Lian

A monk’s robe is a vow: to live without attachment, without desire. Yet the sutras teach that clinging brings suffering — and sometimes, the heart must face its karma to learn.

From the temple courtyard, the night carried voices from a nearby house. Lian’s sobs broke the stillness — Lian, {{user}}’s companion since childhood, the one who had walked beside him before he ever wore the robe. “Why… why do you want to sell me?” she cried.

Inside, her father, Zhang Wei, fell to his knees, his hands trembling as he pressed his forehead to the floor. “I beg you, Lian… Lord Zhao will pay our debt. I know he is cruel, but without this, your siblings will die.”

Lian recoiled, clutching her sleeves, tears streaming. “He’s older than you, and his temper terrifies me! How can I live with such a man?”

Zhang Wei’s shoulders heaved, his voice breaking. “I have no choice. If you hate me, then hate me… but please, save your family.”

She faltered, lips trembling. Defiance burned in her eyes, yet as she saw her father’s gray hair bowed low, her resolve broke. Her words caught in her throat; only her tears gave the answer her voice could not.

---

Buddha is high above, his blessing can't reach her Miss her a thousand miles, wooden bell seems to cry

Now, in the temple hall two nights later, Master Jingshan stood behind his disciple, silent at first. He saw the fire in {{user}}’s eyes — the yearning, the sorrow, the love left unspoken for his childhood friend. Jingshan knew that to bind him now to the robe would twist his heart against the Dharma itself.

At last, the master spoke, voice calm yet compassionate: “A monk vows to release the world. But to hold you here while your heart burns would only breed resentment. Go, child. Face the karma of your heart. If you find peace in love or in loss, the temple gates will remain open.”

He laid his hand gently upon {{user}}’s shoulder — not restraining, not guiding. Only releasing.

30 days until the wedding

Eyes still remain blood red, can't ever find her trace I strike the wooden bell, corrupt all the morals The market smelled of iron and frying oil. Lanterns swung low as evening folded over the village; stalls closed one by one and the last sellers called their wares in tired voices.

At the edge, a weapon merchant sat hunched by a brazier, polishing a curved blade with the slow patience of someone who had seen too many bargains. He squinted up, voice casual as if speaking of the weather.

“Tomorrow Lord Zhao takes another wife. His nineteenth, they say. I heard the bride is some girl… uhm… Lian? Lucky girl.”

The merchant paused, eyeing {{user}}’s silence. “Life’s hard, eh? A good blade can settle many debts.” He tapped the flat of the blade against his knee, then leaned in slightly, lowering his tone.

“I’ve got steel for the farmers, bronze for the guards… and for men with real coin—” he winked, “foreign fire-tubes. Loud, fast, and worth more than silver.” As he spoke, he tugged a corner of oiled cloth on the back shelf, just enough to reveal the long barrel and wooden stock of a matchlock musket before covering it again. His eyes flicked left and right, quick as a fox.

“Course,” he added, voice dropping, “carrying one of those will bring the magistrate down on you fast. Illegal as sin outside the army. But gold speaks louder than law, eh?”

He spread a fresh cloth across the table, rows of knives and fittings catching the brazier’s glow. His smile was thin, businesslike, eyes narrowing for a beat as he studied the customer’s face. That look… desperate eyes always bring gold, he thought, before his hands returned to the neat, polished steel.

“Take your time. But not too long—dawn comes fast, and so do other buyers.”

The time we met and left, the bell sound seems upset Spring and Fall come and go, may not get to see her.

The night was still, the sky pale with moonlight. Cicadas hummed faintly in the grass field beyond the village, where the wind bent the tall stalks in slow waves. Lian walked beside {{user}}, the gold debt finally paid — Lord Zhao’s claim broken.

She laughed softly, almost to herself. “The air feels sweeter out here, don’t you think? Or maybe it’s just me… finally breathing again.” Her fingers brushed the grass tips as she walked. “I don’t know how you managed it, but… you did. You gave us a future I thought was lost.” She slowed, turning toward him, her hands tightening nervously around her sleeves. Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “And you… what do you want, really? After all this? Someone like me can’t pretend not to wonder.”

The silence of the field pressed in, broken only by the whisper of grass.

In that stillness, {{user}} remembered Master Jingshan’s calm voice, the weight of his hand on his shoulder: “Face the karma of your heart. The temple gates will remain open.”

The mountain path was quiet when {{user}} and Lian returned, their steps light yet hesitant. The wooden bell hung motionless in the dusk air, the temple doors half open. Inside, incense still smoldered faintly, but the silence was deeper than prayer.

Master Jingshan had passed. His robe lay folded neatly, his staff resting by the altar. Beside them, a letter, written in the careful strokes of his hand.

The seal was simple, yet its weight pressed heavy in the air. {{user}} unfolded it, and the words of his master’s blessing spread across the page:

“Child, the Dharma teaches that all things are impermanent — even this old body. Do not grieve my passing. You have walked your path as karma demanded, and in it, you have found what was hidden in your heart. That is no failure of the robe, but its fulfillment. If love brings you peace, then carry it as I once carried the sutra. The temple gates will always stand, but now they are yours to guard, not mine.”

Beneath those words, the poem flowed like water across the page:

Buddha is high above, his blessing can't reach her Miss her a thousand miles, wooden bell seems to cry Since she have left this shrine, bodhi don't want to bloom Sutra with countless words, on which lycoris blooms Life is now far away, love hate can't be expressed Wonder why she has left, there's sure no going back The dream's gone with Buddha, return Buddha my robe Why bless me but not her?

For her, the flowers fall, water flows callously The time we met and left, the bell sound seems upset Bodhi can't hear her voice, the flowers bloom and fade Eyes still remain blood red, can't ever find her trace I strike the wooden bell, corrupt all the morals Spring and Fall come and go, may not get to see her Ask Buddha in the life, day by day strike the bell Why bless me but not her?

The letter ended without signature — only the faint trace of incense ash on the edge of the page.

Outside, the wooden bell gave a single, hollow toll. Lian stepped closer, her hand brushing {{user}}’s, her gaze turned upward to the sky heavy with stars. "He knew," she whispered, her voice soft against the night. "He always knew what your heart needed."

The temple was silent, but not empty. In the hush of the mountain night, the master’s presence lingered, not in form, but in blessing.