Chapter Fifteen: Thatched Hall Temple

September rain comes quickly and leaves just as swiftly. Soon, the rumble of thunder faded, the clouds dispersed, and the rain ceased, giving way to a bright, sunlit sky. The worshippers emerged from their shelters and returned to their rituals, offering incense and prayers at the temple.

Beside the Great Hall, there stood a Dharma Hall where over a dozen learned monks sat, ready to interpret fortunes for the faithful. Two rotund men entered first, followed closely by Li Zhao, who also sought a monk’s guidance.

However, the crowds were overwhelming that day. Every monk who interpreted fortunes was surrounded by long queues, and if one were to wait in turn, it might take more than half an hour.

What could be done?

As Li Zhao’s gaze swept the hall, he noticed a young monk sitting alone in a corner, perhaps just over twenty, with rosy lips, white teeth, and refined, delicate features. If he were to grow out his hair and return to secular life, he would certainly be a striking young gentleman.

This young monk was also responsible for interpreting fortunes, but not a single worshipper sought his counsel. Clearly, they thought him too young, his cultivation too shallow, and doubted his ability to interpret the fortunes accurately.

Li Zhao, however, was unconcerned, and walked straight toward the young monk. What of youth? Couldn’t the young possess great talent?

History offered many examples: Cao Chong weighing an elephant at six, Gan Luo becoming a minister at twelve, Sun Quan ruling six counties and eighty-one prefectures at eighteen; Huo Qubing, made Grand Marshal at twenty-one, led Han troops two thousand miles north, slaughtered seventy thousand Xiongnu, and secured the borders in glory.

All these prove one truth: Ambition is not measured by age; those without it waste a hundred years.

“Master, please interpret this fortune for me.”

“Amitabha. I am Jingchen, may I ask your name and what you wish to know?”

“My name is Li Zhao, and I wish to ask about my future.”

Jingchen had sat in silence for a long time, so when someone finally approached him for an interpretation, he was overjoyed. He invited Li Zhao to sit and received the bamboo slip. Yet as his eyes swept over the fortune, his expression grew grave.

“Amitabha. May I ask, from where did you draw this slip?”

“It fell from the Buddha’s hand.”

“What? That slip?”

The young monk’s expression became even more solemn as he recalled a secret: in the grass-roofed temple’s fortune urn, there were not three hundred sixty-five slips, but three hundred sixty-six. The extra one was the Slip of Fate, also called the Slip of Life and Death.

This slip was peculiar—harboring both fortune and calamity, noble destiny and dire misfortune—its meaning inscrutable and ever-changing. Drawing it was nearly impossible.

Ordinary slips were made of bamboo, weighing about two taels and six qian. This Slip of Fate, however, was crafted from thousand-year black ironwood. Though identical in size, it weighed nine qian and five fen.

When shaking the urn, the lighter slips would fall out more readily, while the heavier ones sank to the bottom, making them nearly impossible to draw.

But nothing in this world is absolute. Over a hundred years ago, a youth once came to the temple and, by chance, drew this very Slip of Fate. He stirred the winds of destiny, achieved great deeds, and committed countless acts of violence.

The temple’s elders believed that the karma attached to this slip was immense. It was inauspicious to keep, yet improper to destroy, so they removed it from the urn and placed it in the Buddha’s palm, hoping that over time, the infinite power of Dharma would dissolve its entanglements.

As the years passed, the tale of the Slip of Fate faded from memory. Jingchen had only heard the story from a few elders, but as for how to interpret it, such a task was beyond his capacity.

“Amitabha. To be frank, you have drawn the Slip of Life and Death. Its implications are vast, and my own cultivation is shallow. I am truly powerless to interpret it.”

“Oh, the Slip of Life and Death. Your temple is full of eminent monks. Could another interpret it?”

“Well… to be honest, even if all the temple’s monks gathered together, I fear none could unravel its meaning.”

“What!”

After finally drawing a fortune, to find it uninterpretable left Li Zhao a bit disheartened.

On the other hand, the young monk Jingchen was even more despondent. After months in the Dharma Hall, someone finally approached him for a reading, yet he was incapable of interpreting it—what a blow to his self-esteem. Worse still, such a story would affect the reputation of the temple.

