Tokyo: Proving one's position from behind the scenes

Osaka Prefecture, suburbs of Izumi City.

The car drove across a narrow bridge. The stream beneath it had mostly dried up, revealing round stones and a few stubborn clumps of reeds on the riverbed. Nagayama Akira sat in the back seat, the window rolled down halfway, and the early summer breeze blew in through the crack, carrying the sweet, earthy smell of the fields after they had been plowed.

The driver, surnamed Nakajima, was the deputy secretary-general of a certain faction. He had come from Kyoto three days prior specifically to visit the Hoshimiya Inari Shrine. As he knelt before the offering box with his hands clasped in prayer, Akira Nagayama walked past him from behind, a wisp of magical power silently disappearing into the back of his neck from his fingertips.

It wasn't some profound magic, just the most basic and ignorant technique among cultivators—making the target develop an inexplicable sense of trust in the caster, and the person being cast on would only feel that this young priest was exceptionally likable.

After Nakajima finished his shrine visit, he approached Hoshimiya Akira and asked if he could invite the shrine's priests to his residence in Osaka to pray for his ailing mother. Hoshimiya Akira glanced at Nagayama Akira, who nodded, so she didn't say anything more, only telling him to be careful.

The car stopped at the entrance of a small town in southern Izumi City, Osaka Prefecture.

Akira Nagayama got out of the car and told Nakajima that the old man's residence had an unclean energy field and that they needed to walk around the area to see if there were any places that could cause negative energy. Nakajima nodded repeatedly, told the driver to wait where he was, and accompanied Akira Nagayama along the main road of the town.

The town was small, with low wooden buildings lining both sides of the main road. Further ahead was a post office; the mailboxes outside were red, their paint peeling, and an elderly man in a gray work uniform was taking a bundle of letters out of them. At the edge of the town was a small hill covered with oak and red pine trees, their canopies forming a deep green sea.

At the foot of the hill, at the edge of the woods, stands a temple.

The mountain gate was made of wood, unpainted, its natural color eroded by wind and rain into a grayish-white. A thin layer of moss grew at the base of the gateposts, its pale, almost yellowish color, as if it had just sprouted. Above the gate hung a plaque, the inscription worn away by the elements, leaving only one or two barely legible strokes, making it impossible to decipher its meaning. Behind the gate was a path for worshippers, its surface unpaved with gravel, lined with naturally growing miscellaneous trees, unlike the neatly trimmed trees of famous temples, their branches trampled by passersby, and overgrown with sparse weeds.

At the end of the path to the temple is the Buddhist hall.

The Buddhist hall was small, with wooden walls, gray tiles, and paper windows. The paper windows were newly replaced, their whiteness clashing somewhat with the faded wood around them. To the side of the hall was an even smaller wooden hut, presumably the abbot's residence, with a wisp of white smoke rising from its chimney.

As Yongshan Minglu passed by the mountain gate, his fingers moved slightly inside his sleeve. The phantom images of three copper coins appeared at his fingertips, the divination symbols as clear as a map unfolded on his palm.

【Virtual Sun】.

"Void" means emptiness. "Void Sun" refers to the setting sun, hanging in the void, its light inward, warm but not scorching.

Standing outside the mountain gate, Nagayama Akira's gaze traveled through the path to the tightly closed wooden door of the Buddhist hall. He could sense a person behind that door, a person with the destiny of "Void Sun," like a cluster of embers covered in ashes, neither smoking nor flaming, but always maintaining its warmth.

He didn't enter the mountain gate. He turned around and walked back along the way he came, with Nakajima following behind, not understanding why but not asking any questions.

night.

The moon rose from behind the hills, its edge missing a small piece, like a glutinous rice ball that had been gently bitten. The moonlight shone on the gray tiles of the Buddhist temple, and the shadows between the tiles were deeper than during the day, like lines drawn with an ink brush.

Nagayama Akira stood in the woods behind the Buddhist hall, his concealment spell blending him into the trunk of a oak tree. His gaze passed through the half-open paper window of the wooden hut on the side of the Buddhist hall and landed on the figure sitting cross-legged on the tatami inside.

He was an old monk.

The old monk's robe was dark brown, draped over a nearby rack, and he wore only a grey robe. The collar of the robe was loosely open, revealing a patch of skin covered with age spots below his collarbone. His cheekbones were prominent, his cheeks sunken, and his lips thin and chapped. His eyes were closed, his eyelids covered with fine wrinkles, as if he were asleep in meditation.

There was no one else in the temple. The divination indicated that he was the abbot of the temple, and also the only person in the temple.

