chapter 2

The turning point came when I was eighteen.

That year marked exactly thirty years since Tang Sanzang and his disciples retrieved the True Sutra.

There was a minister in the court named Zhang, greatly favored by the emperor and wielding enormous power.

He had his eye on a blessed plot of land behind Hongfu Temple, wanting to relocate his father’s grave there. He demanded that we move the stupa tombs of generations of monks from the vacant ground.

Naturally, everyone in the temple refused.

After several fruitless negotiations, this Minister Zhang brazenly led a group of his household soldiers to storm the temple.

They beat up the monks, spat out threats, and swaggered away.

Even Master was struck by several of the soldiers, left lying on the ground, barely clinging to life.

I gazed at the chaos, feeling dizzy and faint.

If they dared to act so lawlessly in a place as solemn as Hongfu Temple,

then what kind of world lay beyond its walls?

All those words about delivering all beings from the sea of suffering, about escaping the prison of hell-

were they all lies?

Enduring the pain in my body, I crawled on my knees to Master, my voice choked as I asked:

“Master, if even the True Sutra cannot protect our temple, how can it safeguard the people of the world outside?”

Master said nothing.

I asked again, “Master, did Tang Sanzang and his disciples truly bring back the True Sutra?”

Still, Master remained silent.

Kneeling on the ground, I bowed my head forcefully and asked:

“Master, if it truly is the True Sutra, why do all beings still suffer? I truly do not understand. Please, Master, enlighten me!”

At last, I heard Master let out a long sigh.

He coughed a few times, then slowly said, “Bu Yi, never mind the True Sutra-how do you know that the four who returned were truly Tang Sanzang and his disciples?”

At his words, not only I, but all the brothers around me showed astonishment.

“Xuanzang and I have known each other since childhood. I know that the eminent monk who returned with the scriptures that day was not him.”

“Master!” I cried out urgently.

But Master closed his eyes and spoke no more.

The other brothers gathered around, and we heard Master, his voice as faint as a thread, say:

“He should have known that the True Sutra he brought back was a fake.”

“What did he truly experience on the road to the Western Paradise?”

Those were the last words Master ever spoke.

And on the afternoon of Master’s cremation, I made a decision.

I would leave Hongfu Temple, my home for fifteen years, and alone retrace the Journey to the West for Scriptures.

I must uncover the truth behind the quest for the True Sutra in the Western Paradise.

For Master, for myself,

and for all beings.