Starting as the heir of a marquis's mansion, I gained access to a summoning system.

Dongzhou, Wanfo Temple.

Wanfo Temple sits atop Lingshan Mountain in the west, a majestic peak amidst rolling clouds. As a sacred Buddhist site in the Eastern Continent, Wanfo Temple boasts a history spanning tens of thousands of years, its profound cultural heritage unfathomable. Ancient trees reach for the sky, halls stand in layers, the sounds of chanting fill the air, and incense smoke wafts through the air.

Every brick and tile here is imbued with the Buddhist spirit of a thousand years.

Bodhi Courtyard, located deep within the bamboo forest of Wanfo Temple, was the place of quiet meditation for the first abbot, Master Liaokong.

At this moment, the bamboo shadows sway in the courtyard, and a gentle breeze rustles the bamboo leaves.

A young monk sat cross-legged under a Bodhi tree, his eyes slightly closed, and he was holding a string of prayer beads in his hand.

He was handsome with delicate features, bald and dressed in plain clothes, his face as serene as a clear spring, without the slightest ripple. He was not tall, but he exuded a peaceful and serene aura that made people feel good at first sight—like a cool breeze under the scorching sun, like a pure land in a turbid world.

Selflessness.

A nineteen-year-old young monk.

He had been practicing at Wanfo Temple since childhood and had never left the temple grounds. His master was Master Liaokong, the abbot of Wanfo Temple, a supreme master of the ninth level of the Grandmaster realm, a figure standing at the very top of the pyramid in the entire Eastern Continent.

Master Liaokong once said, "Those who forget themselves are born with Buddha-nature and are rare talents in Buddhism, appearing only once in a hundred years."

No one in Wanfo Temple questioned this statement.

The courtyard gate was gently pushed open, and an old monk slowly walked in.

He wore a grey monk's robe, was thin, and had an aged yet kind face. His eyes, though cloudy, held a clear brightness, as if he had seen through all the illusions of the world.

Master Liaokong.

"Master." Wangwo opened his eyes, stood up, put his hands together, and bowed slightly.

His movements were unhurried and deliberate, with every detail perfectly executed, as if he had undergone countless hours of practice.

Master Liaokong looked at his disciple, a hint of satisfaction flashing in his eyes. He walked to the Bodhi tree, slowly sat down, and patted the stone bench beside him.

"sit."

Obeying his instructions, I sat down, the prayer beads slowly turning between my fingers.

"Forget yourself, you've been training down the mountain for a year now," Master Liaokong spoke, his voice aged yet peaceful, like the lingering echo of an ancient bell. "Have you gained any insights?"

He remained silent for a moment, lost in thought, his gaze calm as still water.

"All beings suffer," he said, his voice soft yet clear as spring water dripping onto stone. "What I have seen on my journey down the mountain is that most people are trapped by greed, anger, and ignorance, burdened by fame and fortune, and tormented by hatred. It's not that they don't want to let go, but that they don't know how."

Master Liaokong nodded slightly: "Then what will you do?"

"Disciple chants scriptures," Wang said. "The sound of the scriptures enters their ears, and the light of Buddha enters their hearts. If it can awaken even a trace of goodness in their hearts, that is the disciple's merit. If not..."

He paused, a hint of pity flashing in his eyes: "It's just that fate hasn't brought us together yet; you can't force it."

Master Liaokong looked into the eyes of the man who had forgotten himself, eyes as clear as mountain streams, without any impurities. There was no murderous intent, no obsession, no desire—only a pure, untainted compassion.

"You never kill anyone," Master Liaokong said. "But has anyone ever asked you what you would do if you encountered someone utterly wicked and beyond redemption?"

She smiled faintly, a smile that was peaceful and warm, like a ray of sunshine in winter.

"My master taught me—lay down the butcher's knife and become a Buddha on the spot," he said. "I believe that there is a sleeping Buddha in the heart of every evil person. My duty is not to kill him, but to awaken him."