Nagayama Akira extended his right hand from his sleeve, his index and middle fingers joined together, and from a distance of more than ten steps, he touched the old monk's brow. A faint wisp of magical power surged from his fingertip, like a spider silk tinged with pale gold by moonlight, silently drifting through the crack in the paper window and disappearing into the old monk's brow.

The art of entering dreams.

The old monk's body swayed slightly, then stopped moving. His breathing became slower and deeper, transforming from a conscious and alert meditation into a deeper, more profound slumber in which he had completely lost his self-awareness.

Akira Nagayama's consciousness extended into that wisp of magical power.

Dream.

A child sits on the steps of the Buddhist hall; that is the old monk from his childhood.

He was six or seven years old, bald, and wearing an oversized gray monk's robe. The hem of the robe trailed on the muddy ground below the steps, speckled with grayish-brown mud. His hands were supporting his chin, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze passing over the mountain gate to the main road stretching out towards the town. The end of the road was swallowed by gray mist, and nothing could be seen.

Akira Nagayama also calculated the old monk's name—Shunichi Maeda, whose Buddhist name was Hoshin.

Voices could be heard coming from inside the Buddhist hall.

Akira Nagayama's consciousness drifted into the interior of the Buddhist hall. The furnishings in the hall were exactly the same as in reality, and the main image was a wooden sculpture of Bhaisajyaguru Buddha.

Two people were standing in front of the offering table.

One was a middle-aged monk, in his thirties, with a shaved head and wearing a dark brown robe. He had a square face, broad cheekbones, and a slightly upturned mouth, with a natural, effortless, and kind expression. This was Maeda Shunichi's father, Nagayama Akira immediately recognized from the resemblance between the two men's eyes and brows.

Another person stood opposite the middle-aged monk, with their back to the entrance of the Buddhist hall.

He was an old monk, and his robe was crimson.

His beard was long and completely white. He stood before the offering table, his hands clasped together, bowing slightly to the wooden statue of Bhaisajyaguru Buddha. His movements were slow, almost as if he were bowing in water, each bend of his joints carrying a calm and unhurried rhythm.

Akira Nagayama's consciousness lingered on the back of that figure in the crimson kasaya.

The hexagram moved silently and automatically. The phantom images of three copper coins swirled deep within his consciousness. The invisible destiny was connected by this image, and the imagery unfolded layer upon layer.

Akira Nagayama memorized this scene. Then his consciousness exited the dream.

Inside the cabin, Maeda Shunichi's body swayed slightly, his eyeballs darted around a few times before settling back to normal. His breathing returned to normal, his cross-legged posture remained unchanged, and his expression remained quiet, almost wooden.

The next day, afternoon.

Nagayama Akira stood outside the temple gate, his figure completely different from yesterday.

The crimson robe draped from his shoulders to his ankles. The fabric of the robe looked thick, but it had a light and airy feel on him, like a red leaf blown by the wind and landing on his shoulder. He had a long white beard that reached his chest, each hair silvery-white, fluttering gently in the wind.

The art of change.

In the cultivation world of his past life, changing one's appearance was one of the more difficult spells. Most cultivators could only alter the position and shape of their facial features, resulting in either a stiff, mask-like appearance or a crude one that couldn't withstand close scrutiny. Yongshan Ming was different. With his Dao wisdom, his control over his magical power was refined to the point of being precise down to every single muscle fiber. At this moment, the direction of every wrinkle on his face, the curve of every eyebrow, and every muscle that twitched when he smiled were all perfect replicas of the old monk in the crimson robe from his dream.

He stood outside the mountain gate, clasped his hands together, bowed slightly, and then stepped into the gate.

The earth on the approach path rustled softly under his feet. Morning light filtered through the branches of the miscellaneous trees, casting fragmented patches of light on the ground. He walked slowly, the hem of his robe trailing on the earth, where a few withered leaves clung, which he did not brush away.

The wooden door to the Buddhist hall was half-open.

Maeda Shunichi was changing the offerings at the altar. He took the oranges from yesterday off the altar and put them in a bamboo basket. Then he took out a few new oranges from another bamboo basket and placed them one by one in front of the Yakushi Nyorai wooden statue. The oranges had greenish-yellow peels and a few bright green leaves, as if they had just been picked from the tree this morning.

He heard footsteps and turned around.

Then he saw the crimson robe standing at the entrance of the Buddhist hall.

Shunichi Maeda's hand froze in mid-air, an orange still between his fingers. His eyes widened, the wrinkles on his eyelids stretching open to reveal cloudy but still lustrous pupils.

