Chapter 35: The Sacred Land of Buddhism

The three of them beamed as they cupped their hands in the direction of Qin Bocheng, expressing their gratitude.

Below, the monsters continued to patrol in eerie silence. Then, as a fragrant breeze swept through, the crimson mist gradually began to disperse.

Qin Bocheng saw with perfect clarity that it was not the wind that drove the red mist away. Rather, the blooming flowers of the nethergrass below, in the transition from full blossom to fruiting, absorbed vast amounts of the red mist, creating a wind of their own.

As described in the ancient texts, once the red mist dispersed, the monsters below turned into black powder, swept by the wind into the swaying grass. The only divergence from the records was that, after the red mist faded, the monsters themselves also turned to powder, just like the ones that could move.

In a matter of moments, the protection circle was as pristine as if it had been washed clean. The previously twisted trees in the distance had vanished as well, leaving only faint silhouettes of trees far on the horizon.

Those who survived landed within the protective circle, hearts still pounding with lingering fear. Before they could contemplate a way out, the teleportation array flared to life.

This time, the teleportation was wild and brutal. There were none of the previous individual protective barriers; their spiritual energy was forcefully restrained, and a violent gale raged within the teleportation shield. Even though they were cultivators with bodies as strong as diamond and iron, they were battered and bloodied. Fortunately, sensing something was wrong from the outset, they huddled together, sharing the brunt of the assault. Otherwise, those with weaker cultivation might not have survived to see another dawn.

Qin Bocheng sensed that this teleportation out took far longer than the one in. Whether the agony made it feel so, or it truly was the case, he did not have the mind to ponder—their focus was solely on minimizing harm.

When the teleportation array spat them out, they found themselves ten thousand meters above the earth. Their spiritual power, suddenly unbound, filled them with hope that they could finally ride their swords—only for a fierce suction to seize them. No sooner had they escaped death in one secret realm, than they were swept into another.

Elsewhere, Qin Chengming was in high spirits. The spirit stone mine beneath the sea, though not of the highest grade, was immense and shallowly buried. For Qin Chengming, who now saw wealth as life itself, it was as if a treasure trove had been delivered to his doorstep.

He dug for a while, but soon found it unsatisfying. So, he spent some time refining dozens of mining puppets, setting them to work while he sat shielded, eating and drinking, watching his pile of spirit stones grow. What a life of comfort!

The mining puppets worked far faster than he could. With dozens of them, even the largest vein would be depleted in two days. Most importantly, the spirit stones in this undersea mine were densely clustered and shallowly buried, much easier to extract than many underground veins.

When there was only a little left, Qin Chengming, unable to resist, joined in himself. The best stones were here at the end; only by taking them with his own hands could he feel truly satisfied. As he collected the last few, which were nearly transforming into the "low-grade spirit stones" of the eighth realm, a faint light flashed beneath his feet, and Qin Chengming vanished from the seabed.

At that moment, a shadow appeared high in the sky, accompanied by a startled cry. The shadow fell to the spot where Qin Bocheng and his group had disappeared—and vanished as well. All that was left was a stretch of tranquil sky, belying the fact that several people had just been swallowed whole.

Between realms, in a golden, gleaming temple set within a rift, all was silent. The great halls stood in orderly rows, each housing a colossal statue of a different Buddha. Within the hall marked "Emptiness," a single massive Buddha sat, its lips curved in an enigmatic smile, one hand turning a string of prayer beads, the other palm-up, a swirling vortex of luminous white light spinning within. Above the vortex, a number of figures floated in stillness. They did not move; their faces were ashen. Were it not for the faint breath in their bodies, they could have been mistaken for corpses.

Qin Bocheng's team of six, Qin Chengming alone, and another twenty-six people—each dressed differently, their affiliations unknown—formed a perfect circle, floating in the palm of the Buddha. To the eye, they were as tiny as ants.

“Young master, young master, wake up! The sky will be bright soon, and you must pay your respects to the old madam. If you’re late and the tutor makes you stand outside the door for class, how embarrassing will that be? Don’t come crying then!” A child's voice chattered incessantly at his ear, calling for some young master from who knows which household.

Qin Chengming, annoyed, turned over, wanting to sleep on. He hadn’t slept so comfortably in ages; ever since he began cultivating, he’d replaced sleep with meditation. How had he ended up in bed yesterday? And where had this soft bed come from? He definitely didn’t own one. His only bed was a slab of cold jade—hard as stone, utterly uncomfortable, used only for meditation.

“Young master, it’s truly late now. If you don’t get up, how can I answer to the madam?” The child’s voice, sharp and shrill, nagged on, even pushing him with a gentle hand. Even pretending to sleep was no longer an option for Qin Chengming.

He sat up with a start, glared at the noisy child, then strode to the window and flung it open. It was still early; outside, darkness reigned. Irritated, Qin Chengming snapped, “Will you stop? It’s still dark outside, and you want me up already? Are you out of your mind?”

The little servant boy fell to his knees in panic, kowtowing. “Young master, I… I really have no choice! Madam said if you’re late again this month, I’ll be sold off to the mines!”

Qin Chengming felt a strange sense of wrongness. He reached out to help the boy up, only to see that his own outstretched hands were not long and slender, but chubby and childlike. Instantly forgetting the kneeling boy, he frowned deeply, touched his short body, and stared at his small hands, silently lamenting—this plot is all wrong!