Winter Melon swept her gaze through the temple, only to find no Buddhist statues, no incense altar, not even an offering table. There were only solemn images of Buddhas, all strikingly new, painted on the crumbling yellow-mud walls.
The painted Buddhas were not large, but there were many of them, covering the entire wall and extending to either side.
The robes in the Buddhist paintings were clearly defined. On closer inspection, there were even traces that had not fully dried. Presumably, the old monk painted them every day.
All the Buddhas were faceless, with only their eyes painted in. Their eyes differed from one Buddha to another, seeming compassionate, furious, questioning, or sorrowful.
Winter Melon glanced sideways and saw that the old monk had also painted a Buddha beneath the branches of the great tree that reached into the temple.
That Buddha gently held a green leaf between his fingers, as though grasping life itself.
Had these merely been ordinary paintings, they would not have been enough to astonish Winter Melon.
Standing where she was, Winter Melon felt that those images of Buddhas with only eyes had all turned toward her, as though interrogating her, yet also pitying her.
It was no mere illusion... her Divine Sense could also detect the paintings' faint, elusive scrutiny.
Winter Melon looked toward the aged monk who had just raised his brush. His aura was powerful, and his cultivation was undoubtedly above hers, but to make his paintings seem divine with a stroke of his brush-just how high was his cultivation?!
Mahayana... or Tribulation Transcendence?!
The aged monk lightly dipped his brush into the pigments on the floor, raised his hand to add to the wall, and spoke softly:
"It has been a long time. Knowing your habits, I imagine you've come to me