At the Beginning of the Spiritual Void 47. Replacing Painting with Scripture

The destitute scholar carefully rolled up the painting and slid it back into his sleeve. His gaze swept across the front and rear halls of Famen Temple, and he spoke slowly, “I wonder how much silver it would take to build all the structures of your illustrious temple.”

Abbot Tianhong found the scholar’s words unrelated to their conversation and was puzzled. “May I ask, what is your purpose in inquiring about the value of our temple’s buildings?” To his surprise, the scholar did not answer directly, but instead asked, “Ah, and what of the lives of your thousands of monks—how much are they worth?”

Hearing this, Abbot Tianhong’s heart trembled, and a chill appeared on his face. “Amitabha. Do you mean to say that you wish to sell your painting for a sum equal to the wealth of our temple and the lives of our three thousand disciples?”

The scholar smiled faintly and nodded. “You are indeed wise, great monk. Your guess is close to the mark.” Hearing this, Mo Dao grew anxious. “Senior, your words are rather arrogant. It’s just an ordinary painting—how can you expect a price as high as heaven itself?”

The other monks in the courtyard were angered by the scholar’s words, their faces cold as they fixed him with hostile stares. If not for the strict rules of Famen Temple and the presence of the abbot, they would have already driven him out.

Abbot Tianhong could no longer contain his anger, his tone icy as he addressed the scholar. “If you have come to extort us today, you are making a grave mistake.”

The scholar remained unmoved. “Great monk, I have not come here with the intention to extort.” “Then why do you demand the wealth of our temple and the lives of our three thousand disciples in exchange for your painting?” Tianhong’s brows arched as he spoke.

The scholar’s gaze sharpened, and he laughed coldly. He retorted, “Let me ask you, great monk: If this painting could preserve your temple’s foundation and the lives of your three thousand monks, what would its value be?”

His words startled everyone, Mo Dao included. Abbot Tianhong snorted, dismissive. “Even though our temple has recently received a terrifying white banner, we have not yet found ourselves unable to deal with the one who sent it. Are you saying that without your painting, our temple is doomed?”

“It seems you do not comprehend the gravity of this crisis, great monk. Very well, I shall act as if I never came here today. Take care.” With that, the scholar turned to leave.

“Wait,” Abbot Tianhong called out suddenly.

The scholar frowned. “What do you mean by this?”

“Is it true that your painting can help the temple survive this calamity?” Tianhong asked, probing. Though he harbored doubts, the scholar’s decisive departure lent his words some credence.

“You may rest assured, great monk. If I am here and cannot avert this disaster, would I not also perish?” the scholar declared loudly. Tianhong considered this and found logic in his words. “Even if your painting could save us, the temple could never afford such a price.”

The scholar lowered his head in thought, then looked up at Tianhong. “Very well, your words are honest. If you sincerely wish to purchase this painting to ward off disaster, I have a more reasonable proposal.”

“What is it?” Tianhong’s brow rose in inquiry.

“Exchange your temple’s Forty-two Chapters of the Dharma Sutra for it. I am willing to forge a bond of incense with your temple,” the scholar replied with a slight smile.

“You may not know, but the Dharma Sutra is our temple’s most treasured relic. To exchange it for a mere painting would dishonor generations of abbots,” Tianhong said, palms pressed together as he recited a Buddhist invocation.

Elder Tian Tai, standing nearby, snorted coldly. “If you intend to deceive us out of our temple’s sacred treasure with a painting, you are mistaken. Stop playing games with us. If you are the one who sent the white banner or are acting on someone’s orders, speak plainly. If you persist in talking around the issue, we will not hesitate to issue an eviction order.”

The scholar sneered. “I may be destitute, but I have never been thrown out by anyone. I do not force the sale—if you do not wish to buy, so be it. There is no need for shouting; it only diminishes your dignity.”

As they spoke, two young monks led a pair of young men and women into the courtyard. Both were dressed in azure robes, with jeweled swords at their waists. The patterns on their garments indicated they were disciples of the Heavenly Blade Pavilion.

The monks bowed to Abbot Tianhong. “Vice Pavilion Master Liu Huan of the Heavenly Blade Pavilion has sent these two disciples to request an audience. We took the liberty of guiding them here and ask for your forgiveness.”

