Chapter 124: The Door of the Heart

The bell tolled from afar, its resonant sound traversing mountains and rivers to reach Chen Jianchen’s ears, causing his very soul to tremble. With a soft hum, the "Haoran Yangwu Sword" manifested within his consciousness. It seemed stirred by an external adversary, growing restless and eager, vibrating as if ready to unsheathe at any moment.

Chen Jianchen knew well, however, that while encased in its scabbard, the Yangwu Sword could not yet be drawn. If it were to emerge, it would mean he had reached the realm of "Righteousness Manifest," the stage of achieving merit.

*Clang!*

Not long after, a second bell toll arrived. This time, the sound was even more grandiose. Chen Jianchen’s expression shifted abruptly; his face turned paper-white in an instant. His fists clenched involuntarily, his nails digging into his palms until red marks emerged.

*Clang!*

As the third toll rang out, it struck as if right beside his ear. *Bang!* The Yangwu Sword within his soul was struck like a hammer, shattering into pieces.

*Puff!*

Chen Jianchen felt a massive shock to his heart, and with that toll, he coughed up a mouthful of blood, which splashed onto the ground—a startling sight.

"This is bad!" he cried out inwardly. He hurriedly steadied his mind, took his scholar’s four treasures from the blood-sandalwood case, spread paper on the floor, and began to grind ink. *Swish, swish, swish*—he wrote frantically, over and over, the same character: "Fixity."

He wrote eighteen "Fixity" characters before the palpitations in his heart gradually subsided. As his mind regained clarity, he closed his eyes again. In the hazy world of his Niwan Palace, a human figure suddenly emerged: "With thoughts held firm, one by one they arise, becoming faith: a faith so tall and stable that it forms an image of will—upright, positive, immortal as jade, resonant..."

The voice, which he felt he had heard before, echoed in his heart once more. The figure became stable and clear; though his features remained obscured by his back being turned, his high scholar’s cap and long, flowing robes were visible, radiating elegance.

With this figure appearing, Chen Jianchen’s spirit steadied, no longer shaken by the tolling bell. *Clang! Clang! Clang!* Subsequent tolls rang out, but they could no longer penetrate his soul’s sanctuary, drifting past his ears and vanishing into nothingness.

"Could this figure be the image of a sage? With him guarding my heart's gate, I can resist external intrusion..." Chen Jianchen wondered.

Every household posts images of door gods to protect the home; the wealthy, beyond door gods, place stone lions or mythical beasts at their entrances to bolster their prestige and deter wandering spirits. Man, as a fundamental unit, also has a gate: the Heart Gate.

The Heart Gate varies from person to person. For ordinary folk, flaws in the Heart Gate are everywhere, especially among the elderly, the weak, and the sick. Their gates are large and hollow, making them susceptible to demons and phantoms, leading to illusions and madness. Even for cultivators, the Heart Gate remains a vulnerability. Whether pursuing Daoist immortality or Buddhist enlightenment, practitioners must manifest an image of an immortal or a Buddha to guard that gate and prevent the birth of inner demons.

Chen Jianchen, practicing the "Three Establishments True Scripture," had manifested a scholar in green robes—a reflection of his own path.

After an unknown amount of time, he heard the boatman’s call: "Young master, we have arrived at Jinshan Temple."

Chen Jianchen opened his eyes slowly but did not move. It turned out that not everyone could endure the bells of Jinshan Temple. It was no wonder the wealthy merchant Huangfu dared not approach; had he come, the bells would have forced him to reveal his true form, and if he couldn't escape in time, his soul might have been scattered.

What a formidable bell. Is this the true power of a magical artifact?

Ordinary Buddhist devotees visiting Jinshan Temple to burn incense found the bells beneficial, cleansing their minds and spirits—the true meaning of "Morning Bells and Evening Drums." But for heretics and those of opposing paths, the sound held lethal destructive power.

