Morning Bells on Mount Song, a Hidden Agent of the Buddhist Sect

At the end of the Hour of the Rabbit, the final lingering note of the morning bell slowly dissipated into the green mist of Mount Song.

Yuan Zhen arrived outside the Hall of Five Contemplations just as the morning light spilled over the threshold, bright enough to sting his eyes.

Yet bathed in that sunlight, he felt not the slightest warmth—only stabbing pain running through every meridian in his body.

Inside the hall, the low drone of sutra chanting hummed.

"Measure the amount of merit, consider where the food has come from."

"Examine one's own virtue, whether one deserves this offering."

Yuan Zhen looked inside. More than a hundred monks, solemn in dark robes, knelt in orderly rows with lowered eyes, performing the pre-meal ritual.

This was a daily practice before every meal: to remember the hardship behind material sustenance and reflect upon one's own virtue.

Though the voices of over a hundred people chanting together were not loud, they carried a grave and disciplined solemnity.

Yuan Zhen lifted his foot over the threshold, intending to slip silently into an empty spot at the end of the row.

"Yuan Zhen."

A cold, hard voice rang out. It was not loud, yet like a stone cast into still water, it clearly pierced the hall's low chanting.

The chanting stopped.

The hall fell silent in an instant, and more than a hundred pairs of eyes turned toward him.

The air seemed to grow heavy all at once. Invisible pressure spread outward and enveloped him.

His steps paused. He turned and pressed his palms together. The movement was entirely natural, as though he could not feel that unseen pressure at all.

Only when he turned did his body sway ever so slightly, before immediately stiffening again.

The monk on duty, Yuan Jie, had already come within three steps of him.

This man came from the Discipline Hall. Around thirty years old, his sharply defined face looked as though it had been carved by a precept blade. He stared at Yuan Zhen now, his gaze seeming ready to strip away his robes and see straight into his bones.

"You missed today's morning lesson without cause." Yuan Jie's tone was even, but every word carried clearly throughout the dining hall. "As this is your first offense, after the meal, devoutly recite the Shurangama Sutra ten times before the Buddha as a warning to others. If there is a next time, you will be punished severely without exception."

The words were both a display of authority and a warning to the others.

The surrounding monks looked at him with varying expressions: curiosity, scrutiny, concern, cold indifference, and no small number of people taking pleasure in his misfortune.

"Yes," Yuan Zhen answered crisply. "This disciple accepts the punishment. Thank you for Senior Brother's instruction."

He lowered his head, his hands naturally hanging before him. Beneath his wide sleeves, his fingers curled and pressed against the dantian below his navel.

Yuan Jie watched him for two breaths before finally nodding. "Take your seat and eat."

Yuan Zhen turned and walked toward the last seat. The stabbing pain in the meridians around his dantian made his legs weak, and his steps felt as though he were walking on cotton. Yet he gritted his teeth and did not sway again.

He stopped before a meditation cushion, gathered the hem of his robes, then properly bent his knees, sat kneeling, and straightened his back. The sequence of movements was practiced to perfection.

Ten years of morning and evening discipline had carved those rituals into his bones. Even though the soul had changed, this body still remembered how to be a qualified Shaolin Temple monk.

Breakfast had been laid out on the long table before him: a bowl of mixed-grain porridge thick enough to stand chopsticks in, two golden vegetarian steamed buns, and a small dish of glistening pickled vegetables.

He picked up his bamboo chopsticks and prepared to eat.

At that moment, hushed whispers rose all around, breaking the solemn atmosphere maintained until now.

"Look at his complexion. It's even worse than yesterday's. Could he have damaged his foundation?"

"How could the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture possibly be so easy to cultivate?"

"In nearly two hundred years of Shaolin Temple history, how many brilliant talents have failed to master it? Him? He's overestimating himself!"

"He aimed too high and his pride was too great. In the end, he only ruined himself."

Yuan Zhen's face remained expressionless as he lowered his head and ate. Only the hand gripping his chopsticks had turned white at the knuckles from exerting too much force.

It seems the original owner's obsession hasn't fully dispersed from this body yet.

That was right. The Yuan Zhen of now possessed a different soul.

Zhu Yingxiong had been an ordinary corporate workhorse in another world, attending drinking engagements, staying up late to analyze data, and finally losing consciousness before his screen.

