Tokyo: Proving one's position from behind the scenes

Detention room at the Hong Kong Police Station.

The space behind the iron fence was small, with light gray plastic floor tiles on the ground and a drainage ditch made of dark ceramic tiles in the corner. A dozen people were crammed into this detention room. Their white robes were dazzlingly white under the fluorescent lights, like a flock of white birds with ruffled feathers stuffed into a cage.

Outside the detention room, a uniformed patrolman sat behind the duty desk, writing in the duty logbook.

The door opened, and a man in a dark gray suit walked in, his hair neatly combed and wearing gold-rimmed glasses. He walked to the desk, took out a business card from his suit pocket, and handed it over.

"I am an agent of the Truth Church, here to process your bail."

The patrol officer took the business card, glanced at it, then looked at the dozen or so men in white robes behind the iron fence, and closed his duty logbook.

The formalities took nearly an hour. A dozen people signed and affixed their fingerprints to the bail documents in turn, and then followed their agents out of the detention room.

A white van pulled up in front of the police station, its side bearing the symbol of conversion to the Truth Church—an open eye, with another eye nested within its pupil, layer upon layer, extending to the edge of the symbol. The agent and the patrol officer completed the final handover procedures, then opened the van door for the people in white robes to get in, started the engine, and the van merged into the evening traffic.

The headquarters of the True Confession Church is located in a rented three-story office building. The first floor is a reception hall, the second floor is an office area and a "missionary hall", and the third floor is the leader's living room and "meditation room".

When the bread truck stopped at the entrance of the department, it was already completely dark, but the lights in the reception hall were still on.

The cult leader stood in the mission hall waiting for them.

He wore a pure white robe, made of a much better material than that of ordinary believers, the fabric gleaming with a very faint satin sheen under the light.

He stood there, watching a dozen or so men in white robes file into the reception hall. His agent whispered a few words in his ear, handed him the bail documents, which he took, flipped through, and then looked up with a smile on his face.

"You did a great job."

His voice wasn't loud, but it was steady, as if he had practiced many times how to generate the greatest resonance with the smallest volume. He walked up to the bald man and placed his hand on his shoulder.

"Hongming, your agent has relayed what you said at the mall today to me, and it was very well said."

He released his grip and turned to the others.

"Each of you did a great job today. Being kicked out by security guards or arrested by the police doesn't matter. What matters is that you said what needed to be said and let those who were meant to hear it hear it. You spread the truth, and under judgment, we will ascend to heaven because of the truth."

The people in white robes bowed their heads and clasped their hands together.

The cult leader didn't make them stand for long. His representative led the people in white robes to the second floor to collect new leaflets, preparing for tomorrow's missionary plans. The reception hall quickly emptied again, leaving only the cult leader.

Five years ago, he was a magician performing on the streets of Akihabara, making a living with props and a script he had practiced countless times. He even stayed up all night practicing until he started hallucinating.

But that hallucination gave him an idea—instead of swindling small amounts of money from tourists on the streets of Akihabara, he should swindle those who truly need "truth".

This is how conversion to the Truth Church came about. Unlike the cult of Dankook that uses Yahweh for secondary creation, it uses instructions given by extraterrestrials from the center of the universe, plus some doomsday content.

Over the past five years, he has rented this three-story office building in Chiyoda Ward. His followers have grown from just a few to over a hundred, and the monthly "donations" he receives are enough for him to rent another luxury apartment.

As he was thinking, the agent's voice came from the second-floor stairwell.

"Master, Hongming wishes to see you."

Hongming was the bald man he had praised while pressing his shoulders in the reception hall. His surname was Qiushan, he was thirty-five years old, and he had been a follower of the True Communion for almost two years. He was the most eloquent and the most enthusiastic of all the believers.

He was the one who led the missionary activity in the mall today. He was standing at the front when the security guards kicked him out, and he didn't panic when the police arrested him.

Hongming came down from the second floor. He had changed into a clean white robe and was holding a stack of flyer samples for tomorrow. His steps were steady, and a thin layer of stubble had sprouted on his bald head, which gleamed with a bluish-gray luster under the lights of the reception hall.

He has a square face, excellent speaking skills, and a steady tone with an undeniable certainty. The spacing between each word is just right, making listeners feel that "this person must be right."

But he himself didn't believe a single word of it.

He was thirty-five years old. After graduating from university, he had changed more than a dozen jobs, from real estate agent to insurance salesman to wedding emcee. He didn't stay in any of them for long. Finally, he saw the cult leader preaching. At that time, the cult leader was performing a mind-reading trick on the street, surrounded by more than a dozen dumbfounded passers-by. He decided to "convert" on that very day.

He didn't come to seek the truth; he came to make money.

He mastered the rhetoric of converting to the Truth Church in just one month, even more so than the cult leader himself. He learned the cult leader's mind-reading tricks in three days and was able to perform them on stage himself. In the past two years, he has devoted all his energy to missionary work because he has done the math—the monthly donations from a hundred or so believers, plus the occasional extra donations from a few "big benefactors," are more than the cult leader could ever spend.

He's here to take over.

"Hongming." The leader snapped out of his reverie and waved to him. "You've had a hard day."

Hongming walked up to the leader, put his hands together, and bowed slightly.

