s pull-up test…

He rolled out.

…

The dry well stood before a peach blossom grove, surrounded by a stone fence.

Ouyang Rong, slumped beside the well, froze in stunned silence.

Before him stood a Zen monastery with green tiles and red walls; in the distance, lush bamboo groves occasionally revealed the upturned eaves of a bell tower, where a monk yawned and slowly struck the morning bell.

To the east, a red sun rose slowly above the east-flowing great river, meeting the gaze of every living thing that dared look.

“This…” His sunken eyes warmed under the light; he inhaled the unique sandalwood incense of the ancient mountain temple.

As the deep, distant bell echoed through the hills, a group of monks burst through the half-open gate, leapt nimbly over the stone fence, and rushed to Ouyang Rong’s side, gathering around him in relief.

“County Magistrate! County Magistrate! You’re here! How did you end up at the Bietian Relief Center?”

“Your Honor, we’ve searched everywhere for you! Where did you go last night? We looked all night—the abbot and Xiao Yan the Constable nearly died of worry! We were about to send word to the government office this morning to send men to search the mountains!”

“Amitabha Buddha, thank heavens! Your Honor, if we’d found you any later, Xiao Yan would’ve made us all lose our heads. Is your head wound alright? Hey, where’s your robe…?”

The monks bombarded Ouyang Rong with questions; he remained utterly bewildered, staring blankly at the bobbing bald heads around him, his eyes spinning.

“Enough, enough—stop shouting! The County Magistrate’s wound just healed—don’t crowd him, give him air.” Finally, a young novice stepped forward, pushing the crowd aside.

The novice, about ten years old, had clear, delicate features and a gleaming, polished forehead; as he leaned close to examine Ouyang Rong, his scalp glinted in the light.

He waved his hand before Ouyang Rong’s eyes, then took his pulse with a solemn air, went through a series of checks, and finally sighed in relief.

He muttered: “I never thought Master’s medical skill could actually work—he woke up after being unconscious for so many days… cough, cough—County Magistrate, when did you wake? Why did you leave the courtyard alone in the middle of the night?”

“You… you… I… no.” Ouyang Rong opened his mouth, touched his forehead wound, unsure how to speak.

Finally, he realized and pointed urgently behind him: “Below—those people below…”

The novice froze, exchanged glances with his fellow monks, and frowned: “Your Honor, did you fall into this… this Pure Land Palace last night?”

Ouyang Rong nodded, opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated: “Is it truly a Pure Land down there?”

“That’s what it’s called.”

Seeing his confusion, the novice seemed to grasp something and pointed to the dry well:

“Your Honor, this Pure Land Palace was once where Donglin Temple enshrined the Buddha’s relics—during the previous dynasty’s Taizong reign, the former abbot built it by imperial decree. Back then, all Buddhist temples across the land built pagodas, dug underground palaces, and welcomed Buddha’s bones. But later, the lotus pagoda above caught fire and collapsed, and the Pure Land Palace fell into ruin… As for the people inside now…”

The novice walked to the well’s edge and shouted down: “Hey, Master Xiuzhen! Time for morning porridge!”

Soon, the familiar voice of the Unknown Master echoed up:

“Why are you outside? Come down quickly! This place is the Lotus Pure Land; above is the Avici Hell!”

Ouyang Rong fell silent.

The novice turned, sighed: “Master Xiuzhen’s been mad for years. He used to be fine, but lately he says we’re demons trying to eat him, always crawling through dog holes and under beds, searching for some Pure Land of Bliss… We couldn’t keep him confined here, so we lowered him with a rope and bring him meals on schedule—he likes staying down there.”

Ouyang Rong frowned, looked down at his rope-chafed hands, and asked again: “Then, there are two others down there…”

“Oh? Two others?” The novice blinked, then nodded: “Ah, probably patients and beggars taken in by the Bietian Relief Center.” He glanced around: “The dry well is right behind the relief center’s back gate. Looks like the monk in charge was negligent yesterday—allowed the patients and beggars to wander out and fall in.”