Those sarcastic taunts around him were child's play to him.

Now that he had entered this body, the first thing he needed to consider was how to resolve the trouble left behind by its original owner. That was the key.

The original owner had borne the title of "young prodigy" and successfully become the disciple of Worryless, the head of the Dharma Hall.

But ever since obtaining the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture, he had fixated on mastering it, only to find himself utterly unable to enter the door. His forced cultivation had failed and instead injured his meridians, making him a laughingstock.

Last night, he had forcibly cultivated it once again, ultimately suffering failure and death. That was how Zhu Yingxiong had transmigrated here.

The reason the original owner had been so obsessed was because he had another identity—a hidden agent planted in the Buddhist sect by the Yingui Sect of the demonic path.

From the memories Zhu Yingxiong had sorted through, the original owner had been adopted by the Yingui Sect from the time he could remember, then sent into Shaolin Temple by roundabout means ten years ago.

The Yingui Sect's objective was precisely Shaolin Temple's supreme secret manuals: the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture and the Marrow-Cleansing Scripture.

Yet when the original owner truly held the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture in his hands, he developed other thoughts. He wanted to use this divine art to escape the demonic sect's control and completely cleanse his identity.

To Zhu Yingxiong, that was simply naive.

If the demonic sect had dared to plant him in Shaolin Temple, how could they possibly lack measures to keep him under control?

Besides, the so-called righteous and demonic paths were not truly important. This was the martial world of the Ming Empire written by Huang Yi. In that vast martial world, strength alone was supreme.

Look at the masters of the Black List, then look at Pang Ban, the "Demonic Master." Who in the world dared to look down on them?

More importantly, there was already a shining example before him. Several hundred years ago, Shi Zhixuan, the "Evil King" of the demonic sect, had freely switched identities—he could be a great virtuous monk, yet also a giant of the demonic path.

He could absolutely imitate and learn from him. Just not the schizophrenia.

"Silence!"

Yuan Jie's low shout interrupted both his thoughts and the growing discussion around them.

The hall gradually quieted again, leaving only the faint clinks of bowls and chopsticks and soft chewing.

Yuan Zhen swallowed his last mouthful of porridge, set down his bamboo chopsticks, and rose in sequence with the others. He silently left the Hall of Five Contemplations. After the crowd dispersed, he alone stepped onto the bluestone path leading to the Mahavira Hall.

The morning breeze swept through the courtyard, carrying the scent of incense and pine needles. The sunlight had completely scattered the remaining mist, making the glazed tiles of the halls shine brilliantly.

Zhu Yingxiong walked slowly, sorting through his thoughts.

The most urgent matter now was to obtain some precious healing medicine from his master, Worryless, and treat his injuries.

In the past, the original owner would never have taken the initiative to ask for medicine. As a hidden agent of the demonic sect, he had walked on thin ice, terrified that the slightest anomaly would draw scrutiny and expose his identity.

But Zhu Yingxiong was different.

His work in his former life had been all about weighing costs and benefits—when to place a bet, when to cut losses, and how to leverage the greatest return with the smallest price.

The injuries in this body were the most urgent "bad debt," and they had to be dealt with as quickly as possible.

But the balance had to be handled just right.

It was like discussing—bluffing—investments over a drinking table in his former life. Do not tell all the truth, but do not tell complete lies either. The key was to make the other party feel that he was worth investing in one more time.

Zhu Yingxiong rolled his prayer beads between his fingers, having already worked through several scenarios in his mind. His master was usually strict, but often protected his disciples. This matter should not be difficult.

Thinking this, he turned past a corridor. When he raised his eyes, the towering Mahavira Hall was already before him, its doors deep and wide, Buddhist incense swirling within.

Just as he was about to step forward, he saw several martial monks approaching from the other side of the corridor.

The man at their head had a long face and narrow eyes, with an inherent air of arrogance. He was Yuan Xing of the Dharma Hall.

"Junior Brother Yuan Zhen." Yuan Xing shifted his steps and happened to block his path, a half-smile hanging on his lips.

"The Dharma Hall's minor examination will be held in three days. It will be a sparring match among fellow disciples. I hope Junior Brother... will not hesitate to offer instruction."