“Go now,” Tianhong waved them away, then turned to the two disciples, who were both handsome and elegant. They saluted him. “We are Jie Zhenzi and our junior sister Jie Qingzi, sent by our master to pay respects to the abbot.”

“Please rise. How fares Master Liu?” Tianhong asked.

“Master is well, but the Heavenly Blade Pavilion has met with trouble. He asked us to deliver this letter,” Jie Zhenzi said, handing Tianhong a letter.

Tianhong opened it and his brows knit tightly. The letter spoke of the strange white banners—each stronghold of the Heavenly Blade Pavilion had received them, and their contents matched those sent to Famen Temple, spreading panic.

Mo Dao glanced at Jie Qingzi. Her eyes were clear as water, dressed in a delicate azure cloak. Her oval face, cherry lips, refined nose, and elegant brows framed eyes as deep as autumn pools. Her slender figure made her seem ethereal, like a celestial maiden descended to the mortal realm.

Jie Zhenzi noticed Mo Dao’s unwavering gaze at his junior sister and grew angry, though he kept silent, merely glaring. Mo Dao, seemingly oblivious, continued staring at Jie Qingzi.

Tianhong put away the letter and said to Jie Zhenzi, “It seems the Heavenly Blade Pavilion too has received the white banners. To be honest, Famen Temple has also received one, and a character for ‘slaughter’ written in cinnabar outside our gates.” He sighed.

“Even Famen Temple received a white banner?” Jie Zhenzi exclaimed in disbelief. Tianhong nodded in acknowledgment, and silence fell. The scholar broke it. “Have you decided, great monk? Will you exchange the painting that could save your temple?”

“Please rest in the guest quarters while I confer with the elders,” Tianhong said after some thought.

“Very well, as you wish,” the scholar replied, and a monk led him away.

“Please, you two, come with me to the meditation chamber to discuss matters,” Tianhong gestured, leading Jie Zhenzi and his junior sister, with Mo Dao following. After they were seated, Tianhong spoke first. “With the white banners at our gates and the character for ‘slaughter’ appearing, it seems disaster is inevitable.”

“Abbot, my sister and I are willing to help Famen Temple in any way we can,” Jie Zhenzi declared. Tianhong shook his head. “I know you are both young heroes, but this danger is beyond our means. Last night, Master Liaokong returned and warned us to be vigilant.”

Jie Zhenzi was surprised. “Master Liaokong came back last night? Where is he now? We should pay our respects.”

Tianhong shook his head. “None of us expected the ‘slaughter’ character to appear so soon. Master left yesterday to seek out the one who sent the white banners.”

Tianhong and the two disciples chatted for a while longer. Suddenly, a young monk, covered in blood, burst in. “Abbot, disaster! The masked man has returned!”

Everyone’s expression changed. Jie Zhenzi and Jie Qingzi were unaware of the masked man’s strength, but Mo Dao had faced him before and knew his power.

They left the meditation chamber and entered the temple courtyard. Mo Dao saw several senior monks surrounding a masked figure. This one seemed different from the last—taller, broader. Mo Dao noticed, and so did the other monks.

The masked man held two strange weapons: a jade tablet in his left hand and a peculiar brush in his right.

“So, you are the one who sent the white banners?” Tianhong asked, seeing the fallen monks around.

The masked man did not speak, merely nodded in acknowledgment.

He wrote on the jade tablet with the brush: Will you bald monks die one by one, or will you all come at once?

Tianhong snorted coldly. “You are overly arrogant. I, Tianhong, though unworthy, will test your skill.”

Mo Dao grabbed Tianhong’s arm. “Abbot, let me try first.”

“You mustn’t, Mo Dao!” Tianhong said resolutely.

“No matter. Abbot, trust me—I know my limits.” With that, Mo Dao strode forward. The masked man glanced at him, puzzled, for Mo Dao’s scalp was covered in short hair, making it unclear whether he was a monk of Famen Temple.

“Come then, show me your tricks,” Mo Dao said calmly.

The masked man nodded, then thrust the brush at Mo Dao—a swift, forceful stroke. Tianhong’s eyes flashed as he saw it, instantly realizing its power and hurriedly warned, “Mo Dao, be careful!”

Mo Dao knew well the strength of this stroke—it was more formidable than the masked man he’d faced before. He quickly swept his right hand, drawing his spirit sword to meet the brush. Sword and brush clashed, unleashing a powerful force that caused the surrounding monks to step back, avoiding the surge of energy.