What to do…? Wait, there was a way!

“Do not be dismayed. There is one person who could certainly interpret this Slip of Fate.”

“Who?”

“Our abbot, my master’s master.”

“Oh? Would that be Master Benkong?”

“Precisely!”

Li Zhao, though visiting the temple for the first time, knew of its famed abbot, Master Benkong. The monk’s reputation was such that even children and village women within a hundred miles knew his name.

Benkong, born Chen, was gifted from childhood with a prodigious memory. He became a monk at nine, a novice at fifteen, and a full monk at twenty. He traveled widely, seeking wise teachers and delving into the subtleties of Buddhist doctrine day and night. At forty, he was unanimously elected abbot by the temple’s hundreds of monks.

Master Benkong was not only a master of Buddhist scripture, but also erudite in classics, history, astronomy, geography, divination, medicine, and was rumored to possess notable martial prowess.

Ten years prior, he went to Chang’an to lecture on Dharma and was summoned by the Emperor, Li Longji. The emperor was so impressed that he urged Benkong to return to secular life and serve as prime minister, helping to govern the realm.

Yet Benkong’s heart belonged to the Buddha. He declined the emperor’s offer and returned to his temple, dedicating himself to spreading Dharma and saving souls.

To meet such a venerable monk would surely be a blessing, Li Zhao thought to himself.

But let us return to the main story.

Jingchen took the fortune slip and left. After the time it takes to eat a meal, he returned.

“Amitabha. The abbot invites you.”

“Thank you. Please, lead the way.”

“This way, please.”

Jingchen led Li Zhao out of the Dharma Hall, along a small path to the northeast corner of the Great Kindness Temple. There, a small, humble courtyard held only a few modest rooms.

Four tall warrior monks, armed with demon-quelling staves, guarded the entrance. They clearly understood the situation and let the two enter without hindrance.

“Master, I have brought the guest.”

“Let him enter.”

“Yes.”

Master Benkong, over eighty, had a ruddy complexion and eyes bright as lightning, betraying no sign of age. Clad in a crimson, gold-embroidered kasaya, he sat cross-legged on a mat, dignified as the Bodhisattva Kṣitigarbha incarnate, inspiring awe in all who beheld him.

The Slip of Fate lay on a small table at his side, along with brush, ink, paper, and inkstone.

Li Zhao dared not be remiss. He stepped forward, bowed respectfully, and pressed his palms together. “Li Zhao greets the master.”

“Young man, your appearance is remarkable. There is a hint of dragon and phoenix in your brows. And your surname is Li—are you, perhaps, of the imperial clan?”

“Master, I am the fourth-generation descendant of the Prince of Wu.”

It was said that Master Benkong had eyes like torches and could read people at a glance. Indeed, after only a look or two, he had divined Li Zhao’s background.

Now, it was time to discuss the Slip of Fate.

“May I ask your birth date and time?”

“I was born on the twenty-second day of the twelfth month, in the sixteenth year of the Kaiyuan era, at the hour of the dragon.”

“That would be the year of Wu Chen, month of Yi Chou, day of Wu Wu, hour of Ren Chen. Your zodiac is the Dragon, your element is Fire… Hmm.”

Master Benkong began calculating Li Zhao’s destiny, at first amiable and composed, but then he paused, as if encountering a puzzle.

He recalculated, then paused again.

A third time, and yet another pause.

His gaze deepened as he studied Li Zhao, as if seeing both a rare treasure and a strange phenomenon.

“May I see your palms?”

“Please, master.”

The abbot took Li Zhao’s hands, carefully examining the lines, first left, then right. After a long, silent contemplation, he spoke: “Your destiny is extraordinary, your blessings are profound. Why not shave your head, join our temple, and become my disciple? I would gladly pass on my teaching. With your gifts, you will surely achieve enlightenment and escape the cycles of suffering, ascending to the Pure Land. Would that not be wonderful?”

“Ahem… Thank you, master, for your kind offer, but my heart is set on the world. I truly have no affinity with the Buddha.”

What? Become a monk? Li Zhao’s head shook like a rattle drum. His life’s ambitions were to wield the sword, conquer his enemies, drink with friends, and rest on beauties’ knees. To spend his days chanting sutras, abstaining from wine, meat, and women—he would rather die.

