Zanxing (Retranslated)

Extra 12 - Flower (1) — Bu Jiang x Mingjing

The first time Mingjing met Bu Jiang, it was on a rainy evening.

On his way back to Liuxuan Temple, he encountered a young woman sitting on a green stone, gently massaging her ankle. Upon hearing footsteps, she looked up and smiled radiantly, revealing a face so beautiful it seemed otherworldly.

Smiling, she said to Mingjing, “Little monk, I’ve twisted my ankle. Could you help me up?”

Mingjing stopped a few steps away from her. Her snow-white feet looked like the finest of crafts, flawless without a single imperfection. The woman smiled at him, her every move exuding an allure like the bewitching spirits described in ancient texts, tempting the hearts of those around her.

After a long pause, he finally responded, “Alright.”

Mingjing was a Buddhist cultivator.

He was an orphan, found by the old abbot of Liuxuan Temple by a stream, and raised under his care. Born with exceptional spiritual roots, he was naturally talented in cultivation, and his pure heart made him perfectly suited for the path of Buddhism.

He was also quite handsome, with a clean and delicate appearance. There was a faint aura of sacredness and Buddhist grace in his brow. Whenever he descended from the mountain, young maidens would often sneak glances at him, subtly or openly suggesting he might consider leaving the monastic life or switching to a different path of cultivation.

Mingjing never paid these things any mind.

The world of desires comes and goes, and all attachments should be relinquished. In forgetting one’s desires and thoughts, the Buddha will manifest.

But Bu Jiang was probably an exception.

After he helped her to Liuxuan Temple, she clung to him and refused to leave. She stayed at the temple, pestering him every day, saying, “Little monk, stop following the path of Buddhism and come with me.”

Mingjing closed his eyes and continued reciting his scriptures as if he hadn’t heard her.

She didn’t get angry, only smiling as she sat beside him, staring at him intently.

Mingjing knew that Bu Jiang wasn’t human.

She was extraordinarily beautiful—so beautiful that her allure transcended races, easily captivating anyone who laid eyes on her. Occasionally, she would tease the other monks in the temple, especially the younger ones, who would inevitably blush and have their minds swayed under the influence of her overwhelming beauty.

In the next moment, she would lean closer to Mingjing, her red dress spreading out like a blooming flower in the empty hall. She looked at him like a mischievous enchantress, half testing, half serious, as she asked, “Are you jealous?”

His hand, poised to strike the wooden fish, paused for a moment. Without opening his eyes, he spoke calmly, “Please, maintain your dignity.”

“Oh.” She leaned close to him, her breath carrying a faint floral fragrance, and her voice seemed to have a teasing hook in it. “I just won’t.”

At that time, Mingjing was still a young Buddhist monk. No matter how patient he was, he couldn’t tolerate being pestered day after day. Initially, he was still polite and courteous, but later, every morning when Bu Jiang came to find him, Mingjing would look at the hem of her dress and calmly ask, “When is the benefactor planning to leave?”

The woman, far from being upset at being dismissed, spoke unhurriedly, as if intentionally going against him, “I’ll leave when you fall in love with me.”

Mingjing turned away.

He was a Buddhist monk; naturally, he would not have any reckless desires, nor would he fall in love with a demon.

But Bu Jiang seemed not to care. To her, loving someone appeared to be the most ordinary thing. As for how the other person responded, whether they liked her or not, it didn’t seem to matter much. She enjoyed the process and found joy in it, regardless of the outcome.

She even somehow found a small silver lock, engraved both their names on it, and hung it on the large locust tree in the temple courtyard. Smiling, she said, “Our fates are bound to be locked together. The lock is already hung, little monk,” her tone playful, “you’re mine now.”

Mingjing looked at the small lock hanging from the branch and lowered his gaze. “Please, be mindful of your words.”

Bu Jiang, of course, would never be mindful of her words. She was far bolder than any human woman, often saying things that made others blush, while she herself remained completely unfazed, leaving only the listener in an awkward state.

Winter arrived, and the locust tree shed its leaves. When spring came, new buds would sprout again. Time flowed quietly like water, and Mingjing gradually became accustomed to the presence of another person in the temple.

One day, while descending the mountain, Mingjing encountered a group of bandits committing murder.

The bandits had abducted a young couple and cruelly killed them along with their servants. Mingjing acted decisively, but the bandits harbored malicious intent, planning to perish alongside him. At the last moment, Mingjing’s staff pierced the heart of the bandit, while the bandit’s blade stopped just an inch away from the monk’s chest.

The bandit was dead.

From the bushes, the sound of rustling emerged. A child, about eight or nine years old, stumbled out and threw himself onto the bandit’s body, crying out, “Father—”

Mingjing froze.

This ruthless bandit had, paradoxically, been a loving father to his son. Fearing that his death would bring disaster to his child, he had sought to die alongside Mingjing, hoping to remove any future danger for his son. Yet, in the end, things didn’t go as he had wished.

Mingjing brought the child back to Liuxuan Temple.

Bu Jiang saw the child as well.

She stared at the child for a long time, for the first time without her usual playful smile, and simply asked, “Are you going to take him in?”

“He has nowhere else to go.”

“I advise you not to.” Bu Jiang’s gaze subtly swept over the trembling child on the ground. “I can see it clearly, there’s hatred in his eyes. Little monk,” she said, “this is a wolf. If you keep him, he will eventually bite you back.”

Mingjing replied, “It doesn’t matter.”

“As you wish.” She shrugged. “Just don’t regret it.”

Mingjing decided to keep the child and gave him the name Zizhen.

Zizhen was very timid, always following Mingjing around nervously, completely different from his brutal and vicious father. Mingjing treated him well, perhaps because Zizhen’s background reminded him of his own. Back then, Mingjing had been helpless and alone, and it was the old abbot who had raised him.

However, Bu Jiang didn’t like Zizhen. She often whispered in Mingjing’s ear, “A wolf can never be truly tamed, little monk. You’re wasting your time on that little brat. Are you planning to treat him as your own son?” She complained a little, “Ever since he came, you’ve spent much less time talking to me.”

“At this rate, when will you fall in love with me?” Her voice, drifting into his ears, grew faint and ethereal.

Mingjing remained silent, quietly tapping on the wooden fish.

Bu Jiang smiled faintly and glanced at the corner of the hall. The boy in monk robes was hiding in the shadow of the Buddha statue, his gaze like moss growing in the dark, tightly entangled with the monk sitting in front.

Noticing Bu Jiang’s gaze, the boy flinched, quickly lowering his head to hide his emotions.

The sound of the wooden fish echoed slowly and steadily through the Buddha hall. In the curling incense smoke, the large Buddha statue smiled benevolently, overlooking those within the hall.

“Little monk, you’re so soft-hearted. You’re bound to be bitten by the wolf one day,” Bu Jiang suddenly said.

Mingjing continued chanting the sutras.

She pressed her red lips close to the monk’s ear, her warm breath like a mist, swiftly igniting every inch of his skin. She whispered, “Since I like you so much, I can help you. Let me kill the wolf, okay?”

His hand paused on the wooden fish, then he spoke, “That won’t be necessary.”