He recognized that face.

It was over sixty years ago. He was a six or seven-year-old child then, sitting on the steps of the Buddhist hall, watching his father and an old monk in a scarlet robe talking inside. The old monk's voice was very low, and he didn't remember what he said, only that the robe was so red it seemed to glow, unlike any other color around it.

More than thirty years have passed. His father's bones have been buried in the cemetery behind the temple for more than half a century, and the old monk in the scarlet robe is now standing at the entrance of the Buddha hall, looking exactly the same as he did more than thirty years ago, not even the curve of his drooping eyebrows has changed.

"you......"

Shunichi Maeda's voice was dry, like the first bucket of water drawn from a well that hadn't been used in a long time, carrying the smell of mud and rust.

My Buddhist name is Dilu.

Akira Nagayama clasped his hands together and bowed slightly. His movements were exactly the same as the old monk's bow to Bhaisajyaguru in the dream, with the degree of joint bending, the angle of the body leaning forward, and the distance between the fingertips and the tip of the nose when the hands were clasped together.

"It's been many years." His voice was aged yet gentle, like a piece of wood polished smooth and warm by time. "How is your father?"

Maeda Shunichi fell silent. He turned around, faced Nagayama Akira, clasped his hands together, and bowed deeply. The angle of his bow was deeper than when he usually received worshippers, and the collar of his robe slipped open from his collarbone, revealing his chest covered with age spots.

My father passed away thirty-four years ago.

He spoke in a very flat voice, as if he were talking about something unrelated to himself. But Akira Nagayama noticed that his fingers were slightly curled inside the sleeve of his robe, his knuckles turning white.

Akira Nagayama didn't reply. He slowly straightened up, his gaze shifting from Shunichi Maeda to the wooden statue of Yakushi Nyorai at the front of the shrine. The gold leaf on the statue had turned completely dark brown after more than sixty years of incense burning, with only the white hair between its brows retaining a faint gold hue. His lips twitched slightly, as if he were speaking a silent word to the statue, before he looked away.

"Please come in for tea."

Maeda Shun stepped aside to make way for the doorway, and Nagayama Akira stepped across the threshold, his wooden clogs making two dull thuds on the wooden floor of the Buddhist hall.

The tea room to the side of the Buddhist hall was small, with a low table on a four-and-a-half-tatami mat. On the table were an iron kettle and two rough earthenware teacups. Next to the table was a hearth with a wooden lid, from which wisps of steam escaped.

Shunichi Maeda knelt on one side of the low table, skillfully pouring two bowls of tea from the iron kettle. The tea was dark, almost brown, with a few broken tea leaves floating on the surface. He pushed one bowl to the opposite side of the low table, then picked up his own bowl with both hands, gently blew on it, and took a small sip.

Nagayama Akira knelt down opposite him. His crimson kasaya was spread out on the tatami mat, like a patch of firelight poured from a hearth. He picked up the teacup, but didn't drink; instead, he ran his thumb along the rough texture of the pottery rim.

"Your father was a very good person," he said.

Maeda Shunichi paused for a moment while holding the teacup.

When did you and my father meet?

"A long time ago," Nagayama Akira said slowly.

He paused, then placed the teacup on the low table, the bottom of the bowl making a soft sound as it touched the surface.

"I came here to take a look. To see if your father's temple is still there, and to see if you can still protect it."

Maeda Shunichi lowered his head, looking at the brown tea in his teacup. His face was reflected on the surface of the tea—an aged, bewildered face, etched with the marks of time.

"I held on," he said softly, "but I was the only one who held on."

Akira Nagayama remained silent. The tea room fell silent, save for the extremely faint crackling of the burning charcoal in the hearth and the occasional soft breath of Shunichi Maeda as he blew away the loose tea leaves from the surface of the tea.

The sound of a car engine shutting off could be heard outside the mountain gate.

Akira Nagayama's fingers paused for a moment on the edge of the teacup.

Perception extends silently, passing through the wooden walls of the tea room, through the miscellaneous trees on both sides of the approach, and through the gray-white wooden pillars of the mountain gate.

A white van was parked on the dirt road outside the mountain gate. The Metropolitan Police Department logo was printed on the side, with several dark blue stripes. The door opened, and three people got out. One was in civilian clothes, wearing a jacket, and carrying a silver-gray portable detection device. Another was in uniform, with a walkie-talkie clipped to his waist. The third, wearing a white lab coat, took a black equipment case from the trunk.