As Yi Shuyuan began reciting the scripture, his voice seemed to stretch infinitely far away.
To Monk Zhaoli and Ding Feixiong, there was an extraordinarily uncanny sense of distance. All three stood beside the tree in the side courtyard, yet the other two felt as though each stood alone between heaven and earth.
The scripture Yi Shuyuan recited drifted to them from afar, sometimes clear, sometimes barely audible. Yet even when they could not make out the words, the continuity of the Buddhist Sutra remained unbroken.
Those indistinct moments caused no frustration. Perhaps they were not indistinct at all.
The wind, the rustle of dry grass, the birdsong around them, the scrape of a broom sweeping the ground, even the Buddhist chants and invocations of other monks passing through the monastery, along with other distant sounds-all seemed to become part of the scripture.
Recited by Yi Shuyuan, the Buddhist Sutra retained all the resonance it had possessed when the clay Bodhisattva chanted it in that little temple, now further supported by his own art of transforming sound.
"Not without feeling, pity yourself and the people of this world; not in fear, remain unstartled though heaven and earth change color."
A long while later, Yi Shuyuan's voice gradually ceased to sound so distant. As the final line fell, it seemed to return from beyond the heavens and merge with his body, while the stir of wind, clouds, and thunder slowly subsided.
Monk Zhaoli and Ding Feixiong remained where they stood, still somewhat dazed and lost in a trance, as though the lingering echoes still sounded in their ears.
Yi Shuyuan did not disturb them. Although he had indeed employed a little of his power, an ordinary person would merely have listened and forgotten it after a while.
He had never expected