The higher one climbed, the colder it became.
The eaves of Hanging Temple lay buried beneath snow all year round. Only on the annual Bing Fire Day did it melt, yet the Bodhi Tree within the temple remained lush and green, with only the occasional leaf coated in white frost.
The Old Monk wore a Patch Robe and held prayer beads as he walked through the center of the crowd arrayed on both sides like tidal waters.
His robes fluttered.
Everyone silently rose and greeted him with proper ceremony.
Whether they were Buddhist believers or not, since they had come to hear the scriptures today, they all held the basic respect due to a strongman.
The Old Monk pressed his palms together and returned their greetings one by one to either side. Passing through the crowd, he went straight beneath the Bodhi Tree, lifted the hem of his robe atop its gnarled roots, sat cross-legged, and picked up the scripture from the table.
At that moment, the Little Monks wrapped tightly in cotton robes carried stacks of booklets through the crowd, handing one to each person like textbooks being distributed to waiting students.
"Vajra Sutra."
Liang Qu ran his fingers over the large characters on the booklet.
The first scripture to be expounded at today's Dharma assembly had a long history. It could be called a Buddhist classic, something one could not afford not to read.
When he opened it, the scent of ink was rich. In some places, rubbing the pages could still produce smudged shadows of the characters.
Freshly printed.
The cold wind blew, making the leaves rustle.
The Old Monk raised the Vajra Sutra in his hands and displayed it in all directions. His voice rang clearly and powerfully across Bodhi Island—not loud near and soft far,