Chapter Thirty-Seven: Master Mountain Buddha

“There really is a ruined temple!” Yang Fan was filled with astonishment and suspicion.

By now, the sun was already high in the sky, and the miasma had faded considerably. Looking from a distance, he could make out the silhouette of the ruined temple—small and dilapidated. Yet, around it grew many spiritual herbs, and inside the temple, faint glimmers of spiritual energy seemed to rise, though strangely, his senses could not capture them clearly.

“That’s a tremendous bounty. Should I go or not?” Yang Fan hesitated.

He decided to first increase his awakening level to thirty percent. Unconsciously, his strength grew, his vitality surged, and he awakened new abilities.

[Seal Owner: Yang Fan]
[Fate: Mountain Patrol Envoy]
[Awakening Level: 30%]
[Awakened Abilities: Qi Consumption, Earth Sense, Intimidation, Qi Lock, Swift Movement, Earth Surge, Night Vision]
[Unawakened Ability: Stone Split (Awakening Condition: 8 Earth Qi)]
[Earth Qi: 9.6]
[Cultivation: Martial Path, Eighth Rank]
[Stone Split]: Can split all stones under heaven.

This ability… The description was simple, but Yang Fan sensed the terrifying power hidden within.

Split all stones under heaven?

Stone is the foundation of mountains; mountains are the bones of the earth.

Stone Split—doesn’t that mean splitting the earth itself?

In his mind’s eye, Yang Fan envisioned a scene: he stomps his foot, the earth cracks open, the fissure stretches to the horizon, and a planet is cleaved in two.

“I don’t even know if the earth here is spherical!” He couldn’t help but laugh.

Yang Fan thought of Earth Surge, an ability to manipulate soil, most effective with softer, looser earth, mainly targeting what lies below ground. Stone Split works best on hard materials, perhaps an offensive technique? Not quite, since its target is stone.

“Why isn’t there a purely offensive ability?” Yang Fan sighed, torn about whether to awaken it now. But seeing the requirement of eight points of Earth Qi, he put the thought aside for the moment.

If he poured that Qi into his awakening level instead, his strength would rise further—perhaps enough to face Xiang Yangkai head-on.

He looked again at the ruined temple. Nothing seemed especially different. After a moment’s hesitation, he walked toward it.

To encounter treasure and pass it by is to invite heaven’s wrath.

Before long, he arrived outside the ruined temple.

Ahead was the temple, behind it a decaying monastic courtyard with leaking tiles and wild grass growing thick in the yard.

“Something’s not right!” Yang Fan frowned.

An uneasy feeling crept over him. The journey here had been far too smooth.

“Yes, it’s the smoothness!” Glancing back, he suddenly realized: ever since he started toward this place, he hadn’t heard the sound of insects, nor seen any venomous snakes. Only the bubbling of swamp water reached his ears—no other sounds.

“This place is ominous!” Anxiety thumped in Yang Fan’s heart. He eyed the spiritual herbs around the temple, forced himself to suppress his greed, and turned to leave. Just then, the temple door swung open.

“A distinguished guest from afar—I failed to greet you. Please forgive this humble monk.” The voice was incredibly hoarse, like stones grinding together, strange and unpleasant.

Yang Fan turned, and saw an old monk emerge from the temple door. He was ancient, his face deeply creased as though sculpted by knife and axe, yet his body was remarkably tall and robust—wildly out of proportion, and decidedly odd. Most striking was his stature—he stood at least two and a half meters tall.

“Greetings, Master. I’m merely passing through your sacred ground, forgive any disturbance. I’ll be leaving now.” Yang Fan spoke courteously, then turned again, not wanting to linger.

It was far too peculiar.

A ruined temple, a monk, deep in the swampy heart of the mountains—none of it seemed normal. There was something off, but he couldn’t pinpoint it.

“Please stay, friend!” The old monk beckoned gently. “Passing through this place is fate; with fate, you should come inside and converse. Please!”

As he spoke, he was suddenly beside Yang Fan, grabbing his wrist.

Yang Fan’s body stiffened—he couldn’t move.

His heart trembled with fear; chills crawled over his skin.

“Please, friend.” The monk’s voice was rigid.

“Alright, alright, you’re too gracious. I’ll walk by myself.” Yang Fan forced a strained smile and followed the old monk into the temple hall.

It was small, but very clean.

Directly ahead was an incense table, with a censer and ashes, but no incense sticks.

Behind the table, where an image of Buddha should have stood, there was nothing.

Yang Fan frowned instinctively.

The monk was strange.

But the place itself gave him an even stronger sense of wrongness, an unbearable awkwardness.

He suppressed his thoughts and glanced at his wrist, where the monk had left an imprint. Yang Fan’s mouth twitched.

This man was either a mountain spirit or a peerless master.

Damn it, truly unlucky!

He shouldn’t have come when he found the temple.

“Please sit, friend,” the old monk said, pointing to the floor.

Yang Fan sat obediently.

The monk sat as well; his height forced Yang Fan to look up slightly.

“Master, may I ask your name?” Yang Fan inquired cautiously, secretly activating his Earth Sense ability, but found nothing amiss.

“I am… I am Mountain Buddha,” the old monk replied after a pause.

“So you are Master Mountain Buddha!” Yang Fan’s eyes flickered, but cold crept into his heart.

That answer was not right.

He dared not show any sign of dissent.

“Friend, your arrival is fate. Let me tell you a story,” Mountain Buddha fixed his gaze on Yang Fan, his eyes unmoving. His voice stayed on one pitch, without fluctuation, giving Yang Fan no chance to refuse.

He began: “Long ago, there was a scholar, traveling with a white fox. They journeyed together, crossing mountains and rivers, wandering great marshes, passing through villages; through life and death, they accompanied each other. The scholar was gentle and kind, doing good wherever he went. One day, the white fox fell gravely ill, its only cure a human heart. Just then, mountain bandits ambushed them. The scholar accidentally killed one. Tell me, should he cut out the bandit’s heart to save the fox?”

White fox? Little White?

“Yes!” Yang Fan’s heart raced and he nodded quickly. “Little White journeyed faithfully, never abandoning the scholar. It’s family, dearest kin; no matter what, it must be saved, even at the cost of one’s own life. The bandit was wicked; killing him is a good deed, a merit. Taking his heart to heal is another merit, especially for family. Both reason and emotion say he should, he must. Not saving would bring down thunder and retribution!”

“Great virtue!” Mountain Buddha bared his teeth, smiling wide—so wide his mouth stretched to his ears.

Yang Fan’s pupils contracted; he trembled, his scalp tingling, but forced himself to quell his terror.

He dared not even breathe.

Damn it.

Does this world truly have ghosts?

Mountain Buddha let his smile fade; the cracks on his face closed, returning to their deep-carved appearance. He continued slowly, word by word: “But Little White did not recover. It needed to eat hearts regularly. After ten days, the pain became unbearable; after a month, its body began to rot; after a year, its heart and liver turned to ashes.”

“So, what should the scholar do?” Mountain Buddha stared into Yang Fan’s eyes, suddenly eerily strange.

“Master, how should I answer?” Yang Fan grew even more fearful, a sense of looming disaster hanging over him.

Earth Sense covered the area, but he found no fox, let alone Little White.

So the scholar was not Mountain Buddha? Did he simply like telling stories?

“I’m asking you!” Mountain Buddha suddenly grew irritable, his brows fierce, his eyes blazing like an enraged Vajra.

Yang Fan’s breath caught; he swallowed hard. “Of course—of course he should find hearts for it!”