In the wilds bordering Mount Dapan, clinging autumn rain soaked the low hills. The grass was a sickly yellow, the sky sodden and the earth damp-a day steeped in the musty breath of mildew.
On a day like this, one ought to have curled up on a heated bed, listened to the rain patter outside, and drifted into a drowsy sleep.
Yet Zhang Yangjia had no peace. An ordinary villager from Mount Dapan, he was busy tending the temple's fields in the rain alongside his neighbors. They had been working from dawn until noon.
He was short, dark, and thin, already forty years old. His back ached terribly whenever he bent to drain the standing water from the fields, but he dared not let his hands stop.
Only after tending the venerable monks' fields could he return to check on his own few acres.
A young monk in a yellow-brown gauze robe stood beside the fields, the three ordination scars on his head still fresh. Keeping to the ridge to avoid the muddy water, he held a pearwood staff and urged everyone on.
"Move faster. Don't damage the spirit grain."
Several people had grown stiff with cold and slowed down. The monk struck them squarely across the back with his staff, sending them sprawling into the muddy water with cries of pain.
"He Shou, how could you do this? These are your neighbors! How could you strike them so hard?"
Zhang Yangjia stepped forward and helped them up, his voice trembling.
Not long ago, this monk had still been his dear nephew. Ever since entering the temple, his temperament had changed completely, and he no longer acknowledged anyone.
"I am Puzhi now. Stop entangling yourselves in these worldly matters. Since taking refuge in the Buddha, I have severed my worldly