Chapter 99: The High Monk of Songyin Temple

The monk was slightly stout, his face round, probably in his twenties or thirties, though his skin had a darkish tinge, as if he were worn out, dressed in a simple monk’s robe.

In the courtyard behind him were some monks and some pilgrims.

"Huh? What are you several Daoists doing here…?"

The monk sized them up, then glanced behind them.

“Oh, Master, greetings,” said Third Senior Brother. “We are Daoists from Yishan, passing through and seeking lodging for the night—may we trouble you?”

“Why would Daoists come to our temple for lodging?” The monk retracted his gaze, clearly puzzled.

Third Senior Brother was about to speak when he heard his junior disciple say:

“It’s already late, and we’re unfamiliar with the roads—we couldn’t find another place to stay. The mountains are cold in late autumn. A farmer by the roadside told us this temple is highly efficacious, and the monks here are kind-hearted. We had no choice but to come begging—please grant us this favor.”

Third Senior Brother chuckled and turned to look at Lin Jue.

“This…”

The monk looked troubled.

One of the pilgrims behind them chuckled: “It seems the good reputation of Songyin Temple has spread beyond the Buddhist fold—even reached the Daoists.”

The monk grew even more uneasy. He studied them closely, especially the fox behind them, which looked anything but ordinary, then turned back to the courtyard and said: “But Dao and Buddhism are separate paths—there are bound to be complications.”

“We’re all cultivators—why draw such sharp lines?”

“Exactly!” Another pilgrim, a kind-hearted man who had been idly pacing, spoke up: “It’s so late, night’s almost here—even if you tried to find lodging in the village below, you’d be too late. Everyone knows the monks here are good-hearted. Why let doctrinal differences create division? Let them stay one night, give them a warm bowl of rice—what’s the harm?”

Lin Jue and the others turned to look at him.

The pilgrim was a middle-aged man with a large belly, dressed in fine silk, clearly wealthy, accompanied by a woman and a young girl—his family.

Clearly, this pilgrim was a major donor.

The monk glanced back at him, even more troubled, then said: “But lately, many pilgrims have come seeking lodging—we only have one room left. You three Daoists, with both men and women…”

“Oh dear!”

Third Senior Brother now also felt stuck.

Indeed, whether temples allowed female pilgrims to stay depended on temple rules—but nearly all forbade men and women from sharing a room, even married couples.

“No problem…”

Another voice came from behind—the woman beside the middle-aged pilgrim: “Let this female Daoist sleep with my husband and daughter.”

The monk could no longer refuse.

“Please come in.”

“Thank you.”

The three bowed to the monk, then to the middle-aged pilgrim and his family: “Thank you, sir.”

“No need to thank me—it’s nothing,” the middle-aged pilgrim chuckled. “Wang Mou visits both Buddhist temples and Daoist shrines. In truth, I simply believe in goodness.”

“Great virtue.”

Third Senior Brother smiled.

They followed the monk inside.

The middle-aged pilgrim trailed along, bored.

The temple was sizable but old; the Buddha statues were plain. Inside was a large courtyard, with guest rooms lining both sides—though it lay far from the official road, hidden among pine and cypress trees, many pilgrims came to stay, clearly well-known.

Most pilgrims wore fine clothes, clearly wealthy or noble. It had just been dinner time; the sky wasn’t yet dark, and they wandered the courtyard in small groups, chatting idly—mostly about Buddhist teachings, though some whispered about national affairs or official corruption.

The monk led them all the way to the back, opened the second-to-last room, and said:

“You two Daoists stay here. Remember—it’s the second-to-last room at the very back. All other rooms are occupied—don’t wander into the wrong one.”

“Perfect—my wife and daughter are staying in the room just outside this one,” the middle-aged pilgrim pointed to a room farther out. “I’ll stay in the one beyond that.”

At this, he frowned strangely.

He turned his gaze to the very last room.

That room was locked.

“Why is there still one room unoccupied?” the Wang pilgrim asked. “Why is it locked? Last month when I came, it wasn’t locked!”

“Oh, that room is haunted,” the monk said calmly, as if the fact were utterly unremarkable—unlike the monk at the bamboo temple by the roadside.

“What? A ghost?”

As expected, the Wang family was startled.

Especially his wife and daughter.

“How can there be a ghost?” the Wang pilgrim exclaimed. “If so, why don’t the monks here exorcise it?”

His two female companions were also deeply frightened.

“Probably the lingering spirits of nearby dead, bound by deep attachments, unwilling to depart, drawn here by Buddhist teachings,” the monk explained calmly. “No need to fear—they’re merely residual souls. They’ve never harmed anyone, cannot harm anyone. Since they’re bound by deep attachments and came here, they’re clearly karmically connected—how could we simply expel them?”

“This…”

The Wang pilgrim was taken aback.

Lin Jue and the others exchanged glances, then turned again to the locked room at the very back.

Indeed, there was a faint chill in the air.

“We simply let them stay, letting them chant sutras daily, slowly transforming them through Buddhist teachings,” the monk smiled. “All we give up is one room.”

“So that’s how it is!”

“By the way—aren’t these lingering souls, bound by attachments, just like you pilgrims—our temple’s guests?”

“I see…”

The Wang pilgrim’s expression sharpened—he was moved. He clasped his hands together: “You masters are truly accomplished!”

“Nothing of the sort—we’re just ordinary monks,” the slightly stout monk bowed back.

“Master, rest assured—I won’t tell anyone.”

