Futile Devices Scans

On the western side of the main altar, there stood three pagodas—one large and two small—all with white bodies and golden roofs. The large pagoda enshrined the spiritual remains of the Ten Aspects Sect’s founding ancestor, Luo Jian, while the two smaller ones were used to store rare treasures, ritual implements, and sacred objects offered from temples across the land.

Qingtie avoided the guards at the entrance and, using the slight protrusions of relief carvings on the tower’s surface, climbed swiftly up the eastern pagoda’s fourth level, as light and nimble as a rat.

The pagoda was a brick-and-wood structure, with intricate mortise-and-tenon joints and painted decorations overhead. The patchwork of green and red patterns was dizzying to the eye. He couldn’t tell which deities were depicted, only that they were nothing like the indecent “demons fighting” scenes in the side hall.

The space on a single level was small. In the central shrine sat a statue of Mahākāla. This deity had six arms and dark skin, said to be the wrathful form manifested by the Tathāgata when subduing demons. He was the foremost among the dharma protectors, presiding over war and slaughter, and was revered in Yanyuan as the “God of War.”

Elio’s Note: Mahākāla is a wrathful Buddhist protector deity associated with destruction of evil and martial power. The Tathāgata is a title for the Buddha, referring to an enlightened being who has attained ultimate truth.

On the offering table beneath the shrine were displayed weapons, helmets, and other items of varying styles, each with its own history—most of them spoils of war accumulated over years of Yanyuan’s campaigns.

Qingtie’s gaze swept across them before settling at Mahākāla’s feet. He picked up a long sword that did not appear particularly eye-catching.

The scabbard was made of copper with black ray-skin covering, adorned with gilded fittings at both ends. The guard bore a yazi motif, and the hilt was wrapped in black velvet cord. At first glance, it looked simple and elegant, like a decorative piece from a scholar’s study.

Elio’s Note: Yazi is a fierce dragon-like mythical creature symbolizing aggression and vengeance, often used as a motif on weapons.

But when he slowly drew the sword, a chilling aura of killing intent rushed toward him. The blade gleamed cold and bright, clear as autumn water. Though it had been sealed away in this place for years, the moment it left the scabbard, it was obvious that this was a divine weapon that had drunk the blood of countless lives.

Qingtie worked in assassination. The weapons he used were usually short blades, poison, or whatever was at hand. He rarely had the chance to use such upright, gentlemanly weapons, nor did he particularly appreciate them. He turned the sword over in his hands for a while, unable to discern anything special, then tore a piece of cloth from the offering table, wrapped it up, and slung it across his back.

Standing atop the four-story pagoda, he looked out through the window, taking in the entire landscape surrounding the main altar at a glance. In the northern mountains, a wisp of red smoke rose into the air—that was the prearranged signal, indicating that Baitie had successfully escaped with Helan Zhenjia’s head. It was time for him to begin the cleanup.

Qingtie slipped out of the spirit pagoda and returned the same way to the Chiming Courtyard, climbing back in through the rear window Baitie had left ajar.

Blood had soaked the floor into a dark red. Even the heavy incense could not mask the smell of gore. Helan Zhenjia’s headless corpse lay side by side with a disheveled guard on the stone bed, while Nayan Kun and another guard lay on the ground.

After removing his disguise and putting on a guard’s outer robe, he tossed his fine clothes and mask into a heap beside Helan Zhenjia. Qingtie fastened the stolen sword at his waist, took two lamps from the table, and casually poured the lamp oil over the stone bed.

The flames fell and slowly spread along the brocade bedding embroidered with gold thread. Crimson tongues of fire greedily licked at the flesh offerings. That so-called “Pure Land Lotus Platform” seemed to transform into a true karmic fire lotus.

Curtains filled the hall, catching fire instantly and burning fast. Qingtie left the side hall and wandered through various poorly guarded buildings and courtyards, setting fires as he went. Once the flames grew and spread into a continuous blaze, he hid in a tree near the Sutra Repository, watching from above as the sect members scrambled to put out the fire.

With a sneer, he thought that Helan Zhenjia had spent a lifetime cultivating crooked, heretical paths. If he knew he was about to burn to ashes—not entering the spirit pagoda but instead being doused, muddied, and washed into the gutters by his own followers—would he regret choosing the wrong Buddha to worship?

Everything he needed to do was done. Next, he only had to slip into the crowd fighting the fire, pretend to fetch water, and find a chance to escape—

“The wind has shifted! The fire is heading south!”

“Quick, quick! Bring water!”

“No use—the flames are too strong! This place can’t be saved!”

“Bad news! The lamp oil sent by the Prince of Ganyang is still in the storage yard… Run! Forget the fire—run!”

Qingtie: “…”

Honestly, he had only intended to create chaos, not burn the entire main altar to the ground. But luck could be unreasonable like that.

Boom—!!

“Fate’s mockery” and “the unpredictability of heaven’s will” were perfectly demonstrated by the sudden shift in wind. The mountain wind carried sparks into the storage yard, igniting wooden barrels of oil that had not yet been stored away. Six hundred jin of lamp oil fed a massive, blazing explosion like the sun crashing to earth, instantly setting a vast stretch of halls and trees ablaze. Even the Sutra Repository, located diagonally opposite, felt the blast’s scorching force.

And not far from the storage yard, the Medicine Master Hall had already become a sea of flames.