"What if we can't wake them up?"

"Then it is because my cultivation is not yet sufficient." Wangwo lowered his head, the speed at which the prayer beads turned remained unchanged. "I will continue to cultivate until I am able to awaken him."

Master Liaokong looked at his disciple and remained silent for a long time.

Finally, he sighed softly. In that sigh, there was relief, affection, and a trace of heartache that was hard to describe.

"Go ahead," Master Liaokong said. "There are still many people down the mountain waiting for you to convert them."

He stood up, put his hands together, and bowed deeply.

"This disciple takes his leave."

He turned and walked out of the Bodhi Courtyard with a composed gait and flowing robes.

Sunlight filtered through the bamboo leaves, casting dappled shadows on his bald head. His figure was slender yet resolute, like a bamboo growing among the rocks—seemingly delicate, but deeply rooted and unyielding to the wind.

Master Liaokong watched his disciple's departing figure and slowly closed his eyes.

He turned the prayer beads in his hand and murmured the Buddha's name.

"Amitabha."

One year ago, in Nanzhou.

He selflessly followed his master's orders and went down the mountain to gain experience, traveling all the way to Nanzhou.

One day, he passed through a small town and found the townspeople in a state of panic, with every household's doors and windows tightly shut. Under the old locust tree at the town entrance, several old men were gathered together, their faces filled with sorrow, whispering amongst themselves.

He walked over, hands clasped together, and said, "Amitabha, kind sirs, what has happened here?"

An old man with white hair looked up, glanced at him, saw that he was a young monk, and sighed.

"Young master, you should leave quickly," the old man said. "This place is not safe."

Why is things not peaceful?

"There's a band of bandits in the mountains. Their three leaders are all grandmaster-level experts, and they're incredibly ruthless." The old man shook his head, his eyes filled with fear. "They come to town every few days to rob us of grain, money, and women. When the able-bodied men in town went to confront them, they were all killed, their corpses hanging at the entrance of the stronghold—a truly gruesome sight."

Another old woman wiped away her tears: "The government can't do anything about it either. They say those three leaders are too powerful, and the constables they sent were all driven back. We ordinary people can only wait to die..."

He listened intently and quietly, his expression unchanged.

"My lords, there is no need to worry," he said, his voice as calm as ever. "I will go and see those bandits."

The old man's face changed drastically: "Young master, are you out of your mind? Those three leaders are ruthless killers; going there will only mean your death!"

She smiled faintly, lost in thought.

"If Buddhist disciples don't go to hell, who will?"

He turned and walked up the mountain.

Her steps were neither fast nor slow, and the prayer beads slowly turned between her fingers.

The old man and several other elderly people stood there, stunned, watching the thin figure walk further and further away, speechless for a long time.

In the bandit stronghold.

The three leaders were gathered in the hall, drinking and eating meat, the table a mess. They were all Grandmasters, the leader at the peak of the Grandmaster realm, the other two at the late Grandmaster realm. In this territory, they were the local tyrants, and no one dared to provoke them.

"Brother, I heard a young monk has come to town and is heading this way to our village," a one-eyed leader said, putting down his wine bowl and wiping his mouth.

"A little monk?" The scarred leader sneered. "Here to beg for alms? Just chase him away."

"They're not begging for alms," said another bald leader. "They're supposedly here to... convert us."

There was a moment of silence in the hall, then a burst of laughter erupted.

"Convert him?" The scarred leader laughed until tears streamed down his face. "I have dozens of lives on my hands, and a little monk wants to convert me? Does he have a death wish?"

The one-eyed leader laughed, "You've come at the perfect time! I haven't had any meat in ages, and I've never even tasted monk's flesh before."

Before the laughter had even subsided, a henchman rushed in in a panic.

"Three leaders! That little monk... he's here! He's right at the village gate!"