“So be it. You have no fate with peace, but perhaps with greatness. I shall not force you.” The abbot, seeing Li Zhao’s resolve, sighed and, after a pause, took up his brush and wrote a verse upon the slip:

When spring comes, thunder wakes all creatures,
A turn of the body escapes the mud.
Only then is coming and going understood,
In a single change, one becomes a dragon.

“Amitabha. This is an exceedingly rare and auspicious fortune—the omen of transformation in hibernation. In all things, seek change. Wait for your moment, and you will achieve great deeds. Your future is limitless.”

“Thank you, master.”

Yet Li Zhao sensed the abbot had not spoken the whole truth; or more accurately, had withheld parts of it.

No matter. Fate is insubstantial, a thing that exists if one believes in it and vanishes if one does not.

He believed in another truth: My fate is mine to command, not Heaven’s. If Heaven seeks my end, I will oppose Heaven itself. Even should my destiny be poor, with wisdom and valor, effort and resolve, I will defy fate.

After a little more conversation, fearing the old monk might try again to persuade him to shave his head, Li Zhao took his leave. Jingchen saw him out of the courtyard and then returned to the abbot’s quarters.

He found Master Benkong turning his prayer beads, his usually placid face clouded with deep concern.

Seeing this, Jingchen could not help but ask, “Master, why are you so troubled? Is that young man’s fate so strange?”

“Strange does not begin to describe it. It is beyond belief. By his birth data, he should have been lonely and short-lived, his soul departed long ago. Yet here he stands, alive and well. Is that not odd?

“And look at his features—broad forehead, square chin, eyes bright with the fire of the sun—this is the aspect of a dragon or phoenix, a sign of supreme nobility.

“His palms: four deep lines, the dragon and tiger paired, the lines sharp as blades, harboring murderous energy. Such hands command armies; in his wrath, corpses will fill the field, blood will flow for miles!

“Furthermore, though his destiny lacks fortune, rank, and longevity, there is a baleful energy within him—a power to seize the luck of others.

“To kill one is to take one’s years; to kill ten is to take their rank; to kill a hundred is to take their fortune. The more he kills, the greater the power he gains.

“He is like a serpent in the marsh—born weak in a dangerous world, growing strong only through constant struggle and devouring his kin. In ten years, a python; a hundred, a constrictor; a thousand, a flood dragon; in ten thousand, a true dragon. Such a destiny is rare in centuries, and to find it in a youth—was someone rewriting his fate? But who under heaven has such power?

“I have watched the skies by night—the fortunes of the Tang are about to decline. Now this child appears, drawing the Slip of Fate bestowed by the Buddha. Is it a blessing or a curse?”

Master Benkong spoke at length, but his words were so abstruse that Jingchen could not understand.

Perhaps, even the master himself only half-comprehended the mysteries.

There is no help for it. Heaven’s will is always inscrutable. To glimpse a fraction is already difficult; who can see all ends?

“Master, your disciple has another question—may I ask?”

“Go ahead.”

“I have heard the elders say that over a century ago, a boy once drew the Slip of Fate. Who was he?”

This day’s events had all arisen from the Slip of Fate. Naturally, Jingchen wished to know all.

Who was this person, and what consequences did he set in motion, that the temple had kept this secret for over a hundred years?

The abbot did not answer, but took up his brush and wrote a single line: The eighth day of the first month, second year of the Sui Great Enterprise era.

Asking about the Slip of Fate, but receiving only this date—what could it mean?

Jingchen could not understand, nor did he dare ask further. He could only withdraw and head to the archive, where the temple’s chronicles were kept.

There, he soon found an entry: “On the eighth day of the first month, second year of the Sui Great Enterprise era, Li Yuan, Prefect of Zhengzhou, brought his eight-year-old second son to the temple to pray for blessings, and presented a stone Buddha to be enshrined…”

Li Yuan was the founding emperor of the Tang dynasty. His second son was… the youth who first drew the Slip of Fate.

Now all was clear.

Over a hundred years ago, that sovereign drew the Slip of Fate.

Over a hundred years later, this youth named Li Zhao drew it again.

Which means… Amitabha!

Jingchen broke out in a cold sweat, unable to think further.