Chapter Nineteen: Treasure Hunt in the Ancient Temple

The two of them quickly finished their meal, and Liu Datong immediately arranged for people to begin the investigation. Ning Zhiheng, meanwhile, made his way to the renowned Fahua Temple within Nanjing city.

Fahua Temple stood in the southern part of the city. Legend had it that the temple was built at the beginning of the Ming dynasty, giving it a history of over five hundred years. Once, the temple covered a vast area, but after centuries of storms and decay, its grounds had greatly diminished. Its layout faced north to south, with halls modeled after Song dynasty architecture: three courtyards set in strict order. The flying eaves and soaring ridges, as well as the tall, though now somewhat dilapidated, screen wall, still hinted at their original yellow ochre hue, evoking faint memories of former grandeur.

When Ning Zhiheng arrived, there were few worshippers in the temple, just a handful of people wandering in and out, suggesting the incense offerings were rather meager. He strolled in, and in the center of the front courtyard stood a bronze censer, filled with grey ashes from burnt incense. Several sticks of sandalwood were still smoldering, their smoke curling upward.

Above the main gate hung a plaque inscribed with the golden characters “Fahua Chan Temple,” bold and full. The east and west side gates bore the calligraphic inscriptions “Prajna” and “Liberation.” Within the main hall sat a statue of Sakyamuni Buddha—serene, with a gentle smile, earlobes drooping to his shoulders, his robe draped over him, exuding a solemn compassion. The statue vividly captured the moment of Sakyamuni’s enlightenment.

Inside the hall, an elderly monk in plain robes sat near the Buddha, tapping a wooden fish and chanting sutras softly. Two middle-aged reception monks greeted visitors and interpreted divinations, chatting with a few devotees.

Ning Zhiheng stepped forward, took three sticks of sandalwood incense, lit them, and placed them in the altar censer. He then knelt on a cushion, pressed his palms together, and quietly recited verses from the Lotus Sutra with sincere devotion.

This was the first time since coming to this world that he found himself in such close proximity to a Buddhist sanctuary, and a deep sense of familiarity welled up inside him. As he chanted, his mind felt clear and at peace. The sensation was so familiar that, for a moment, he felt as though he sat beneath the bodhi tree within his conscious mind once more.

At that moment, the elderly monk who had been chanting with eyes closed opened them and glanced at Ning Zhiheng, who was now in a state of deep meditation before the Buddha. A look of surprise and curiosity flickered in his eyes. The young worshipper gave him an uncanny feeling, as if he were a fellow practitioner of many years, both familiar and dear. Yet the old monk said nothing, merely closed his eyes once more.

After a while, Ning Zhiheng finished his silent recitation, emerged from his meditative state, respectfully performed three prostrations, and stood. Moving forward, he placed several banknotes into the merit box.

One of the reception monks happened to catch a glimpse and felt his heart skip a beat—each note was a ten-yuan bill, a large denomination. This single offering equaled half a month’s worth of incense donations. Times were hard, and the temple’s incense offerings were sparse. Most visitors gave just a few copper coins, or at most a few silver dollars. The daily donations barely sustained the monks; otherwise, the temple would not have fallen into such disrepair.

Donations to the merit box were voluntary, determined by the devotion of the worshippers and unseen by others. Seeing Ning Zhiheng’s generosity, the monk’s spirits soared. He hurried forward, palms pressed together in a gesture of respect. “Amitabha, benefactor, your heart is truly devoted to Buddha. The Enlightened One will surely bless you with safety, peace, and freedom from disaster!”

Ning Zhiheng returned the gesture. “Thank you, Master, for your kind words.”

“Are you here to make a wish, or to seek a divination?” the monk inquired. Such a generous patron could not be allowed to slip away; if well received, the temple might receive a substantial contribution.

“I am here to fulfill a vow, and I also wish to request some Buddhist ritual items for enshrining at home. Would that be possible?” Ning Zhiheng replied.

