socalfunplaces Chapter 793 Lu Xueqi and Biyao
Chapter 793 Lu Xueqi and Biyao
“Nine hundred and ninety,” he said in a hoarse voice, “nine floors short.”
He snapped his broken little finger with his thumb, setting the bone, and the pain made his vision go black. Then he continued climbing.
Nine hundred and ninety-one, nine hundred and ninety-two, nine hundred and ninety-three. The Sanskrit on the wall began to burn, each character turning into golden flames, scorching his fingertips. Su Han's palms were covered in burning blisters; the blisters burst, and the liquid that oozed out evaporated instantly onto the stone wall. He smelled the burning flesh on his skin, a smell that made him want to vomit, but he had no hands to cover his mouth and could only endure it.
Nine hundred and ninety-four. He felt himself about to faint. His consciousness, like a kite with a broken string, drifted upwards, while his body remained pressed tightly against the wall. He knew he couldn't faint; if he let go, everything would be for nothing. He remembered the Heart-Protecting Pill the sect leader had given him before he left. He hadn't taken it, intending to save it for a crucial moment. Now must be that crucial moment. He clenched his fist with his left hand, and with difficulty, reached into his robes with his right, pulled out the pill, and swallowed it dry.
As the pill entered his stomach, a warm current instantly exploded in his dantian. This was the best healing elixir in the Immortal Realm, said to be able to keep one's breath alive. Su Han felt his hazy consciousness clear up a bit, and the excruciating pain at his severed finger subsided. Although his body was still just as exhausted, at least he could see the wall in front of him. He saw the Sanskrit characters again. This time, the characters were no longer burning, but arranged into a path in his vision—not a path to climb upwards, but a path for him to think.
Nine hundred and ninety-five floors, nine hundred and ninety-six floors. Su Han suddenly realized something. This level tested his perseverance, but perseverance wasn't blind persistence, nor was it like a stubborn donkey just pushing its way up. True perseverance was having the courage to try a different method when you realized the original one wasn't working. He had always thought he could only climb by using his fingers to pull himself up, but now his right hand was mostly useless, and he couldn't use it at all. He stopped, hung on the wall to catch his breath, and then made a decision that surprised even himself.
He took off his Taoist robe. Bare-chested, he tore the robe into strips and wrapped them around his hands, layer upon layer, until his hands looked like two enormous white calluses. Then he circulated his Heavenly Qi—not to resist pressure, but simply to break it into fine threads and wrap them around each strip of cloth, increasing the friction between the cloth and the wall. He pressed his cloth-wrapped hands against the wall, no longer using his fingers to pick at the seams, but instead slapping his entire palm against it, using the friction to rub upwards.
Slow, so slow. Each floor required dozens of inch-long inclines to climb. But he moved. He didn't know if his method was right, or if the founder of the art would shake his head and sigh if he saw him climbing the tower like this, but he moved. The flames and Sanskrit inscriptions on the walls couldn't burn through the strips of cloth, the pressure couldn't bend his spine. He inch by inch, climbing the 996th floor, like a caterpillar, like a snail, like any ordinary person who refuses to give up in dire straits.
Nine hundred and ninety-seven. The strips of cloth were charred, the threads of celestial energy that had formed snapped one by one, and the blisters on his palms were reheated, cracked, and dried. Su Han looked at his two charred "claws" and thought that he probably would never be able to use a sword again in his life. But this thought only flashed through his mind and then disappeared; he was thinking about the nine hundred and ninety-eighth floor.
Nine hundred and ninety-eight. He suddenly felt no pressure. Or rather, the pressure was still there, but his body was numb; his nerves felt severed, and he couldn't feel anything. He looked down and saw that the flesh of his two hands was completely charred black, exposing the bones. The stark white finger bones clung to the stone wall, the contrast between black and white as glaring as an ink painting. He wasn't afraid. He even found it amusing; it turned out that human bones, beneath the charred flesh, were such a clean white.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine. He climbed to the edge of the tower. One hand reached up, then the other. He lay there, half his body dangling over the edge, his chest heaving violently. Every breath he took was scorching hot, but his exhale carried the cool scent of sandalwood. He tried to pull himself up, but his arms wouldn't obey him, and the muscles in his shoulders ached as if they were being torn apart. He thrashed about on the edge like a stranded fish for a couple of moments, then resignedly lay there, waiting for his last breath to come.
The old monk's voice came from the top of the tower, so close it seemed he could almost touch it: "Benefactor, you've reached the top. You can let go now." Su Han then noticed that the top of the tower was a platform, and the old monk sat in the center of it, a blue lamp before him, its flame white and still as a star. With his last ounce of strength, Su Han dragged himself up, rolled over, and lay on his back on the platform. The golden sky of the Buddhist realm stretched overhead, the clouds a vibrant blue, drifting by one by one, carrying a faint, sweet fragrance.
He lay there, and laughed. He laughed until tears streamed down his face, mingling with the blood and sweat on his face, and trickled into his ears, making them itch.
“I’m up here,” he said to the sky, his voice so soft it was as if he were talking to himself.
The old monk stood up, walked to his side, and looked down at him. His compassionate eyes held a complex emotion—admiration, pity, and something Su Han couldn't decipher. The old monk knelt down and placed his palm on Su Han's forehead. A warm, gentle Buddhist power flowed in, like thawing spring water, slowly coursing through his body. His charred hand began to regenerate, severed fingers were reattached, and his ruptured internal organs healed little by little under the nourishment of the Buddhist power.
“You have passed the third test,” the old monk said, withdrawing his hand. “But the third test is not just a test of your perseverance.”
Su Han sat up, staring blankly at his hands, now perfectly restored. He had thought his hands were ruined for life; he hadn't expected the power of Buddhism to be so miraculous. He looked up at the old monk and asked, "Master, what else was tested in the third trial?"
The old monk, fingering his prayer beads, remained silent for a moment before saying, “The young monk you just saw was me. Nine hundred years ago, I was climbing Mount Ling here, and I gave up when I reached the eight hundredth level. I came down weeping, knelt before Buddha, and said, ‘This disciple is foolish and cannot comprehend life and death.’ Buddha did not blame me; he simply said, ‘If you cannot comprehend it, then continue to comprehend it. If you cannot climb to the top, then take another path.’”
Su Han was stunned. The memory he saw on the tower wall actually belonged to the old monk in front of him.
“I took a different path,” the old monk continued. “For nine hundred years, I planted trees, swept the ground, and chanted scriptures at the foot of the mountain. I copied down the Buddhist scriptures of the patriarchs who had inscribed Sanskrit on the walls of the pagoda, one by one, and distributed them to every monk who came to Lingshan to seek the Way. I did not climb to the top of the pagoda, but I built a scripture repository at the foot of the mountain. Buddha later said to me: ‘You did not climb the pagoda, but you brought the pagoda to the human world.’”
He looked at Su Han, his gaze as deep as the sea: "Just now, when you were on the 996th floor, you could have easily used the power of chaos to force your way up, but you chose to do it your own way. You used strips of cloth, you used threads of celestial righteous energy, you used the most foolish, slowest, but most suitable method for your current situation. That is wisdom." (End of this chapter)