Volume One: The Awakening of All Things, Eternal Spring Chapter Thirty-One: Atop Mount Zhulong, the Enlightened Monk Shatters the Illusion

The raspy voice seemed to emanate from within a bone spur; Zhou Sheng gave a brief explanation and hurriedly ended the call. When Mo Wen tried to call back, he was met with a shutdown notice.

Rather than asking Mo Wen for help, Zhou Sheng’s tone felt more like a final farewell. Mo Wen was deeply shaken—after four years as classmates, his bond with Zhou Sheng was the most sincere. Without hesitation, Mo Wen resolved to seek him out once more.

With rough impatience, he dragged Lin Xi from the bed. Lin Xi protested coyly, “My bones are coming apart—I don’t want to move!” Mo Wen paid her no heed, helped her dress, his clumsy hands provoking another round of giggles.

They stepped out, heading straight for the police headquarters. Lin Xi asked a colleague on duty to trace Zhou Sheng’s phone: the location, southern Hunan, Mount Heng.

It was already deep into the night, yet the influence of Lin Xi’s family shone through—an emergency flight to southern Hunan was arranged on the spot.

A small aircraft waited at Hongqiao Airport; Lin Xi, arm in arm with Mo Wen, walked briskly aboard. Unlike commercial airliners with their practiced smiles, the private jet offered warmth and attentive service.

The flight attendant thoughtfully brought slippers for them both. The soft sofa was exceedingly comfortable, and with a concealed smile, the attendant informed Mo Wen there was a double bed in the cabin for rest.

The jet belonged to the Lin family. Mo Wen’s actions at the grand birthday banquet in the northern capital had already spread among the great families; most in the Lin household knew of Mo Wen. The two lounged together, cozy and affectionate.

“Why are you coming?” Mo Wen frowned, his expression stern. Lin Xi, still at the flawless stage of cultivation, might face danger on this journey.

Lin Xi snuggled closer into Mo Wen’s arms, her hands looped around his neck, coquettishly pleading, “I’m just going to relax a little. Didn’t you say the path of cultivation is either about refining the heart or taking a long journey?”

Mo Wen was momentarily at a loss. He noticed Lin Xi’s transformation—from her former commanding presence, she now seemed entirely a gentle, delicate woman, like a fresh lychee, the prickly shell peeled away to reveal softness within.

The flight lasted two hours, swiftly bringing them to Huanghua Airport in southern Hunan. The chill wind of late winter made Lin Xi instinctively tighten her coat. A Mercedes awaited them at the airport.

Without unnecessary delay, they got in and sped down the highway toward Mount Heng. The driver, a shy young man in his twenties, was silent but skillful. Despite the darkness, the car darted along the road, reaching the foot of Mount Heng in less than two hours.

The mountain path was steep and winding, but had long since been paved for tourists’ convenience.

“Let’s ascend the mountain!”

Mo Wen gave brief instructions; the driver turned the wheel without hesitation, guiding the car up the treacherous road. Along the way, groups of cultivators climbed on foot. Mo Wen scrutinized each face, hoping to find Zhou Sheng.

The winding road twisted upward; half an hour later, they arrived at the mountainside pavilion, halfway up Mount Heng. Once a resting place for tourists, with a cable car leading to the summit, but since the world’s transformation, a thick fog shrouded everything above the pavilion.

Near the mist, Mo Wen’s hopes faded. The coal ball remained motionless—this time, he would have to rely entirely on himself.

At the pavilion, faint lights glimmered from a few lonely houses keeping vigil over the mountain. Checking the time—five in the morning. Uncertain about the mist, Mo Wen dared not proceed rashly.

After over an hour, the door of one house creaked open, and an old man, leaning on a cane, stepped out shakily. Perhaps his eyesight was failing; he peered at Mo Wen and his companions for a long time.

“Sir, we’re tourists here to visit the mountain. How’s the path—easy to walk?”

The old man gave no reply, settling onto a bamboo chair at the door. The driver approached, speaking rapidly in the local dialect.

“The old man says the ice and snow have melted, but the roads are slippery. Driving may be dangerous,” the driver explained.

“Have there been many tourists lately? Has anyone descended?”

Mo Wen added. The driver relayed the question; the old man grew agitated, gesturing with trembling hands.

“He says ascending and descending is fine, but recently some visitors were attacked by wild beasts and barely escaped with their lives. Though a true Buddha sits in meditation atop the mountain, death and injury occasionally occur,” the driver interpreted, striving to summarize the old man’s meaning.

A true Buddha sits at the summit! Yes, since the official announcement of evolution, Mount Heng’s elder monk had welcomed disciples from all walks of life.

Nearly half an hour later, a group emerged from the mist. Mo Wen observed that most were at the Essence Soul stage. Among them was a middle-aged woman, wearing a phoenix crown and traditional ethnic attire.

The driver, knowledgeable about such things, told them this was typical ceremonial dress for the Miao people of western Hunan.

Mo Wen and his companions approached, offering a courteous salute. “I am Mo Wen. We’ve heard a true Buddha meditates atop the mountain and have come seeking wisdom. Might you know the situation?”

At first, the group was wary, but at Mo Wen’s words, they relaxed slightly. The middle-aged woman at the front bowed with a gentle gesture.

“The true Buddha is present, but we ordinary folk cannot enter his discerning gaze. The threshold to become his disciple is extremely high. Many come with hope, only to leave disappointed. Yet I sense you have extraordinary bearing—perhaps you may succeed.”

Without lingering, the group descended the mountain. Their safe passage suggested the mist was neither a rule of annihilation nor one of illusion.

After a moment’s hesitation, Mo Wen signaled the driver to head down first. He and Lin Xi passed through the mist, climbing onward.

Inside the fog, there was none of the expected darkness. The morning sky was dim, clouds gathering as if rain were imminent.

Ascending, they encountered several groups, all similar to the Miao woman’s party—those who had sought wisdom and departed unsuccessful.

An hour later, urging greater speed, Mo Wen and Lin Xi, without pause, finally reached the summit—Zhurong Peak. While the foothills were touched by spring, the mountaintop was still blanketed in snow, a realm of deep winter, far removed from the world below.

At the Zhurong Temple, an ancient and austere atmosphere prevailed. A few weary figures emerged from within, descending slowly. Mo Wen approached cautiously.

Inside, a massive Buddha statue caught Mo Wen’s eye—it was identical to the golden Buddha concealed in Emei’s secret place, save for the missing inscription. Before the statue, an elderly monk sat in meditation, his white beard trailing over a thin robe, unmoved by the biting wind.

Before Mo Wen could offer his respects, the monk suddenly opened his eyes, his kindly face lighting up. “Amitabha, very good, very good! You are fated with the Buddha. To arrive here today is truly destiny!”

With a sweep of his sleeve, two meditation cushions flew out from within the temple, landing before Mo Wen and Lin Xi. Mo Wen did not feign humility and, taking Lin Xi’s hand, sat cross-legged.

“Though I long for the Buddhist path, worldly attachments are not easily severed. I fear I can only admire from afar.”

Mo Wen surmised the monk had recognized his cultivation in Buddhist methods and waited to see what he would say.

“No need for humility, young friend. If your heart holds the Buddha, all things are Buddha. Before my junior brother passed, it was a blessing to have you inherit his legacy.”

Junior brother! Mo Wen was astonished—the ascetic monk on the Tibetan mountain road had been this Master Po Wang’s junior brother.