Killing Monks

Book lovers are all in the discussion area, chatting about the charm of fantasy novels.

Guangyuan is currently implementing a plan called "Year Plan".

Break down the tasks into yearly blocks, and arrange them year by year. Divide each year into four seasons, each season into three months, each month into four weeks, each week into seven days, and each day into twelve two-hour periods.

Like an old farmer sowing seeds on a field ridge, he doesn't just scatter a handful of seeds haphazardly; he bends down and presses each seed into the soil one by one.

If you press too deep, it won't sprout; if you press too shallow, it will be pecked by birds. Just the right depth.

The plan, when written down, is only a few pages long.

But beneath those few pages lies something heavier than a mountain.

It wasn't about fighting, killing, or those days of licking blood from the edge of a knife and commanding a hundred followers. It was about sitting in a room, facing documents, reading them line by line, revising them line by line, and finalizing them line by line.

Once it's decided, send it out; once it's sent out, see what to do next; if there's a mistake, correct it; once corrected, send it out again. It's a process of repeated adjustments, like sharpening a knife.

If the knife isn't sharp, you can't chop the firewood; if it's sharpened, one stroke and the firewood splits in two. The woodcutter catches his breath, wipes his sweat, and piles the split pieces of firewood together.

They were stacked up in heaps, so that there would be an endless fire in the stove during winter.

But this is a completely new thing.

People never did this before. In the past, the emperor was on top, the ministers were below, and the common people were at the very bottom.

When the emperor ordered the digging of a canal, his ministers would issue the order; when the emperor ordered war, his ministers would issue the order.

The people who dug the river died from exhaustion, and no one cared; the people who fought in the war died, and their compensation was deducted at every level, leaving their families with only a few copper coins.

No one asked "why," and no one dared to ask. To ask would be to question the Emperor's grace; to question the Emperor's grace would be a grave disrespect; a grave disrespect would result in exile at best, and execution at worst.

Even when being beheaded, one must shout "Thank you for your great kindness, Your Majesty!"; otherwise, one is not a good subject.

Good officials who die are enshrined in the Shrine of Loyalty and Martyrs, their memorial tablets arranged neatly, and people offer incense during festivals.

But the aroma of incense never reached his wife and children's bowls; they were still hungry and cold as usual.

Memorial tablets cannot be eaten, and shrines for martyrs cannot be used as blankets.

Things are different now. There is no emperor anymore.

Since there's no longer someone whose word is law and whose decisions are absolute, we have to rely on systems.

Systems are not people; they are not biased, they do not accept bribes, and they will not do you any favors just because you kneel down and kowtow.

Rules are rigid and cold, but rigid things have one advantage—they don't lie.

If you do as it says, it will give you results; if you don't, it will make things difficult for you.

He wouldn't give face to anyone, not even Guangyuan. Guangyuan himself had to abide by the rules he set. If he didn't, the rules would be invalid; and if they were invalid, things would revert to the way they were before.

The members of the Heaven and Earth Society gritted their teeth and pushed forward.

It's not because they're smart, it's because they've suffered. Those who have suffered know what will happen if they don't push forward—they'll go back to where they were before.

What was it before?

In the past, the Buddha rode on their heads, while they knelt in the mud, their knees worn raw, blood seeping into the soil, and no one even glanced at them. If they did, the Buddha would be displeased; and if the Buddha was displeased, the whip in his hand would fall.

The whip struck his back, tearing his skin and drawing blood. He went home and washed the wound with salt water, gritting his teeth in pain, but daring not to utter a sound. If he had, the Buddha would have heard, and he would have been beaten again. He was beaten, died, wrapped in a straw mat, and buried in a mass grave.

There was no tombstone, no name, and no one burned a single piece of paper at the grave.

Exposed to wind and sun, and washed by rain, the grave mound collapsed and mixed with the surrounding soil, making it impossible to distinguish between soil and people.

They didn't want to kneel anymore. If they didn't want to kneel, they had to work. No matter how difficult it was, they had to work.

If they did it, there was still a glimmer of hope; if they didn't, they were just waiting to die. They had tasted the bitterness of waiting to die before. They didn't want to taste it again.

You only realize how difficult this is when you actually do it. Fighting a war is like fighting an enemy; the enemy is standing right in front of you, armed with knives and guns, and you can see them at a glance.

But this is a battle with yourself, a battle with those deep-rooted habits, a battle with those "that's how it's always been done," a battle with those "what gives you the right?" The battle goes on and on, leaving you dizzy and disoriented, making you want to give up.

Someone has left, gone, gone is gone, no need to see them off.

Those who stayed continued the work. As they worked, things got smoother. Once things got smoother, it didn't seem difficult anymore. And once it didn't seem difficult anymore, they could go far.

A lot of trouble has occurred.

Some people falsely reported their land holdings, some withheld their rations and pay, some put their relatives in schools to become teachers, and some relied on their seniority to disobey orders.

There are too many problems to handle. And when things get out of control, they get even more chaotic. And when things get even more chaotic, people start shouting, "This won't work, let's go back to the way things were!"

Guangyuan listened to those voices without getting anxious or angry. He knew that the people shouting "change it back" weren't bad people, they were just afraid.

They fear change, the unknown, and the possibility of not surviving under new rules.

But he also knew that the way back was blocked. Going back meant returning to the Buddha's whip. Everyone who had walked that road knew it was impassable.

The meeting ended that day.

They drive from morning till night, and from night till midnight. It's so noisy, it gives me a headache. It's not the kind of noise where you shout at the top of your lungs, it's the kind where everyone is talking back and forth, no one gives in, and everyone thinks they're right.

Guangyuan sat in the chair, eyes closed, rubbing his temples. The room was empty and quiet. Quiet, he could finally catch his breath. Just one breath. Even one breath was still breath.

Suddenly, the world went dark. Not just dark, but the kind of darkness where all the lights went out, the moon was plucked from the sky, and the stars disappeared. It was utterly dark, completely dark, so dark that even a shadow couldn't stand still.

Guangyuan opened his eyes.

The Celestial Realm warriors have arrived.

More than one. They come from the shadows, from the darkness, from places you thought were empty. No sound, no wind, no warning.

Like water, it comes from all directions, and by the time you feel your feet getting wet, the water is already above your knees.

In the blink of an eye, you're submerged up to your waist, up to your chest, up to your neck. You can't breathe, you can't shout. If you can't shout, no one will know you're in the water.

Several dark figures attacked simultaneously. It wasn't pre-arranged; it was a tacit understanding born from the chaos of battle.

You go left, he goes right; you go up, he goes down. They block your retreat, cut off your lifeline, every move aimed at your vitals. They want nothing more than a life of wide connections.

This assassination was not a spur-of-the-moment decision. It was something they had thought about for a long time, calculated a great deal, and waited for for a long time before finally bringing this day to pass. They had calculated the time, the location, and when Guangyuan's people would leave, when they would return, when they could arrive, and whether they would still be of any use when they arrived. The calculations were incredibly detailed, down to every footstep, every breath, and every heartbeat.

I planned it all out before I took action. And once I started, I didn't intend to go back empty-handed.

I won't go empty-handed; I'll bring something back with me.

What should I bring?

A life destined for wide connections.