His purpose was to find a Buddhist artifact that could aid the growth of the bodhi tree, though he wasn’t sure exactly what kind of item was required.

“Of course, of course! Our temple’s consecrated ritual objects are the most efficacious. Many high officials and wealthy patrons come to us for them—you’ve come to the right place!” The monk’s eyes lit up at this, delighted that the patron had taken the initiative to ask for ritual items before he even had to suggest it.

He glanced at the old monk by the Buddha, who showed no reaction, then invited Ning Zhiheng to the rear hall, signaling his junior to fetch the prepared ritual items.

Temples usually kept a variety of Buddhist artifacts on hand—small Buddha statues, prayer beads, wooden fish, vajra bells, vajra pestles, conch shells, and so on—for devotees to take home and enshrine in exchange for a donation. This was an important source of income for the temple.

The rear hall, where the monks usually rested, was peaceful and empty. After inviting Ning Zhiheng to rest on a cushion, the monk soon laid out an array of ritual items before him.

They were all ordinary objects used in Buddhist worship. Ning Zhiheng picked up a small Buddha statue—cast in bronze, representing the Medicine Buddha. It was finely made and quite heavy.

“This is the statue of the Medicine Buddha—also called the Lapis Lazuli Buddha. He relieves the suffering of all beings and heals their illnesses. Enshrined at home, he will drive away disease, avert misfortune, and grant long life,” the monk eagerly explained.

This statue was specially commissioned from a highly skilled coppersmith in Nanjing, solidly made and finely crafted—far superior to the mass-produced temple souvenirs of later times.

Ning Zhiheng did not respond, but held the statue carefully, trying to sense anything unusual. There was none.

Ignoring the curious glances of those around him, he sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and calmed his mind, entering his inner world. Once more, he found himself beneath the bodhi tree, the sound of sutra chanting echoing as he closely observed the branches and leaves. Still, there was no reaction—just as before.

Slightly disappointed, he withdrew from his inner world and set the statue aside—it seemed ineffective.

He next picked up a wooden fish, repeated the process, yet again sensed nothing and put it down, moving on to the next item.

The monk watched as Ning Zhiheng inspected each artifact in turn, yet chose none. He found it odd—each piece was of good quality, yet none satisfied the young man.

Ning Zhiheng felt his approach might be flawed; perhaps these so-called ritual objects were not what he needed. Still, he remained patient. There were many kinds of Buddhist artifacts, and although these appeared well made, none were very old—they were merely decorative.

“Master, does the temple have any older ritual objects? If so, I would be very grateful and make a generous offering,” Ning Zhiheng asked.

“Are you looking for antiques?” The monk quickly deduced that Ning Zhiheng might be an artifact dealer. But not all antiques were valuable. Fahua Temple did have a few ancient items, but none were worth much, or they would have been sold long ago. Did people really think monks were ignorant?

As the saying goes, “in times of prosperity, antiques prosper; in times of chaos, gold prevails.” In these times, few antiques held value; only rare collectors sought out the finest pieces, and these common items were ignored for their lack of rarity.

Ning Zhiheng understood the implication but didn’t mind. In a sense, the monk was right—he was indeed searching for a valuable artifact, though his criteria for value were different.

On the other hand, the monk posed no threat whatsoever. In fact, if Ning Zhiheng ever found an item that aided the growth of the bodhi tree, he had plenty of ways to acquire it, regardless of the monk’s wishes. Such was the world—where force often prevailed—though Ning Zhiheng preferred not to resort to such measures.

“There are indeed a few old ritual items in the temple. Please, take a look,” the monk replied.

Soon, having pegged Ning Zhiheng as a dealer, the monk produced two items: a dark, iron alms bowl and a wooden fish in the shape of a dragon-headed fish.