“No need to keep it secret. Say it if you wish. Fear is fear—if you’re afraid, don’t come. Our temple is so remote, our pilgrims are all nobles from the city. They travel great distances, endure hardship, come here to this dilapidated temple, and give us generous donations. It’s truly unnecessary—it keeps us from resting and fills us with guilt.”

Lin Jue and the others understood.

No wonder this temple, so remote, was so famous and drew so many—clearly, the monks here had real cultivation.

Only Fuyao kept staring at the very last room, turning his head to look everywhere.

They put the donkey in the stable at the back, stored their luggage in Lin Jue and Third Senior Brother’s room, and let the junior disciple stay with the Wang family—she brought only her beloved longsword.

When they stepped out again, the temple was lit—only the main hall had lamps, but the monk had already brought them a bowl of thin porridge.

“Thank you.”

Third Senior Brother and the junior disciple held their bowls but had learned their lesson—they looked to Lin Jue first.

Lin Jue understood and immediately took a sip.

He smacked his lips, then took a second sip.

Only then did the other two lower their heads to eat.

The middle-aged pilgrim stood beside them with his family and asked: “You said you’re Daoists from Yishan—where’s Yishan? I’ve only heard of Yixian.”

“It’s in Yixian.”

“That’s not close! Why come all the way here?”

“We’re returning from the Grand Rite in Yuanzhou.”

“The Mingchao Mountain Grand Rite?”

“You’re clearly someone who respects both Buddhism and Daoism,” the three replied, sipping their porridge.

“I just believe in these things,” the middle-aged pilgrim said. “I wanted to go to Mingchao Mountain last year—I went to Qiyun Mountain’s Grand Rite and learned much. But Mingchao is too far, and the realm isn’t peaceful now—I had to give up.”

“You only need to attend one Grand Rite,” Third Senior Brother said.

“Oh…”

“By the way, when we were down the mountain, the farmers working in the fields said this temple has Bodhisattvas manifesting—is that true?” Third Senior Brother lifted his bowl and asked.

“Of course it’s true. The Bodhisattva usually manifests on the third day of the month—today. You Daoists are lucky. But I wonder—if you bow, will your own deities be offended?”

“Haha—we don’t worship any deities.”

“Daoists don’t worship immortals?”

“We dwell deep in the mountains, contemplating Daoist scriptures and methods.”

“I see…”

The middle-aged pilgrim nodded vaguely, not pressing further.

There was no need to speak too deeply with strangers—the key to pleasant conversation with unfamiliar people is knowing the limits. The middle-aged pilgrim clearly understood this well.

“You’re truly lucky—Songyin Temple normally doesn’t offer lodging, let alone on the third day.”

“It doesn’t lodge guests?”

Lin Jue looked at the middle-aged pilgrim, then at the pilgrims slowly returning to their rooms: “Then these…”

“They’re all devout Buddhists—pure-hearted,” the pilgrim chuckled. “Just to accommodate us, the monks here are exhausted, all worn out.”

“Oh!”

Lin Jue looked at these wealthy and noble pilgrims—he now understood what “pure-hearted” meant.

But another question arose.

“If so many noble, sincere pilgrims come, why is the temple still so old, and why haven’t the Buddha statues been gilded?”

“That’s precisely where the monks’ deep cultivation lies,” the pilgrim smiled. “These monks are always frugal—they don’t want us to come, and refuse our oil donations. For monks, having enough to eat and wear is sufficient. The Buddha statues need no gold—sincerity is enough.”

“No wonder the masters dress so simply.”

“Yes—I come once a month, for years now, and I’ve never seen them spend silver on food or clothing,” the pilgrim shook his head. “Truly admirable.”

“Indeed.”

Where did the silver money go?

What’s the point of hoarding so much money?

If you don’t want money, just refuse it.

Lin Jue didn’t understand and shook his head, thinking his own Fuxiu Temple’s view on wealth was better—

Have money? Use it—for food and clothing.

When you have enough, stop worrying about it.

Carefree and easy, idle and at ease.

But perhaps the temple’s reputation drew these pilgrims, impossible to turn away. Though remote, it wasn’t as isolated or as hard to reach as Yishan.

“Master Wang, what are you telling the Daoists again?” The slightly fat monk approached, collecting their leftover bowls and chopsticks, and added, “Don’t listen to Master Wang’s lies—we’re no great masters, don’t understand cultivation or profound Buddhist teachings, just ordinary monks here chanting sutras and meditating.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what a great master and profound Buddhist teaching are?”

Lin Jue handed his bowl out and paid a compliment.

Third Senior Brother turned his gaze toward him, smiling, as if teasing him for his smooth talk.

“Overpraise.”

The slightly fat monk immediately smiled.

But as he bent over, the light from the nearby main hall cast shadows over his features—already dim—yet his forehead and third eye were even darker, yet faintly gleaming.

Not the pallor of exhaustion, but the look of overconsumption of pills, of metal poisoning.

Lin Jue involuntarily drew a deep breath—

He really did smell a hint of medicine.

Not the scent of ordinary herbal shop ingredients, but the odor of alchemical cinnabar and metals—metals and stones that normally had no smell, detectable only by those trained in alchemy. What he truly sensed was the spiritual resonance emanating from the pills.

“It’s dark now. Daoists, rest early,” the slightly fat monk smiled, holding the bowl. “As for the talk of Bodhisattvas manifesting—don’t take it seriously. Perhaps it’s just some strange occurrence. Even if a Bodhisattva truly descended upon our humble temple for some reason, there’s nothing worth seeing. Just rest well, Daoists. I’ll come call you in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

The three bowed to him in thanks.

Each returned to their rooms.