I Was Once a Follower of Buddha

Western Ox Continent, Flowing Golden Sands.

Dark clouds blotted out the sky, while piercing flashes of lightning tore through the overcast layers, followed by the slow, rumbling echo of thunder. The cracked, parched earth bore only a few withered, feeble plants struggling to take root. The impending rain was the desperate hope of life in this desolate place.

Yet, just then, a radiant golden light pierced through the edge of the clouds, its mere passing force scattering the thick gloom. In the blink of an eye, the light touched down.

A young monk stepped onto this nearly lifeless land.

The monk was striking in appearance, his exposed arms taut with lean muscle, and a flicker of golden light seemed to pass through his eyes.

"I am the Buddha’s Child, Wukong."

Wukong lightly twirled the prayer beads in his hand and waited a moment. When only silence answered him, he continued:

"Before your imprisonment, you were a Buddha-Venerable of the Mahayana realm. Now, do you still fear a mere Harmonious Unity-stage Buddha’s Child like me?"

"Once, you spoke of a heart that sought universal salvation—unafraid even before the River of Oblivion. Yet now, you are content to merely survive in this wretched place?"

Wukong’s gaze swept the barren land, met only by the cold wind.

"Perhaps I was mistaken."

"Mahayana Buddhism… is nothing more than a lie spun by cowards who cling to life."

As he spoke, golden light flared around him once more, and he prepared to leave.

"Did you come to question the Dharma, or to drag me back beneath the Ten Thousand Buddha Pagoda?"

A hoarse voice echoed from all directions, distant and untraceable.

Wukong paused, his eyes gleaming with sharp clarity as he answered solemnly:

"Neither. I am the Buddha’s Child—the Dharma resides within me. As for returning you to the pagoda, that is not my task. I came to ask: How many true Buddhas remain in the Thunderclap Monastery today?"

"In the past, were you a true Buddha… or a malevolent one?"

The moment his words fell, Wukong sensed something and turned his gaze westward.

There stood an emaciated, aged monk, devoid of any discernible aura—so ordinary he might have been a mere mortal. His rough robes were woven of plain white hemp, and a tattered white cloth draped over his shoulders like a discarded rag.

Wukong studied him intently before bowing slightly.

"I pay respects to the Exalted Buddha."

Guangming clasped his hands together and returned the gesture.

"I pay respects to the Future."

Wukong straightened but did not question why this Buddha—officially recorded as malevolent—referred to him as "the Future." Instead, he cut straight to his inquiry:

"My question is simple: Is the Thunderclap Monastery today the same as it once was?"

Guangming Buddha observed Wukong—vibrant, brimming with vitality, his body wreathed in sacred radiance—and finally sighed.

"The monastery is lifeless. Naturally, it remains unchanged."

Wukong pressed further: "And the Buddhas within?"

Guangming answered: "New Buddhas arrive; old ones depart. How could they remain static?"

After a thoughtful pause, Wukong asked:

"Then why, in the past, could the Buddhist gate open its halls to all beings, yet now demand that beings build temples for the Buddhas?"

Guangming replied softly: "You know the answer."

"You would say the Buddhas differ, their hearts differ? But that is only the surface." Wukong stepped closer.

"To become a Buddha is to hold light within one’s heart. Even if one cannot lend a hand, one should not stand idle as corruption spreads."

"The Buddhas today grow less like Buddhas. This feels… wrong."

Guangming studied the impassioned Buddha’s Child, feeling an inexplicable mix of lament and admiration.

With solemnity, he answered: "The Mahayana realm and Buddhahood are unrelated. Cultivation is cultivation; the heart is the heart. In the past, a perfected heart could make even a Foundation Establishment cultivator a Buddha. Now, a heart tainted by greed may dwell in a Mahayana body and still be called a Buddha. Naturally, they are not the same."

Wukong’s gaze remained steady. "May I see your Buddha-Land?"

Without hesitation, Guangming unfolded his sacred realm behind him—populated by wrathful arhats, bodhisattvas with covetous eyes, and faint tendrils of crimson mist. Calmly, he asked:

"Buddha’s Child, does this land mark me as good or evil?"

Wukong shook his head slightly.

"I do not know. I only have doubts. Beneath the Thunderclap Monastery, some dare not answer, others rebuke me. It feels… wrong. It should not be this way."

"They are no longer moved by the heart, but by profit."

"Every action weighed for gain, every deed measured for advantage. The Buddhist sects are now called ‘flayers’ by the other great sects, and I cannot refute it."

As he spoke, Guangming’s Buddha-Land began to shift—the crimson mist fading into gold, the arhats’ wrath turning to righteous fury, the bodhisattvas’ expressions solemn and dignified.

Wukong’s eyes flickered with dawning understanding.

Guangming knew: A thousand explanations paled against letting one discover the truth for oneself.

The Buddhist sects were no longer what they once were. What cataclysm had warped them?

It was not that his Mahayana Dharma was flawed—but that profit had twisted it.

With grave solemnity, Guangming intoned:

"You are the Buddha’s Child, yet even you are blinded by the haze before your eyes. Worse still, you stand within the mist itself. To see clearly, you must first step outside it—then part the fog."

Wukong’s expression grew wary. His fingers tightened around his prayer beads.

Guangming understood: Wukong still distrusted him. He shook his head slightly.

"I do not ask you to follow me. Only to direct you to a place, and to people who may aid you."

Wukong frowned. "After a thousand years beneath the Ten Thousand Buddha Pagoda, you still have connections?"

Guangming explained:

"Xu Jin of the Mysterious Purity Heavenly Sect… and Chu Xingchen."

"One is the sect’s current core disciple; the other, a prodigy of this era. They have the means to prove their integrity—and the resources to uncover the truth you seek. They are already walking this path."

"Find them. Join them. You will have your answers."

Wukong said nothing. He was no fool. The Buddhist sects were unwelcome among the Daoist factions—especially the Mysterious Purity Heavenly Sect, which teetered on the brink of open conflict with them.

Even if he could reach these two, avoiding a beating would be a challenge.

From his tattered robes, Guangming produced a pristine white prayer bead and offered it to Wukong.

"Show them this. Say Guangming sent you."

"Try. At worst, you’ll only be beaten."

Wukong channeled golden light to shield himself as he took the bead, then stored it separately in his spatial ring.

"My thanks, Exalted One." He hesitated, then asked: "You truly dared meet me in person? What if I were merely bait to draw you out?"

Guangming’s aged, cracked face broke into a faint smile, his tone almost playful as he replied:

"You are a Buddha's disciple, capable of using divine powers to pinpoint my location."

"Yet I too was once a Buddha's disciple—why shouldn't I be able to divine yours?"

"In those days, I was the undisputed foremost among Buddha's disciples."

"Today, I have attained Buddhahood, while you remain merely a disciple."

"Younger generations would do well not to underestimate their elders."

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