Chapter 44

By evening, Zhao Ti took Zhou Dong out for a stroll.

Along the way, common folk clapped and sang loudly, while young men and women danced and chanted in rhythm.

Dali had many ethnic groups; the Central Plains regarded it as a barbarian land, with customs and rituals vastly different—on the streets, men and women walked hand in hand, flirting and laughing, as if no one else were present, and no one found it strange.

Zhao Ti thought to himself: everyone says Duan Zhengchun is romantic, and the people of Dali are lively and passionate; as a member of the Duan royal family, it’s no surprise he’s the same.

Next, they sought out Wuwei Temple, planning to return the black horse to Mu Wanching in a few days; along the way they learned it was an ancient temple, neither overly bustling nor deserted, but with steady foot traffic.

Zhou Dong said: “Young Master, Dali’s temples close later than those in the Central Plains—you may enter.”

Zhao Ti nodded and entered; inside the Great Hero Hall, a few devotees were offering evening incense, so he told Su Da to buy a bundle and offered it himself.

Then they left the temple, wandered further to familiarize themselves with the city’s layout, and returned to the inn to rest.

The next morning, after packing, Zhao Ti said: “You two accompany me to visit Tianlong Temple.”

Zhou Dong hurried to say: “Young Master, Tianlong Temple is the imperial temple of Dali, not open to outsiders daily; there is one public sermon each month, but the date hasn’t come yet—going now would be a wasted trip.”

Zhao Ti laughed: “Guangzu, you’re too honest—I already have a way in.”

Zhou Hong blushed: “Forgive me for embarrassing you, Young Master.”

Last night, when Zhao Ti visited Wuwei Temple, he had already devised a way to enter Tianlong Temple—and thought of one person.

According to his calculations, the Great Wheel King Kumārajīva from the Great Snow Mountain Great Wheel Temple should arrive soon.

Kumārajīva sent a yellow and white gold notice to Tianlong Temple, stating he wished to exchange precious gifts for the Six Meridians Sword Scripture and burn it before the grave of his late friend Murong Bo.

Because the Great Wheel Temple held immense prestige in the Western Regions and Tianzhu, and Kumārajīva was renowned far and wide, Tianlong Temple regarded this as a dire threat, uncertain of its own strength, and even spoke of protecting the scripture and temple, inviting Emperor Bao Ding and Duan Zhengming to jointly practice the Six Meridians Sword.

If so, could he find a way to take advantage of the chaos?

The Six Meridians Sword held no interest for him—such a thing could never be obtained willingly unless seized by force, and even if seized, he couldn’t use it; the internal Qi required was simply too vast.

But the One Yang Finger was different; after all, there was the later example of Master Yidan, who passed it on not only to Wang Chongyang but also to the Four: Fisherman, Woodcutter, Farmer, and Scholar—and his interest in the One Yang Finger was greater, as he wished to compare it with the Illusion Yin Finger.

Leaving the inn’s gate, they headed straight outside the city; Tianlong Temple in Dali lay north of Diancang Mountain, backed by Cangshan and facing Erhai Lake, vast and magnificent, said to have three pavilions, seven towers, nine halls, and a hundred buildings, exquisitely constructed.

Generation after generation of Duan emperors and royal family members had become monks here, making Tianlong Temple the Duan family’s ancestral temple, the most revered among all Dali temples.

The three rode horses to the temple’s entrance and saw serene scenery, broad and elegant architecture.

They tied their horses; Zhou Dong went to knock on the gate, and soon a young novice emerged, saying: “This is an imperial temple, not open to outsiders. Please return, honored guests.”

Zhao Ti smiled: “Go inform Abbot Benyin—I am a member of the Song imperial clan, a close friend of Lingde, abbot of Dongjing’s Daxiangguo Temple, here to discuss Buddhist doctrine with him.”

The novice froze; Dali and Song were friendly, though not vassal and suzerain, yet every few years Dali sent tribute and petitions seeking vassal status, repeatedly rejected by Song, yet persistently maintained for a hundred years.

Daxiangguo Temple was now the foremost temple in the land, holding annual preaching assemblies that drew monks from every temple, who gathered to debate scriptures, study sutras, and departed delighted and awed.