"So what if he's here? What's the panic?" The scarred leader stood up, grabbed his broadsword, and said, "Let's go, brothers, let's go see this clueless little monk."

At the entrance of the village, I sat cross-legged, completely absorbed in my own world.

He sat there on the cold stone slab, his eyes slightly closed, the prayer beads in his hand slowly turning. His gray monk's robe fluttered in the mountain wind, but he remained motionless, like a stone sculpture.

The scarred leader led a group of men out, and when they saw the little monk, they were first stunned, then burst into laughter.

"So you really are just a little monk!" He pointed his knife at Wangwo. "Little monk, do you know where you are? Do you know who I am?"

Wangwo opened his eyes and looked at the scarred leader with a calm, still gaze.

"This humble monk knows," he said, his voice not loud, yet clearly reaching everyone's ears, "This is a sea of ​​suffering. You, my benefactors, are all lost in this sea of ​​suffering."

The scarred leader's smile froze.

It wasn't out of fear, but because of those eyes—those eyes were so calm, so calm that they didn't seem to be looking at a group of ruthless bandits, but rather at a group of lost children.

"Enough with the nonsense!" the scarred leader roared. "What are you here for?"

I forgot that I didn't answer.

He closed his eyes, clasped his hands together, and began chanting scriptures.

"Thus have I heard. At one time the Buddha was staying in the Jeta Grove, Anathapindika's Park, in Shravasti..."

Buddhist chants and Sanskrit verses flowed slowly from his mouth. Each word was clear and melodious, carrying a strange power that resonated in the air.

The scarred leader paused for a moment, then roared in fury: "You fucking—"

He raised his knife and charged at Wangwo.

The blade stopped three inches above Wangwo's head, unable to strike any further.

It wasn't that something was blocking his way, but rather that the scarred leader's hand was trembling—not out of fear, but out of a feeling he couldn't quite explain, as if something was pounding deep within his heart, again and again.

"What...what are you reciting?" The scarred leader's voice trembled slightly.

Forgetting that I didn't answer, I continued chanting.

That day, I was so engrossed in chanting scriptures at the village gate.

That night, he chanted scriptures at the entrance of the village.

The next day, he was still chanting scriptures.

For three days and three nights, they went without food, drink, sleep, or rest.

Buddhist chants and hymns echoed through the mountains, and the light of Buddha flickered in the night. The bandits in the stronghold went from initial mockery to silence, and then to bewilderment—their eyes changed, no longer fierce, but empty, as if something was being slowly drained away.

The third day at dusk.

The scarred leader knelt before the ego, weeping bitterly.

Behind him, more than a hundred bandits knelt in neat rows, weeping.

"Master!" The scarred leader slammed his forehead against the stone slab, drawing blood. "Disciple knows his mistake! Disciple is willing to lay down his butcher's knife and follow Master in cultivation!"

The one-eyed leader knelt to one side, sobbing uncontrollably, "Master, I've killed so many people, I... can I atone for my sins?"

The bald leader was already crying so hard he couldn't speak, he just kept kowtowing.

Wangwo opened his eyes and looked at the bandits kneeling on the ground, his gaze still calm as still water. But deep within those clear eyes, a warm light flowed.

"The sea of ​​suffering is boundless, but turning back is the shore."

He said, his voice as calm as ever, "You benefactors who have laid down your weapons are destined to be with the Buddha. Follow this humble monk back to the temple, and from this day forward, recite scriptures, worship the Buddha, and repent for your past deeds."

He stood up and walked down the mountain.

Behind him, 137 bandits followed in neat rows, not one of them speaking, only the sound of sobbing rising and falling.

The news sent shockwaves through the entire Southern Prefecture.

A nineteen-year-old monk, without ever lifting a finger or harming a single person, converted 137 ruthless bandits, including three grandmasters, simply by chanting sutras for three days and three nights.

From then on, the name "Master of Selflessness" resounded throughout the Eastern Continent.