Chapter 16: Accidentally Saved a High Monk

Jia Cong’s place sees few visitors, and today being New Year’s Eve, everyone of note in the East Courtyard had gone to Rongqing Hall for the banquet.

Who could possibly be calling at this hour? Zhi Shao was puzzled and stepped forward to open the gate.

Leading the group was a young maid holding a pale pink palace lantern, its soft glow illuminating two graceful figures.

The woman ahead had sharp eyes and elegant brows, her gaze lively and radiant; she wore a bright red Xingxingzhan cloak, with a peach-colored robe embroidered with flowering branches visible at the collar.

The woman behind her had a slightly plump figure, medium build, cheeks like fresh lychees, and a gentle, quiet demeanor; she wore a deep blue cloak embroidered with gold in five colors, her steps serene and graceful.

The woman ahead smiled and said, “I’ve heard from Shishu—you’re Zhi Shao, aren’t you? Such a lovely maid. Is your Third Master at home? We’ve brought a guest to see him.”

Zhi Shao suddenly realized: “Oh, it’s Third Miss! Please come in—Third Master is inside.”

Jia Cong had already stepped forward, smiling: “So it’s Second Sister and Third Sister—what an unexpected honor.”

Tan Chun had heard Jia Cong was raised from childhood locked away in the East Courtyard’s storage yard, but she had never seen it with her own eyes.

Now she saw this tiny courtyard, barren and bare, not even a blade of grass to be found.

All manner of gifts had been laid out on Jia Cong’s desk, filling it completely.

“I am Wang Dong, Chief Eunuch of the Jia Shun Prince’s household, sent by the Prince himself to deliver the New Year’s gift to Master Cong.”

Jia Cong’s face showed deep gratitude: “The Prince’s kindness overwhelms me—yesterday his letter granted me the honor of attending the Nanxi Literary Gathering, and today he sends Chief Eunuch Wang with the New Year’s gifts—I am truly at a loss how to repay such favor.”

Jia Cong hurriedly invited Tan Chun, Ying Chun, and Wang Dong inside. His room was small, and with so many people entering at once, it grew cramped.

Tan Chun thought of the Xi Zhou poem hanging in her own chamber—this Third Brother Cong had grown up in such a place.

“One box of premium imperial Hu brush, two fine carved Duan inkstones with natural coloration, five boxes of silver-speckled snow-textured silk paper, ten bars of imperial gold-leafed green-smoke Hui ink, and other small items for scholars.”

Thinking of her own poor brother’s plight, and mindful that Wang Dong still stood behind them, her face betrayed sorrow and pity.

Tan Chun composed herself and said, “Third Brother Cong, this is Master Wang of the Jia Shun Prince’s household, sent by the Prince to deliver your New Year’s gift.”

He studied Jia Cong’s facial structure and those calm, gentle eyes, narrowing his own slightly.

Wang Dong said, “The Prince knows Master Cong is a calligrapher, so he sent items you’ll find useful daily.”

Clearly, Jia Cong held a lowly position in the Jia household and lived in dire poverty—the rumors outside were true.

Jia Cong heard the Prince had sent only brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone, but seeing Tan Chun’s surprised expression, he knew these were all rare, top-grade items.

The courtyard had three adjacent single-story rooms; the two on the left were pitch-black, only the one on the right lit by a lamp.

All were Grandmother’s grandsons—never mind compared to Second Brother Bao, even the similarly illegitimate Huan lived far more comfortably than Third Brother Cong; she couldn’t help feeling sorrow for Jia Cong.

Wang Dong waved to the two young eunuchs who had trailed behind, each carrying a brocade box.

Zhi Shao had told her those two rooms stored East Courtyard clutter, and Jia Cong and his maids squeezed into the last one.

Ying Chun was slow to warm, but raised since childhood under the Old Ancestress, she had lived a life of luxury and had never set foot in such a desolate, lonely place.

The courtyard was dim; after greeting Tan Chun and Ying Chun, Jia Cong noticed someone else standing behind them.

Entering this awkward, shabby courtyard truly startled Wang Dong.

The Prince’s supposed calligraphy prodigy lived here? In this magnificent Rongguo Mansion, finding such a place was indeed difficult.

He also saw Jia Cong’s thin frame, almost emaciated, his clothes clean but worn and shabby.