The novice hurried: “Honored guests, please wait—I shall announce you at once.”

Moments later, a guest monk stepped out swiftly, bowing and chanting a Buddha’s name: “May I ask, Young Master, are you truly of the Central Plains imperial lineage?”

Zhao Ti smiled: “Why would I lie? I am a close friend of Lingde, abbot of Dongjing’s Daxiangguo Temple. I’ve rarely left home, and came secretly to tour Dali; Lingde said Tianlong Temple’s teachings are profound, so I came to pay my respects.”

During Emperor Shenzong’s Yuanfeng reforms, an edict ordered distant members of the imperial clan to relocate to Luoyang in the Western Capital; later, some moved to Ying Tianfu in Nanjing; by Emperor Zhezong’s Yuanyou era, restrictions had eased—though they no longer lived elsewhere, traveling beyond the city was common.

The monk, unperturbed, said: “Young Master Zhao, please enter—the abbot awaits you in the meditation hall.”

Zhao Ti nodded, smiling—he truly was close to Lingde of Daxiangguo Temple—but Lingde had never mentioned Tianlong Temple; indeed, many major Central Plains temples regarded Dali’s temples as remote, insignificant shrines with shallow Dharma.

They turned left, passed through Ruihe Gate and Huangtian Gate, then crossed the Prajna Terrace, arriving at a long corridor; at its end lay the guest meditation hall, where two young novices quickly pulled open the door, and the guest monk led Zhao Ti inside.

Inside, an elderly monk of about sixty, his face ruddy, rose and clasped his hands: “Young Master Zhao, your arrival honors us—we failed to greet you in time. Please take your seat.”

Zhao Ti knew this elder was Benyin, a senior by lineage to Emperor Bao Ding Duan Zhengming; he smiled: “Abbot Benyin, you’re too courteous—I’ve heard your name and that of Kumārajīva in Dongjing; meeting you now, your Buddha-like bearing confirms your profound cultivation.”

Benyin smiled: “Young Master speaks of the Song imperial clan—might I ask which branch…?”

Zhao Ti had prepared his answer: he claimed descent from Prince Zhao Yuanfen, now a distant branch, yet not insignificant—Zhao Yuanfen was the grandfather of Emperor Yingzong, so his claim was accurate.

Tea was served; as they drank, Benyin asked: “Young Master, does the abbot of Dongjing’s Daxiangguo Temple know of me and Master Kuru?”

Zhao Ti sipped his tea: “Of course—he says all who renounce worldly glory and take refuge in the Dharma, especially those from Tianlong Temple, possess great wisdom.”

Benyin smiled: “I have long admired Daxiangguo Temple, the foremost temple in the land, with sutras as vast as the sea and countless eminent monks—I’ve never had the chance to visit.”

Zhao Ti laughed: “That’s easily remedied—if any of you masters wish to study in Dongjing’s Daxiangguo Temple, I can serve as your introducer.”

Benyin showed interest, then sighed: “Since you’re close to Lingde, you must be deeply versed in Dharma—might I trouble you for a few questions?”

Zhao Ti knew he still harbored doubts; he smiled: “By all means.”

They began exchanging questions and answers; within fifteen minutes, Benyin was drenched in sweat.

Zhao Ti’s closeness to Abbot Lingde of Daxiangguo Temple was no lie—Daxiangguo Temple was also an imperial temple, though no Song royal family members had become monks there; management was lax, imperial edicts approved inscriptions, funding, repairs, and appointments of abbots, but otherwise left affairs untouched.

Zhao Ti’s first outing from the palace was to Daxiangguo Temple; over the years, he had become a regular guest, and his understanding of Buddhist doctrine and dharma riddles came effortlessly—far beyond what a temple monk like Benyin could match.

Dali had always revered Buddhism, especially the imperial family; Duan Yu’s aversion to martial arts stemmed partly from misreading sutras; now, Benyin, silenced and drenched in sweat, had no remaining doubts.

Just as he was about to ask several long-unresolved doctrinal questions, Zhao Ti suddenly rose, apologetic: “Abbot Benyin, I’ve just remembered urgent matters—I must return to the city at once.”