Half a year ago, this man had competed with him for the position of the hall head's personal disciple. In the end, Worryless had chosen Yuan Zhen and refused to accept him. From then on, he had harbored resentment toward Yuan Zhen.

Now that he had such a chance to kick him while he was down and humiliate him, how could he let it pass?

The several martial monks behind him immediately chimed in one after another. "I heard Yuan Zhen has been studying the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture. This time, you must open our eyes."

"Oh? Has he mastered it?"

"Mastered it? Heh... I heard not only did he fail to cultivate it, he even damaged his foundation."

The group traded lines back and forth, every word barbed, their mockery plain for all to see.

Yuan Xing leaned forward slightly, his gaze settling on Yuan Zhen's pale face. He lowered his voice, making it even more grating.

"In three days, Junior Brother... you won't be too afraid to show up, will you?"

Zhu Yingxiong sneered inwardly. Such a childish provocation. Against a proud young genius like the original owner, it would have been a precise strike.

Unfortunately, the one standing here now was him.

Zhu Yingxiong merely raised his eyes, his calm gaze sweeping over them without anger, annoyance, or even any excess emotion, as though he were looking at several talking wooden carvings.

Yuan Xing and the others felt as if they had punched empty air. Suddenly, they had nowhere to put their force, and the feeling was deeply uncomfortable.

One of them found that placid, idiot-regarding gaze unbearable. He could not help stepping half a pace forward and assuming a stance.

"What are you looking at? Let me see right now how much skill you have left!"

Before his words had faded, a cold, hard voice sounded behind them.

"What are you doing?"

Yuan Xing and the others turned around, their expressions changing slightly.

Yuan Jie was striding toward them, his gray robes immaculate, his gaze sharp as a blade.

"Private fighting is forbidden within the temple. You... want a taste of the Discipline Hall's punishment staff?"

The martial monk who had taken his stance hurriedly withdrew his hands, his face turning pale and flushed by turns. Yuan Xing forced out a smile and stepped forward. "Senior Brother Yuan Jie misunderstands. We merely happened to encounter Junior Brother Yuan Zhen and exchanged a few jokes."

After saying that, they did not dare linger. He hurriedly led the others away.

Yuan Jie looked at Yuan Zhen, his voice still without much fluctuation. "Go recite the sutra."

"Yes." Zhu Yingxiong pressed his palms together in salute.

Yuan Jie turned and walked away.

Zhu Yingxiong stood where he was, his gaze passing over the backs of those men as they departed before falling on the open hall doors ahead. Deep within the shadowy hall, he could faintly see a golden Buddha statue seated in majesty, its lowered eyes gazing upon all living beings, compassionate yet distant.

After a long moment, he gave a soft scoff.

"Greed, anger, delusion, and the suffering of meeting those one hates. Even within the Buddhist sect, so what?"

He did not linger any longer and strode toward the hall.

Inside the Mahavira Hall, Zhu Yingxiong knelt upon a cushion to the left of the Buddha, his fingers rolling the cool, smooth string of prayer beads.

"Namah Saptanam, Samyaksambuddha Koti..."

The scripture flowed naturally from his lips, his tone steady. This body had recited the mantra more than a thousand times. Every word was like breathing, an instinct requiring no thought.

Candle flames flickered at his side, casting his shadow across the polished blue-brick floor, stretching and swaying. Thin incense smoke curled upward, slowly spreading between the hall's lofty beams and pillars.

After finishing the first recitation, his breath paused briefly before he immediately began the second.

At the instant the syllables left his lips—

The air at the center of his vision rippled without warning.

The ripple was pale gold and exceedingly faint, like the afterimage left from staring too long at a candle flame, yet it was so real that it disturbed the scene before his eyes.

Then the abnormal change came abruptly.

Every word and every mantra he recited seemed to be granted tangible weight and form. They appeared to come alive, hovering in the empty space before him.

Ancient Sanskrit mantras glowing with faint golden light twisted, stretched, recombined, and arranged themselves without end...

At last, all the light drew inward and condensed into several lines of incomparably clear, yet incomparably familiar, text.

[Analysis: Shurangama Sutra]

[Scriptural Interpretation: In progress...

Namah (taking refuge)... Saptanam (all)... Samyaksambuddha Koti (the Thus Come One)...]

[Essential Practice: Focus the mind, resonate with the voice, calm the heart, settle the spirit, reveal righteousness...]