Ning Zhiheng examined them. He was no stranger to antiques and could tell at a glance both were quite old. The iron alms bowl likely dated back to the Ming dynasty; though ancient, it was worthless unless made of gold or silver. The dragon-headed fish-shaped wooden fish was from the Qing dynasty, a popular style at the time, but precisely because it was common, it had little value.

But Ning Zhiheng wasn’t truly an artifact dealer—what mattered was whether the item could help the bodhi tree grow.

Unfortunately, the bodhi tree in his mind remained unresponsive. Clearly, age alone was not the answer.

He was disappointed, but not yet willing to give up. He still believed his reasoning sound—he just had not found the right item.

He rose and said to the monk, “It seems that I am not fated to find the right artifact today.”

The monk, too, was a bit disappointed, having once received a similar visit from an artifact dealer, who also found nothing to his liking. Fahua Temple had long since fallen into decline, its treasures lost to the ravages of time; little remained now.

It seemed there would be no gains today. Yet Ning Zhiheng maintained a genial smile, pressed his palms together, and bowed. “There is no need to hurry, benefactor. The Dharma is all about fate—let things take their course,” the monk consoled.

“May I take a look around the temple?” Ning Zhiheng asked. “Fahua Temple’s centuries of history have always inspired my admiration.”

He wanted to see if he had missed anything—perhaps another look might bring a turn of fortune.

“Of course. Please, feel free,” the monk replied.

The temple was meant to be open to worshippers; without their alms, how would the monks sustain themselves? Especially with such a generous patron as Ning Zhiheng, he could not be refused.

Ning Zhiheng bowed slightly, left the rear hall, and felt that the main hall still offered the best chance.

The monks, seeing him depart, packed up the items in disappointment and went about their duties.

Returning to the main hall, Ning Zhiheng saw the gaunt old monk still striking the wooden fish, eyes closed in meditation, while two worshippers knelt before the Sakyamuni statue in prayer.

The hall was spacious, its walls and beams carved with once-beautiful patterns, now blurred and faded.

Ning Zhiheng examined every corner, touching each place with his hand, concentrating on the sensation—he even checked the Buddha statue itself. Yet there was still nothing. At last, he had to give up.

He left the main hall. In the courtyard, there were two side halls, one dedicated to the Medicine Buddha, the other to Maitreya.

Fahua Temple’s incense offerings were sparse, and the side halls were entirely deserted.

He inspected them as thoroughly as before. When he reached the Medicine Buddha’s shrine, he found a censer and a wooden fish atop the altar, along with a string of prayer beads, all covered in dust—apparently, the side hall was so neglected that even the monks did not bother to clean it.

Ning Zhiheng tried sensing the censer and the wooden fish, but again, there was no reaction—only dust on his hands.

But when he picked up the string of prayer beads, a powerful sensation surged through him, one he had long awaited. As before, there was no warning; the moment his fingers touched the beads, his consciousness was involuntarily drawn into his inner world.

This time, however, the space was filled with dazzling light. The bodhi tree stirred, its six leaves swaying violently, as if a starving infant had finally been nourished—pure joy!

The chanting from the bodhi tree grew louder, the entire realm of consciousness brimming with delight.

Wonderful! This was exactly the feeling he sought. His reasoning was correct, and the reaction of the bodhi tree confirmed it completely.

Ning Zhiheng immediately withdrew from his inner world, eager to see what was special about these prayer beads that had such an effect on the bodhi tree.

Looking at them in his hand, they seemed utterly ordinary—a string of ten hardwood beads, their color dull, a few even cracked, obviously never cared for.

Ning Zhiheng was certain the wood was not precious. From what he knew, the finest beads were made from agarwood, followed by huanghuali, then red sandalwood—but these were none of those, at best just fragrant wood, very common for this era.

The only unusual feature was the small, dark yellow segment at the joint of the string—a three-centimeter decorative ring, likely made from the finger bone of some animal.

No matter—it was the right thing. As for why, he would carefully study it once he returned. He was sure he would discover its secret.