Volume One: The Graveyard of Eight Coffins Chapter 82: The Temple of Remorse and Abstinence

Along the way, both my uncle and I had our clothes torn by branches. My uncle was especially distressed about his suit, claiming it was the most expensive one he owned. As for me, I couldn't help but wonder if we'd taken the wrong path. Even if we hadn't, there wasn't so much as a trail leading down the mountain—were the people in the ancient temple truly so cut off from the world?

Still, doubts aside, we had no choice but to continue climbing.

After more than three hours of ascent, I reckoned we must be near the summit. Suddenly, not far ahead, a gentle slope appeared. At the base of the slope, a narrow path had clearly been trampled out by human feet, accompanied by a series of stone steps.

My uncle pointed at the path. “There it is. Someone's been here. The ancient temple must be close.”

We followed the path up the slope, and soon the sound of trickling water reached our ears. Looking closely, we saw a clear stream flowing down from the mountain.

Here, there was none of the city’s clamor, none of the noise from the foothills, and certainly not the roar of machinery—only the melodious calls of birds and the music-like murmur of the spring. Breathing in deeply, it felt as if my very organs had been cleansed, leaving me utterly refreshed.

Both my uncle and I were exhilarated; this place was nothing short of a hidden paradise. To live here would surely prolong one’s life.

We followed the path around a bend in the hill, and before us, at last, stood an ancient temple.

Atop the mist-shrouded peak, the old monastery nestled under venerable pines and cypresses, exuding an air of antique solemnity. Towering ancient trees surrounded it, their branches forming a dense canopy. The temple itself was not large, and if not for the occasional sound of a bell or gong, it would have been easy to miss entirely.

My uncle and I exchanged a glance and quickened our pace, approaching the temple's main gate.

Up close, we saw that despite its dignity, the temple was quite dilapidated. The red paint on the gate and outer walls had long since peeled away, with part of the courtyard wall collapsed. As my uncle had heard, few pilgrims ever came here; incense offerings were all but nonexistent.

Above the gate hung a battered, barely legible plaque.

On it were inscribed the words: Temple of Repentance and Abstinence.

Temple of Repentance and Abstinence?

Perhaps it was my own lack of knowledge, but I had never heard of a temple by that name, nor did I know which Buddha was worshipped within.

My uncle looked at the temple’s name and suddenly laughed. “Yangzi, it seems we’ve come to the right place.”

I began to understand and nodded. “You mean this is the temple where Wooden Man Yang came to repent and atone?”

My uncle said that must be the case.

The temple gate was tightly shut, yet the sound of a bell could be heard from within—surely someone was there.

“Since we’re here, let’s go find someone,” I said, stepping forward to knock. My uncle suddenly stopped me, and I glanced at him in confusion.

He brushed the dust from his clothes and tidied himself up as best he could. Only then did I realize his meaning: we looked little better than wild men, our clothes shredded and our faces smeared with dirt. It wouldn’t do to enter a place of cultivation in such a state.

But all we could manage was a basic attempt at cleaning up; we had nothing to change into. After a quick dust-off, I stepped forward and knocked on the gate.

The crisp sound echoed clearly in the quiet air, traveling far even though it wasn’t loud.

Soon, a side door creaked open, and a middle-aged monk in a grey robe poked his head out, staring in surprise at us.

We hurried over and greeted him with a respectful bow.

My uncle got straight to the point. “Amitabha. Master, is there a man here by the name of Yang Huanzhi, or perhaps Wooden Man Yang?”

I shook my head inwardly. Yang Huanzhi must have already taken monastic vows; those were his lay names. Given this monk’s age, how could he possibly know those names? Unfortunately, we didn’t know Wooden Man Yang’s Buddhist name, which made things awkward.

But I needn’t have worried. The monk looked us up and down at the mention of Wooden Man Yang, then opened the side door wider. “You two benefactors, you’ve finally arrived. Please, come in.”

From the way he spoke, it seemed he’d known we were coming, which took us both by surprise.

My uncle and I exchanged another glance and followed the monk inside.

He said nothing more, merely gesturing for us to follow.

Trying to make conversation, my uncle asked, “How should we address you, Master? I myself am a cultivator—our paths are not so different, after all.”

The monk remained impassive, as if unwilling to speak. He replied only, “My Dharma name is Fachen.”

Undeterred, my uncle persisted, “Master Fachen, how many monks are there in this temple... Are you taking us to see Wooden Man Yang?”

But no matter what my uncle asked, Fachen said nothing further.

Once inside, we saw the temple’s courtyard was small, shaded by several enormous bodhi trees whose interwoven roots and deeply furrowed bark marked them as ancient.

Aside from Fachen, we saw no other monks. We had no idea where he was leading us.

By now, night had fallen. Our climb had taken the entire afternoon, and the darkness, even within the temple, left me feeling hollow and uneasy.

We quickly passed through two halls and entered the rear courtyard.

It seemed to be separated from the main hall by an iron gate. Fachen took down a lantern from above the gate and led us further back.

By the moon’s dim light, I saw many vegetable plots in the rear yard—clearly, the temple’s inhabitants were self-sufficient.

As we entered, a massive boulder loomed ahead. It appeared that the Temple of Repentance and Abstinence was built against the mountain, with its back to the blue-green slopes.

Fachen led us to the base of the rock and finally stopped.

There, I noticed a dark cave opening in the rock. Fachen stood before it.

He bowed toward the cave and announced, “Master, they have arrived.”

He paused a moment, then called inside, “Yes.”

Turning to us, he said, “Benefactors, the Master invites you to enter.”

I was startled and glanced at my uncle, who shook his head.

We hadn’t heard a thing—who was this monk talking to? Was this some kind of trick?

My uncle asked, “Master Fachen, what is this place? Is the master you speak of Wooden Man Yang?”

Fachen replied, “This is where the master is in seclusion. Please enter at once.”

(End of chapter)