Chapter Sixty-Two: The Reincarnated Spiritual Child

Jueshi Kuanglong

The Great Zhaosi Temple, the most sacred sanctuary of Buddhism.

A youth of about seventeen or eighteen knelt alone before a gilded statue, silently reciting prayers. The figure he worshipped was a golden statue of Shakyamuni at the age of twelve. The boy's features were exquisitely delicate, his skin smooth and fair—if not for his shaven head, one would never be able to tell at a glance if this porcelain-sculpted youth was male or female.

He radiated a gentle and serene aura, his body suffused with a faint golden glow. After sitting for hours, he remained perfectly motionless. But if one looked closely, they would notice that, though he chanted and bowed, his brow was often furrowed, as if all the troubles of the world weighed upon his heart.

“Jishan, you’ve been with me for fifteen years now, haven’t you?” Not far from the youth, a white-browed elder monk spoke kindly. The old man wore a lama’s robe; though his eyebrows had turned completely white, his face glowed with health, making it impossible to tell his age.

The kneeling youth opened his eyes, calm as still water. “Yes, Master. Ever since I was recognized as the reincarnated holy child at age three, I have been with you for fifteen years.”

“Do you remember how many children participated with you in the golden urn selection ceremony that year?” the old monk asked again.

“Ten,” the youth replied, still serene.

The old monk’s Dharma name was likely known to none but this youth. However, the name Nameless Monk had once caused a great stir in China fifteen years ago. Back then, when more than a hundred elite assassins from the Island Nation sought to kill the boy and eliminate future threats, over fifty Chinese martial experts rushed to protect him but were nearly wiped out after being poisoned. In the end, it was the Nameless Monk who, single-handedly, almost annihilated the hundred attackers. From that day, his fame spread far and wide, and even now, those in the Island Nation who survived that massacre surely still remember it.

Since then, the boy had followed the Nameless Monk, but after becoming the reincarnated holy child, he did not remain at the temple as a living Buddha. In truth, few living Buddhas are genuine reincarnations of holy children, but this youth—known as Jishan—truly was. That was why the Island Nation had tried so desperately to kill him, and why so many of China’s martial experts had come to protect him.

A true holy child appears perhaps once in a thousand years, akin to the Dragon Maiden of India—closest to the divine, almost demigod in nature, able not only to foresee the future but to know the past. Thus, only he knew the Nameless Monk’s Dharma name, but he never spoke of it, nor of the monk’s bitter and perhaps inglorious past.

In the youth’s eyes, all worldly evil could be countered by kindness; since the old monk had already attained enlightenment, there was no need to dwell on the past.

For fifteen years, he had traveled throughout China with the Nameless Monk, who not only taught him supreme martial arts, but also imparted the highest principle: to take nature, heaven and earth, and the world as teachers.

“Have you sensed something?” asked the Nameless Monk.

Jishan frowned slightly. “When the Phoenix appears, the Azure Dragon prospers—slaughter will ensue.”

“Could the prophecy you made ten years ago truly be coming to pass?” At this moment, the Nameless Monk sounded less like a master than a student. The mysteries of fate were beyond any mortal’s understanding. He could not fathom why the boy could predict the future or communicate with mountain creatures from birth.

“The ways of heaven are profound; I cannot comprehend everything. But to help the world and act with kindness is a duty,” the youth replied with a hint of helplessness.

“Very well. Since you’ve made up your mind, you may leave tomorrow,” the Nameless Monk sighed.

Suddenly, the youth furrowed his brow. “I sense her presence—she has appeared as well.”

“Who? You mean the woman from India?” The monk, having spent fifteen years with the youth, had learned something of fate’s secrets. He recalled the boy once mentioning that there was a girl in India with the same gifts: to see the future and know the past, and that she was born his destined rival. The Nameless Monk grew uneasy.

Yet some matters were beyond his intervention. For instance, why had Hinduism and Buddhism, once a single faith, become mortal enemies? He had never understood it.

The youth closed his eyes and began to chant softly, “When the Phoenix appears, the Azure Dragon prospers. When the Phoenix appears, the Azure Dragon prospers…”

Ye Qian had not slept well all night. At dawn, she drove to Long Fei’s residence. Long Fei and Yang Danni were enjoying a lovingly prepared breakfast. Seeing Ye Qian arrive with dark circles under her eyes, Long Fei seemed unsurprised. Yang Danni quickly invited her to sit and enthusiastically ladled out a bowl of porridge for her.

Yang Danni had already assumed the role of mistress of the house, which left Ye Qian faintly displeased. Whether it was because she now knew of Yang Danni’s background, or simply the enticing aroma of Long Fei’s peanut and preserved egg congee, her agitation lessened—though it didn’t vanish completely. She did not immediately question Long Fei, but instead picked up the bowl and began to eat.

In truth, she had already eaten breakfast.

Yet this porridge was just as delicious as ever.

Yang Danni wore a pink nightgown, her ample curves accentuated, perhaps because she wore nothing beneath. This made Ye Qian uncomfortable, her face flushing as she imagined what Long Fei might have done last night. She stole a guilty glance at the pair, but neither seemed to notice her reaction.

As the leading anchor of Shanghai Television, Yang Danni’s position was unassailable, and she was cherished by all at the station. Because everyone valued her so highly, her workload was light; aside from the nightly news broadcast, she could come and go as she pleased. She was the station’s treasure—if she hadn’t chosen to come to Shanghai herself, no one could have persuaded her. Now that she was here, she was pampered for fear she might one day leave. Every station in the country, even the national broadcaster, would welcome her with open arms.

After breakfast, Yang Danni went to the kitchen to tidy up. Taking advantage of her absence, Ye Qian began to interrogate Long Fei, embellishing her account of the previous night’s events, and then poured out her grievances to him.

She longed for a few words of comfort from Long Fei, but after listening quietly, he simply drew a photograph from his pocket and tossed it before her.

Ye Qian picked it up and immediately recognized the Mercedes from the previous night, as well as another car—now engulfed in flames—bearing the faint mark of a Honda. And there, almost surrounded by blood on the ground, was a foreign man. Could he have been the killer who had pursued her?

“What… What happened here?” Ye Qian stared at Long Fei in astonishment.

Long Fei smiled. “I told you, your safety is not in question. Now it’s settled. You can rest easy. These mysterious troublemakers have been pestering me again and again. I’ve been investigating them. If I ever find out who they are, I’ll make sure they pay.”

Hearing this, Ye Qian felt a little reassured. But suddenly a thought struck her, and her face darkened. “Have you been following me all night?”