Wang Dong smiled: “Master Cong, no need for such formalities—your copy of the Heart Sutra, you sent the Prince, he loves it dearly.”

“The brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone the Prince gave you, though fine, are merely ordinary tools—perfectly suited to your use.”

Wang Dong paused slightly, then added, “But I have one other matter to ask Master Cong.”

Jia Cong’s expression turned serious: “What is it?”

“The Prince viewed your copy of the Heart Sutra as a divine work. He is deeply versed in Buddhist scriptures, yet has never seen such a sublime sutra—may I ask where you learned it?”

Jia Cong’s mind was sharp—he realized at once that in this timeline, the Heart Sutra had not yet circulated, and the monk Xuanzang must not yet exist.

Tan Chun’s few history books were inevitably limited, unable to cover every detail—this was only natural.

As for the origin of the Heart Sutra, he could say whatever he pleased—no one in this world could trace its roots.

Wang Dong was a man of great caution and precision; after posing his question, his gaze never wavered from Jia Cong’s expression.

He believed Jia Cong, though brilliant, was still a ten-year-old boy—any hint of deception would betray itself in hesitation, and he would not miss it.

The Prince sent him personally to deliver the New Year’s gift—not just to deliver gifts, but for this very reason; a mere junior eunuch would have sufficed otherwise.

Jia Cong answered without hesitation: “As for the origin of the Heart Sutra, even I find it strange.”

About two years ago, one day after returning from school, I met a bald, diseased monk, pale and gaunt, saying he hadn’t eaten for days, barely alive—probably hadn’t received any alms.

I pitied him, softened by compassion, and gave him all ten copper coins I’d saved, telling him to buy buns.

The monk, no longer hungry, was delighted, said we were fated to meet, and to repay me, offered to teach me a Buddhist verse—if I memorized it and recited it often, it would ward off misfortune and accumulate blessings.

But I’m the worst at memorizing—I spent two months trying to memorize the Disciple’s Rules taught by Dai Ru the Elder, and though many classmates knew it by heart, I still couldn’t recite it fully.”

Wang Dong found this strange: The Disciple’s Rules were barely a thousand characters—how could someone take two months and still fail? Such a mediocre talent could never produce such exquisite calligraphy.

Jia Cong continued: “So when the bald monk asked me to memorize, I flatly refused—but he said his method differed from others: just listen once, and you’d remember forever.”

I was half-skeptical, but he didn’t care—he simply whispered the Heart Sutra into my ear.

Strange as it sounds, after he mumbled it once, I remembered every word perfectly—and I’ve never forgotten it since.

Even stranger, after that, my memory improved drastically—I never struggled to memorize again. But my classmates stopped playing with me, so I never told anyone—not even Dai Ru the Elder.”

This tale left the seasoned Wang Dong wide-eyed.

He couldn’t believe such a half-grown boy could spontaneously invent such an outlandish story.

Before he arrived, Jia Cong had no idea what he’d be asked. Under his watchful gaze, there was no time to fabricate.

Moreover, the tale was too bizarre and intricate to be invented on the spot.

He answered almost instantly, calmly, without a trace of hesitation.

Wang Dong could not help but believe him—he had seen much, and knew certain great Buddhist masters possessed secret methods like empowerment and heart-transmission.

Even illiterate people could be made to memorize tens of thousands of Buddhist sutras and teachings overnight, reciting them flawlessly for decades.

This Jia Cong truly had profound karmic fortune!

He must have encountered such a Buddhist master, who passed down the Heart Sutra, this unparalleled scripture.

No wonder he could produce such sublime calligraphy at such a young age—perhaps the bald monk had opened his mind.

Tan Chun and Ying Chun were utterly enchanted—this Third Brother Cong was truly extraordinary, how did such unbelievable things keep happening to him?

The shrewd Wang Dong believed Jia Cong’s tale at least eighty percent; the remaining twenty percent lingered because the tale was so bizarre—he needed time to accept it.

Wang Dong never dreamed Jia Cong was simply lying.

As for why he spoke so effortlessly, smoothly, without a single flaw—

Because in the world Jia Cong had lived through, tens of thousands of self-proclaimed “struggling writers” labored daily, churning out stories.

He had read far too many such absurd tales—he could recite them off the top of his head, without a moment’s thought.

(End of Chapter)