A heretical cultivator in Bureau 749, I'm the fiercest at pulling out tendons and skinning peop

The bandits ran away so cleanly and swiftly, like a gust of wind, disappearing in a flash.

The officers from Bureau 749 also pursued the enemy "dutifully," their sirens wailing as they gradually faded into the night.

I reckon they chased him to the next film set to continue filming.

The hustle and bustle faded away, leaving only the cold moonlight and a lingering, desolate atmosphere—a mixture of incense ash, dust, and a slightly burnt smell—atop the ruins.

All sounds are silent.

No, it wasn't completely silent either.

There were sobs, groans, and the monks' suppressed, desperate sighs.

Looking around, what a desolate and miserable scene it was.

Jinshan Temple has suffered a real injury this time, a serious one, like its bones and internal organs have been ripped out.

The only saving grace is that no one actually lost their life here.

Not a single one is dead.

There were a few injured, though.

The main targets were those hot-tempered old monks and abbots, who received special attention from the group of demon saints and were beaten quite a bit.

Now they were all bruised and battered, their monk robes torn like mops, lying on the ground groaning in pain.

But they were all superficial injuries, looking terrible, but after a month or two of rest, they would be back to their lively selves, going out to beg for alms.

Faming didn't die either.

It was carried over from the back of the mountain and placed on an open space to the side.

The person was still breathing, their chest rising and falling slightly, but that's how they looked... ugh, unbearable to look at.

His cultivation was completely ruined; his spiritual palace was destroyed, his position was taken away, and a lifetime of hard work had gone to waste.

However, the Divine Treasury Realm had nurtured his physical foundation, making him even more resilient than a cockroach. At this moment, he was in a delicate state of being "a little dead, but not completely dead."

He's barely clinging to life, just barely managing to stay alive.

His eyes were vacant, staring blankly at the endless night sky, as if his soul had been ripped out, completely unresponsive to the surrounding desolation.

A young monk, who looked to be only fifteen or sixteen years old, stood up shakily from the crowd.

His face was covered in ash and tears, and the hem of his monk's robe was soaked; it was unclear whether it was from fright or something else.

He turned his neck blankly, looking around.

Not long ago, this was the square in front of the main hall of Jinshan Temple, a place of great religious activity, melodious bells, and ancient charm.

There are magnificent palaces, solemn Buddha statues, and wisps of incense smoke.

What now?

Looking around, there were broken walls and ruins everywhere, and it was hard to find even a single intact floor tile.

"Waaaaah..."

The young monk, witnessing a scene more absurd than a nightmare, completely broke down. He collapsed to the ground, covered his face, and burst into tears, his voice filled with despair and confusion.

"Jinshan Temple... is gone... completely gone..."

"Master... Senior Uncle... what... what should we do..."

The crying sounded like a switch had been flipped.

More suppressed sobs echoed from every corner of the ruins.

The bewilderment of surviving the disaster, the grief of the destroyed Buddhist temple, the fear of the unknown future...

Overwhelmed by a mix of emotions, even these monks, who usually chanted sutras and maintained a peaceful state of mind, could not withstand it.

In an instant, cries of sorrow rose from all sides, and a gloomy atmosphere descended.

Just when the atmosphere was so gloomy it was almost freezing—

"Amitabha."

A peaceful, aged Buddhist chant, yet carrying a uniquely comforting power, gently resounded.

The sound wasn't loud, but it seemed to carry a calming power, silencing the weeping crowd.

Everyone looked in the direction of the sound.

An old monk, wearing an old but clean robe, with snow-white eyebrows and beard, and a gaunt face, slowly walked out from the crowd.

His steps were steady, his eyes calm, as if the ruins before him were no different from the meditation room where he usually meditated.

He was the previous abbot of Jinshan Temple, Faming's teacher, whose Dharma name was Zhenying.

Zhenying walked up to the little monk, reached out her hand, and patted his bald, dusty head affectionately.

"Foolish child."

His voice was gentle, like the evening breeze:

"They're all just material possessions, made of earth, stone, clay, and bronze; why worry about them so much?"

The Diamond Sutra says: "All forms are illusory."

"Palaces will collapse, Buddha statues will decay, scriptures will scatter; what in this world is eternal and imperishable?"

"Since you've already gone, don't force it."