"Serving the leader and spreading the truth, I dare not complain of hardship."

The leader patted him on the shoulder, his gaze lingering on his face for a moment. This man's piety was genuine. He was the most active in proselytizing, he donated the most money, he was always the one kneeling at the front during every Dharma assembly, and he was always the first to stand up and refute anyone who questioned the doctrine.

But the leader always felt something was wrong, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was just a feeling, like when you're performing on the street, there are always one or two people in the crowd who watch the most intently and applaud the loudest, but there's no light in their eyes.

"Has the agent already told you about the missionary plan for tomorrow's port area?"

"I said so," Hongming's voice was calm. "I'm applying to lead the team."

The cult leader nodded. Hongming clasped his hands together again, bowed, and then turned and walked towards the second floor.

It was late at night. Hongming lay in the second-floor lounge, covered with a thin blanket. Several other people in white robes were also in the lounge, their breathing rising and falling.

Dream.

He stood in a bamboo grove.

The bamboo forest stretched endlessly, the bamboo so tall that even looking up, one could only see the middle of the stalks, not the tips. A breeze blew from deep within the forest, the bamboo leaves rubbing against each other, creating a soft rustling sound. Mixed within this rustling was an even lighter, more distant sound, also coming from the depths of the bamboo grove.

The sound of water is the sound of a spring. Water gushes up from the ground, gurgling gently, each gust carrying a clear, mineral-scented coolness from the depths of the earth.

The spring is in the center of an open space.

The ground of the open space wasn't soil, but a single piece of bluish-gray rock. The surface of the rock had been smoothed by the spring water year after year, as smooth as a polished bronze mirror. The spring was in the center of the rock, a round opening about the size of a bowl. The spring water gushed out from the opening, so clear that you couldn't see any water; you could only see the light dancing on the surface.

A man stood beside the spring. He was dressed in white, with white hair and a white beard. The fabric of his clothes was not made of earthly materials, but seemed to have grown naturally from his body. His white hair hung from the top of his head to his waist, each strand of it silver-white. His white beard reached his chest, and each hair of his whiskers was also silver-white.

He held a bamboo staff in his hand, the staff being entirely green, just like the bamboo in the bamboo forest.

He turned around to face Hongming. His face was neither young nor old, and his eyes and brows had a clear, cool quality, like the spring water in the water.

"Hiroaki Akiyama."

The sound wasn't loud, but all the bamboo leaves in the bamboo forest stopped rustling at the same instant, as if the entire space was listening the moment the sound started.

"I am the Heavenly Venerable Who Transmits the Dharma."

This was an old acquaintance of Yongshan Ming from his previous life. Originally, he also wanted to use Su Nuo's disguise this time, but he thought that it would be too troublesome to personally pass on his skills to cultivators every time. So he simply created a "Transmission of Dharma Celestial Venerable" which would be very useful when he established his foundation.

He paused, then gently tapped the end of his bamboo cane on the rock, producing a crisp sound, like jade striking jade.

"I have long sensed your sincere desire for truth. Today I enter your dream to impart a method to you."

Hongming stood there, opening his mouth as if to say something. But the Celestial Venerable of Transmitting the Dharma did not give him a chance to speak. He raised his bamboo staff and gently touched Hongming's brow with the tip.

In reality, Nagayama Akira stood in the corner of the lounge, the glow of concealment magic swirling around him. Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the curtains, illuminating the spot where he stood, casting no shadow on the ground. The breathing of the white-robed figures in the lounge rose and fell, the magic temporarily clouding everyone's minds.

He brought his right index and middle fingers together, pointing them towards Hongming's dantian from a distance. A small porcelain bottle labeled "water" was tilted in his left hand, its mouth aimed at Hongming.

【The rising Qi from the spring】flows out of the bottle.

It is the water droplets that are always suspended an inch above the surface of the deep mountain stream, shattered into extremely fine foam by the sound of the water. The clear, mineral-scented spring water, filtered through bamboo roots hundreds of times, permeates the air.

The true qi drifted from the bottle's opening towards Hongming's dantian without making a sound, disappearing into his lower abdomen. The magical power advanced along the path guided by Yongshan Ming, slowly circulating within Akiyama Hongming's body.

In the dream, the Celestial Venerable Transmitting the Dharma retrieved his bamboo staff.

"The Cold Spring Tranquility Method is a water-based approach, drawing inspiration from the image of a cold spring for tranquility. A spring is the source of water, gushing forth from the earth and untouched by the impurities of the surface."

His figure began to fade. His white clothes, white hair, and white beard all thinned out like mist illuminated by the morning light.

The last sound dissipated into the air.

Hongming suddenly opened his eyes. The ceiling of the lounge was above him, and the orange streetlights were still shining through the gaps in the curtains. He could hear the even breathing of the other people in white robes.

He stretched out his hand, circulated his internal energy, and a very faint white mist rose in the air around his fingertips.

The fog was so thin that it was almost invisible in the darkness, but he could feel it—a cool, refreshing sensation on his fingertips, like the mist on the surface of freshly gushing spring water.

Not a dream.

He stared at his fingertips for a long time, then lowered his hand, clenched it into a fist, and pressed it against his chest. His heart was pounding so fast that he had to press it down hard so the white-robed man beside him wouldn't hear.