Daoji the Monk

Ling Qing followed the old gentleman onward, passed through Qiantang Gate, and entered an alley.

On the north side of the road stood a grand gate, bearing the words "Zhao Residence."

Several dozen household servants stood guard inside the gate. At the entrance, a ragged monk was speaking with one of the Zhao Residence servants.

"The chief steward has arrived." Upon seeing the old gentleman, the man hurried over in two strides and bowed.

"Has the master returned?" the old gentleman asked.

"Not yet."

"What is this about?" The old gentleman pointed at the filthy monk and asked.

"This monk heard that the old madam of your esteemed residence is gravely ill. I came especially to see your master and treat the old madam."

Ling Qing looked over and saw that the monk was utterly unremarkable in appearance, only five feet tall, with more than two inches of hair on his head, his face smeared with mud.

He wore tattered monk's robes, with short sleeves and no collar. A knotted silk sash was tied around his waist. His feet were bare, and he dragged along a pair of broken straw sandals.

A wine gourd hung from his waist, and he waved a battered cattail-leaf fan in his hand.

Wasn't this very appearance that of the monk Daoji, known to others as Living Buddha Jigong?

So that's why I felt something stir in my heart, Ling Qing thought to himself.

When Ling Qing saw Daoji, Daoji saw Ling Qing as well.

His face was like warm jade. He appeared to be no more than a youth just past twenty, yet the aura about him resembled that of a hundred-year-old elder.

His cultivation had already reached the fourth realm of the Human Immortal, yet Daoji could tell that his true strength far