The sun hung on the eaves of the ruined temple, like a copper coin tilted by the wind.
An old dog squatted beside the stone steps, dozing with half-closed eyes. Occasionally, it let out a grunt, as if cursing someone.
The temple door had three visible cracks. The plaque, with the characters "Guixin An" (Retreat of Return), hung crooked for over a year.
There were no bells, no incense. Even the Buddha statue had part of its nose weathered off, making it look like it was smirking coldly.
A monk sat at the foot of the Buddha, making tea.
He wore an old robe, one hand holding a kettle, the other resting on his cheek. Before him lay half a table, three peanuts, two pieces of oolong, and a small bird that had wandered in.
"Care for some tea?" he asked the bird.
The bird flapped its wings and flew away—taking a peanut with it.
"Sharp beak, sharp mouth," the monk chuckled. "Even birds steal from me now. Robbing the poor to feed the rich, eh?"
Just as he was about to take a sip, there was a loud bang—the temple door was kicked open.
A young man in green stormed in, sword in hand, with one word written all over his face: Vengeance.
"You're the monk Wuxin?"
Wuxin didn't look up, simply poured more tea into his cup.
"Do you believe it if I said I'm your father?"
The youth was stunned, then roared, "Enough nonsense! You killed my parents ten years ago! I'm here to avenge them!"
Wuxin sighed and finally looked up. "How old are you now?"
"Eighteen!"
"So you were nine when your parents died?"
"Yes!"
"Then maybe, before drawing your sword, you should ask—Where was I that year?"
The young man faltered, looking confused.
Wuxin pushed the teacup forward. "Ten years ago, I was sweeping floors at Liusha Temple. They didn't even trust me with a decent broom. Kill someone? I'd probably bow before butchering a chicken."
"You're lying!"
"I'm not," Wuxin said plainly, "but I have lied to many people."
He tugged up his robe, revealing a long scar on his leg. "This was left by your so-called 'enemy'. If not for this, I'd have left the mountain and married already."
The youth paused, staring at the scar, doubt creeping into his eyes.
"Who's your master?"
"Zang Feng, the Hermit."
"Zang Feng?" A flash of amusement passed through Wuxin's eyes. "That old fox is still playing the same old game."
He stood up and dusted off his robe. "If you want to kill me, at least drink this pot of tea first. Grudges in the martial world require logic. You don't even know who I am, and you're risking your life already—foolish trade."
The youth stood still, a storm of thoughts on his face.
The dog yawned and rolled over.
Wuxin kept brewing tea. "If you really hate me, stay. This temple's broken, but sleeping on the floor is still better than lying in a coffin."
Moments later, the youth sheathed his sword and sat down, accepting the cup of tea and drinking it.
"Bitter."
"People are bitter. Tea shouldn't be sweet."
Wuxin looked up at him and smiled.
"What's your name?"
"…Du He."
"Nice name." Wuxin stood, stretching his limbs.
"Come, Du He. Let's head to the back mountain to catch a chicken or two. You're hungry, and so am I."
Du He blinked. "Aren't you a monk?"
Wuxin patted his shoulder. "I am. But I've broken my vows."
Outside, the wind blew down two roof tiles. The dog opened its eyes lazily and got up.
By dusk, the pot in Guixin An was bubbling with the smell of stew.
By nightfall—
Only the dog's snoring echoed in the temple.
Du He couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned, eyes open, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling, as if they might reveal a truth.
He rose, stepping into the courtyard. The moon had tilted west.
Wuxin was sitting by the threshold, drinking wine. The wine jar lay on its side, and the dog, curled at his feet, slept like a puddle of mush.
"Still awake?" Wuxin didn't turn around, as though he'd expected him.
Du He leaned against a pillar, coldly saying, "You haven't explained everything."
Wuxin: "What?"
Du He: "The fire that killed my master that year—your name was on a piece of torn scripture found at the scene. I checked. It was your handwriting."
Wuxin said nothing. He took another swig.
"You say it wasn't you. Then explain—why was your writing there?" Du He stared at him, sharp as a blade in the night.
Wuxin finally turned, eyes unreadable, half-smiling.
"You've investigated for seven years, only to find a piece of scripture I wrote? And that's your verdict?"
"I—"
"Then why don't you check how many people I've written Buddhist precepts for? Lanterns I've gifted? Scriptures I've copied? Love poems I've penned?" Wuxin scoffed. "Next, will you accuse me of causing some widow to stay single because I once wrote 'deep love is doomed' in a poem?"
Du He flushed, but kept pressing. "I don't believe in coincidence."
"Of course it's not coincidence." Wuxin suddenly grinned—like he'd just downed a bottle of burning wine. "I wrote it."
"You admit it?!"
"I admit I wrote the paper. That doesn't mean I lit the fire." He pointed at the dog nearby. "It bit your pants today. Will you now say it's the culprit behind your missing dog years ago?"
The dog grunted and rolled again.
Du He stood frozen, his eyes flickering with doubt and fury. His fingers twitched at his sword's hilt but didn't draw it.
"…Then tell me. Do you have any connection to my master's death?"
Wuxin looked at him, for the first time, with softened eyes. "A little."
The air stilled.
"I passed through the village that year. Saw your master practicing. His swordplay was wild—spooked my horse. I asked him to stop. He refused. So I left a note, telling him to calm his spirit."
"And then he died?"
"And then—I left." Wuxin rose, brushing his robe.
"Whether a man lives or dies is not up to someone else's handwriting. Your master died by the martial world's hand—not mine."
Du He's eyes trembled. His lips quivered, unsure what to say, as if gripping a blade with no target.
"Hating me is not wrong," Wuxin stepped closer, "but after all these years, you must ask yourself—do you want the truth, or just a shadow to blame?"
Du He was silent for a long time, then finally lowered his hand.
He asked quietly: "Would you… help me investigate?"
Wuxin smacked his lips. "Sure. But who's paying?"
"…Why are you such a vulgar monk?"
"My temple's crumbling. My dog's starving. And you want to talk about the Dao?"
The dog huffed, agreeing.
Wuxin turned and walked toward the temple, leaving behind a final sentence:
"Stay if you want. We don't have to investigate.
But in the martial world, if you don't—you won't get far anyway."
The temple door half-closed, letting moonlight spill in and scatter across the feet of the Buddha statue.
The dog got up, biting Du He's pants and dragging him gently back inside.
Misunderstandings in the jianghu are not easily unraveled.
But sometimes—
Even a monk without an umbrella can wait out the rain.