Outside White Bottle Mountain, along an ancient tree-shaded road, beside an ancient spring with sweet, fresh water, several members of the Pudu Cult were resting here for the moment.
On a patch of ground that had been hastily leveled lay a soft pile of grass. The Pudu Cult's Gebhu Dharma King sat cross-legged atop it. Half of his right arm, from the elbow down, had been forcibly torn off by divine strength, a gruesome sight indeed. Fortunately, his martial arts were formidable, and his cultivation of the flesh had reached a minor pinnacle. He controlled his blood and qi to seal the wound, preventing any loss of blood.
Nor was there much pain on the old monk's face. Instead, he wore a solemn, dignified expression, like the clay-and-gilt Buddhist statues within a treasured temple. With his sole remaining hand, he formed a Buddhist School seal, murmuring scriptures in a soft yet devout voice. He truly looked like a most orthodox disciple of the Buddhist School.
Before long, the fierce monk approached Gebhu Dharma King carrying the washed half-arm. He had reined in all his ferocity and arrogance, bowed low, and offered the severed limb to Gebhu Dharma King.
The old monk's brows and eyes remained tranquil. Looking at his own severed arm as though it were roadside weeds, he showed not the slightest ripple of emotion.
At the same time, the Pudu Cult's heavenly maiden, her face veiled and her bearing sacred, opened the Pure Vase in her hand. She took out three glossy droplets of water, each carrying an intensely rich fragrance of grass and wood mingled with the scent of earth, and dripped them onto the wound of the severed arm.
The Dharma King accepted the half-arm, softly recited a Buddhist invocation, and pressed its severed end against