“Bietian Relief Center?” Ouyang Rong stared, recalling the fingerless mute girl and the old Daoist covered in toxic sores below.

The novice, sensing Ouyang Rong’s unstable mood, spoke cautiously: “Yes, the Bietian Relief Center still operates thanks to your compassion, Your Honor—the county office donates every year, and we care for the poor, sick, elderly, and disabled in the county. Your Honor, they didn’t frighten you last night, did they?”

Ouyang Rong stayed silent.

Seeing his contemplation, the novice grew timid.

Perhaps it was the natural awe commoners felt toward officials—mistaken for authority—but Ouyang Rong knew there was no real authority here; Donglin Temple operated under this county’s jurisdiction. When life and death rested in another’s hands, one naturally watched their every expression.

At that moment, the sharp-eyed novice spotted a filthy beggar nearby in the bamboo grove, crawling on all fours, biting at random objects, clearly mentally unwell.

He quickly signaled to his fellow monks; several rushed over, seized the man, and dragged him back to the relief center.

All these small movements and the monks’ varied expressions—the silent, lowered-eyed man had seen them all.

He hadn’t been stunned by the rollercoaster of events—only… once these absurd explanations dispelled the absurd misunderstanding, a new, unmistakable reality stood before him, and he felt… even more disappointed.

Ouyang Rong suddenly felt his head begin to spin, yet he forced himself to stand, patiently spoke to them: “I’m fine, not frightened. Thank you for explaining so much. By the way, may I ask your name?”

The novice straightened instantly, sighed in relief, and smiled: “I’m a novice named Xiufa. Your Honor may call me directly.”

Ouyang Rong glanced at Xiufa’s gleaming forehead and nodded: “Alright, Xiufa. Don’t help me—I can walk… but I have one more question.”

“Your Honor, ask away!”

“Last night—the storm, the flood—did you hear it? What caused that?”

The moment before, cheerful and laughing, Xiufa and his companions fell utterly silent.

Ouyang Rong’s head spun more; he gripped Xiufa’s shoulder, his voice weak but firm: “Tell me.”

Seeing his companions staring, Xiufa swallowed hard and pointed south, whispering:

“Your Honor, you’re newly appointed—you should know: Jiangzhou’s farmland lies lower than the empire’s; Longcheng’s farmland lies lower than Jiangzhou’s; and among all the marshes, Yunmeng is the lowest—Yunmeng Ancient Marsh lies right beside our Longcheng County…”

“Now, during the plum rain season, Yunmeng’s water level surged violently. Last night—the Di Gong Dam collapsed. Flash floods erupted. Not just our Longcheng County—all counties in Jiangzhou are now submerged.”

Hearing the familiar yet alien names—“Yunmeng Marsh,” “Di Gong Dam,” “Longcheng County”—Ouyang Rong’s already dizzy head exploded with sharp pain.

As if someone had jammed a pipe into his skull, the other end connected to a faucet turned fully on.

Ouyang Rong shoved the crowd aside, staggered out of the Bietian Relief Center, and reached an open, overlook spot. Facing south, he saw nothing but collapsed houses, flooded fields, weeping women and children…

Before his eyes: a land of water.

For some reason, as he witnessed this, a line of poetry suddenly surfaced in his mind—as if implanted by an unseen hand:

“The land is filled with wailing birds, the city runs with blood—all for one thought: to save the masses.”

This overly melodramatic tone was nothing like the detached, self-indulgent “old joker” he was—rather, it was the original body’s memories and thoughts, flooding his mind with the pain.

“Damn it, my dead memories are attacking me… Wait—I remember now. I’m the new County Magistrate of Longcheng. On my first day, I publicly vowed to fix the floods—and then immediately fell into the water and drowned… What a cursed fool, why the hell did I make that promise…?”

Before losing consciousness, the last thing Ouyang Rong heard was Xiufa’s frantic shouts…

He suddenly wondered—maybe staying down in that Pure Land wasn’t so bad after all?

……