Chen Jianchen, following the path of the Confucian scholars, held no faith in Buddha. To the Buddhist order, he was an outsider. The three teachings of Daoism, Buddhism, and Confucianism each had their own philosophies and principles, often clashing in ways that were irreconcilable. Sometimes, ideological conflict was no less bitter than blood feuds.

Stance dictates attitude, and attitude dictates action.

Realizing this, Chen Jianchen’s mind opened. The previously disjointed pieces of his experience clicked into place, and he began to form his own independent framework of understanding.

"The Master said: 'One word can sum it up: thought without evil...'"

A long sigh echoed in his mind, and the image of the scholar in the green robe became completely distinct. He stood tall, his robes fluttering in the wind. Though his back was still turned, one could see he held a brush in his right hand.

The "Evil-Repelling Brush"!

Chen Jianchen recognized it instantly. So, the brush had been in this figure’s hand all along. But who was he? Which ancient sage? Or was he the creator of the "Three Establishments True Scripture"?

Countless questions swirled in his mind. Although he had grasped the method for refining righteous energy, the deeper mysteries of the scripture remained veiled in thick fog. None of this was mere coincidence.

"Young master, we have arrived at Jinshan Temple," the boatman called again, showing impatience.

"I won’t be disembarking. Please take me back to Suzhou," Chen Jianchen replied.

The boatman was stunned. "Young master, didn't you come to burn incense and pray?"

"I said before, I did not come to burn incense, but to see the Buddha."

The boatman, not understanding the distinction, simply asked, "Then... you aren't seeing the Buddha?"

"My interest has waned," Chen Jianchen said calmly. "I shall not."

In antiquity, there were elegant scholars who would travel hundreds of miles through snow at midnight to visit a friend, only to turn back the moment they reached the door, saying, "I came on a whim, and I leave now that the whim is satisfied." Some called this "the style of an elegant scholar," while others called it "madness."

Chen Jianchen was doing the same, though in truth, he simply could not enter. While many scholars could enter Jinshan Temple without hindrance, he could not. The bell had made that clear.

It mattered little. Whether he saw the monk Fuxiao or not, he had heard the bell. His goal was achieved. He did not step out of the cabin, nor did he cast a glance at the world-famous temple—even though it lay right before him. He instructed the boatman to return to Suzhou.

The boatman, having ferried countless pilgrims, had never seen anyone like Chen Jianchen. Still, as long as he was paid, he had no complaints. He turned the boat around and drifted back.

The north wind howled, chilling the river and the faces of the maidens on the banks. Yet, the pilgrims continued their ascent of the thousand stone steps, some kowtowing with every step, hoping for the Buddha’s protection.

Jinshan Temple was magnificent, with countless halls and a forest of pagodas. Among them, one tower stood a hundred stories high, towering like a giant tree in a thicket. This was the famous "Dawn Pagoda." It had stood through ages of wind and rain, exuding an ancient, primitive aura.

At the very top hung a massive golden bell, inscribed with dense Sanskrit and intricate images. High above, where the wind was bitter, the monk Fuxiao stood, indifferent to the cold. His gaze fell upon the Suzhou River, specifically on a single wooden-awning boat.

"He has left..."

It was as if he were speaking to himself, or perhaps to the other monk present. The second monk was elderly, his face a landscape of deep wrinkles, his eyes clouded and dim as if he had lost his sight. He remained motionless, like a statue in deep meditation.

Fuxiao continued, "A clever man. He knows when to advance and when to retreat. He carries righteous energy—though whether that is a blessing or a curse, I do not know."

The old monk did not move, his eyes closing completely as if falling asleep.

Fuxiao withdrew his gaze and looked at the old monk. "Senior brother, your 'Bitter Zen' grows ever more profound; your heart’s gate is as if dead. But I say to you again: the path you walk is wrong."

Without waiting for a reply, Fuxiao departed the tower. "There are still two fox spirits down there. The younger one has had her tribulation suppressed, but some things cannot be suppressed forever..."