Zhenying turned around, facing all the monks, some sitting and some lying down, their expressions filled with despair. Her gaze slowly swept over each face, and her voice rose slightly, carrying an undeniable firmness:

"Jinshan Temple has never been just these few rooms and a few Buddha statues."

"Jinshan Temple is us."

"It is each and every one of you who practices here, worships the Buddha here, and transmits the Dharma here."

"As long as people are still alive, and their hearts are still alive, the Dharma remains..."

He paused, then spoke each word clearly and distinctly into everyone's ears:

"Jinshan Temple will always be there!"

These words were like a clear spring flowing into a parched heart.

A faint light rekindled in the bewildered eyes of many young monks.

Yes, the temple is gone, but it can be rebuilt.

As long as people are alive, there is hope!

Seeing that Zhen Ying had calmed people's hearts, he said no more.

He slowly raised his hands, clasped them together in front of his chest, and then, in full view of everyone—

His palms, which had been clasped together, slowly, very slowly, opened up.

A gentle yet incredibly solid golden light emanated from his outstretched palm, gradually shining brighter and brighter!

Zhenying's outstretched palms seemed to each hold a miniature, golden, and wondrous world!

There are faint shadowy mountain peaks, babbling streams, palaces and pavilions, and the sounds of birds and the fragrance of flowers!

As the Buddha's light circulated, items of supplies appeared out of thin air in the open space in front of him, as if by magic.

First came several large boxes of neatly stacked hundred-yuan bills, tightly wrapped in oil paper.

Next came mountains of rice, flour, and cooking oil, packed in burlap sacks, bulging and heavy.

Then came bundles of cloth, and brand-new monk robes and shoes.

There were also several large medicine boxes, with the red cross markings clearly visible on them.

Seeing the various supplies that had instantly piled up into a small mountain on the ground, all the monks, including the old monks who were sighing, were dumbfounded.

Just now I felt like the sky had fallen and the earth had collapsed, and that we would all have to go down the mountain to beg for food tomorrow.

Then, the old abbot suddenly gave you a "one-click restoration" basic supplies package?

The contrast and the surprise almost brought many monks to tears again—this time, they were moved to tears.

Zhenying slowly withdrew her palms, the Buddha light in her palms receding inward, returning to normal.

His face showed no smugness, but rather a hint of heartache. He sighed almost imperceptibly and muttered something only he could hear:

"Sigh... I was greedy... no, I saved up most of my life's savings, and now it's all gone... I even have to pay out of pocket..."

After muttering to himself, he raised his head, resuming his composed and unperturbed demeanor, like a high-ranking monk.

"Don't just stand there."

"Those who are injured, help each other to get medicine and bandages applied over there."

"Those who are hungry, go fetch rice and noodles, start a fire and cook. Only when you are full will you have the strength to work."

"Send a few quick-witted and agile men down the mountain with this money first thing tomorrow morning."

"Find a construction team, find craftsmen, find material suppliers."

"Tell them that Jinshan Temple is to be rebuilt. The price is negotiable, but it needs to be done quickly and well."

"Yes! I will obey my master's (grandmaster's) instructions!"

The monks responded in unison.

A group of people immediately sprang into action, some helping the wounded, others carrying grain, all in an orderly fashion.

Although the place was dilapidated, it finally had some human activity.

A few of the more astute monks helped while secretly wondering what was going on.

Elder, this storage treasure of yours can really hold a lot!

And it was hidden very well! Those bandits who searched high and low couldn't find it!

Little did they know that the Venerable Master Zhenying was the ultimate practitioner of the older generation's concepts of "not flaunting wealth" and "not putting all your eggs in one basket."

What are storage rings, storage bags, and storage bracelets?

Pshaw! Can that stuff even be guaranteed?

What secret room, cellar, or hidden compartment in the roof beams?

Is that place safe?

The old monk only believed in his own two hands!

He possesses a supernatural power that he has cultivated for many years, called "Buddha Kingdom in the Palm of the Hand".

It sounds intimidating, but it's actually about creating two extremely stable small spaces in the palms of your hands that are connected to your own life force.

It's not big, but it's more than enough to hold his belongings.

Since mastering this supernatural power, he has always kept all his wealth hidden in his two hands, holding it tightly.

He held it while sleeping, while eating, and even while meditating and chanting scriptures.

The main selling point is a sense of security that "as long as the things are there, the people are there; if the things are lost... it's impossible for them to be lost."