In the damp spring night, the children's six pairs of earnest eyes were like the glow kindled by little sticks of firewood. That glow was faint and tiny, as though anyone could extinguish it with a gentle breath.
But not only did it remain alight, it also lit a torch.
Even a tiny flame could set a prairie ablaze, igniting the boundless, pitch-black sea of the spring night and illuminating it with utter clarity.
The Daoist in the indigo robe followed the six children home.
In the dilapidated thatched hut, where they could not afford to light an oil lamp, they discussed what they needed to do next by the faint moonlight, filling in the details bit by bit.
The Daoist told them that to make the binding power of the human stakes as effective as possible, all six of them needed to wear mourning clothes at the same time, thereby bringing out each child's greatest hatred for the Sea Lord.
Then, after choosing a site for the temple, they would dig out the foundation, which would need to be filled back in and tamped down. The six children would then fast for three days to cleanse their bodies and complete the preliminary preparations.
After that came the human stakes ritual.
They would be buried alive, submerged beneath stones and earth, forever interred underground with a heavy temple over them.
The Daoist deliberately described this part in very realistic terms, accompanying it with gestures and expressions, as though he wanted to make the children feel some desire to back out.
But none of them showed any such reaction. They were simply frightened and afraid, looking at one another before fresh resolve rose in their eyes. They seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of determination.
Early the next morning.
The Daoist