That “True Spirit”… what was his name again? A’Lin… had he escaped? But Qingtie himself had placed A’Lin in the Medicine Master Hall. He had started the fire. He had disguised himself as the younger son of the Prince of Ganyang to infiltrate the mountain and assassinate Helan Zhenjia—and in doing so, had dragged A’Lin into this disaster.

Qingtie leapt from the treetop, landing lightly on the wall like a feather carried by the wind. With a twist of his foot, he dashed toward the Medicine Master Hall.

Thick smoke filled the hall. The heat scorched the skin. Tiles and broken beams kept falling from the roof with crackling sounds like rain, and the entire structure teetered on the verge of collapse. The west side of the platform had already been crushed by falling beams. Only the central Medicine Buddha statue remained, serenely smiling as if unaware.

Covering his mouth and nose with a damp cloth, he climbed over the rubble and ascended the platform, circling behind the statue. Sure enough, A’Lin was curled up in the corner, his breathing weak, on the verge of losing consciousness.

Qingtie inexplicably let out a breath of relief, thinking that if he hadn’t come back to check, the boy would truly have been trapped and burned alive here today.

He went over, lifted A’Lin up, and hoisted him over his shoulder in the same sack-carrying manner. A’Lin coughed violently, regaining a bit of clarity, then seemed to freeze. Qingtie didn’t know what to say, so he muttered awkwardly, “Sorry. Chose the wrong place—made you suffer.”

A’Lin: “…”

When the fire first broke out, he had tried desperately to escape. But the drug’s effects had not fully worn off. He had barely managed to crawl a few steps before running out of strength. Worse, he had inhaled too much smoke, his lungs burning, his breathing growing labored, while the numbness in his limbs only intensified.

One brush with danger is an accident. Two is misfortune piling on. Three—then it is fate closing in. When heaven itself seems determined to kill you, it is beyond human power. No prayers or gods can save you.

The greatest despair is not hardship, but helplessness—when one has just gathered the courage to live again, only to have it extinguished even more cruelly. A person can struggle against enemies, or even against themselves, but how can one fight against impermanence?

Qingtie strained his eyes, but even with all his effort, he could not see through the smoke and flames, past the beams and statues, to clearly make out the person hidden behind the Buddha.

The moment he realized he was hesitating, he nearly laughed at himself. He had come here to assassinate Helan Zhenjia, not to save people. Back in the Chiming Courtyard, sparing A’Lin and moving him to the Medicine Master Hall had already been more than enough kindness for a stranger. There was no need to risk coming back—what if A’Lin had already escaped?

And even if he hadn’t, even if he ultimately died in the fire, then it was simply his fate—what was destined could not be avoided. It would not be Qingtie’s fault.

He should leave.

The armies of Yanyuan were still trampling across Longsha’s lands, and innocent civilians were dying every day. If he returned sooner, he might save more lives—rather than risk his own for an unlucky mute boy…

But it was he who had personally sent A’Lin into the Medicine Master Hall, he who had started the fire, and he who had disguised himself as the younger son of the Prince of Ganyang to come up the mountain and assassinate Helan Zhenjia—dragging A’Lin into this entire disaster.

Qingtie leapt down from the treetop, landing lightly on the wall like a feather blown by the wind. With a turn of his toes, he sprinted toward the Medicine Master Hall.

The hall was filled with thick smoke, and the heat scorched the skin red. Tiles and broken beams kept crashing down from the roof like rain, and the entire structure teetered on the verge of collapse. The west side of the platform had already been crushed by a fallen beam, yet only the Medicine Buddha in the center remained, unknowingly holding a flower and smiling.

He covered his mouth and nose with a damp cloth, climbed over the rubble, and ascended the platform. Circling behind the Medicine Buddha, he found A’Lin curled in the corner, his breathing faint, on the verge of losing consciousness.

Qingtie inexplicably let out a breath of relief, thinking that if he hadn’t come back to check, the boy would truly have been trapped and burned alive in the sea of fire today.

He went over, helped A’Lin up, crouched down, and hoisted him over his shoulder like carrying a sack. A’Lin coughed violently, regaining a bit of clarity, then seemed to freeze. Qingtie didn’t know what to say, so he muttered stiffly, “Sorry. Chose the wrong place—made you suffer.”

A’Lin: “…”

When the fire first broke out, he had tried desperately to escape. But the drug’s effects had not fully worn off. He had barely managed to crawl a few steps before running out of strength. Worse, he had inhaled too much smoke—his lungs burned, his breathing grew labored, and the numbness in his limbs only worsened.

One brush with danger is an accident. Two is misfortune piling on. Three—then it is fate reaching its end. When heaven itself seems determined to kill you, it is beyond human power. No prayers or gods can save you.

The greatest despair in life is not hardship, but helplessness—when one has just gathered a sliver of courage from utter despair, only to have it extinguished again by an even colder blow. A person can fight enemies, can fight themselves—but how can one fight against impermanence?

He finally gave up struggling, collapsing to the ground to await death. And then, more unpredictable than impermanence itself, that young assassin—more precisely, his elusive savior—appeared before him again without warning.

Unfortunately, this time there was no one beside him to ask why. Half-conscious, he was slung over a hard shoulder, his tears evaporated by the surrounding heat before they could even fall.

Qingtie was already moving quickly, but just as he was about to jump down from the platform, a sudden ominous cracking sound rang above his head. He glanced up, and without hesitation, leapt backward. A burning beam grazed past his nose and crashed down, blocking the only escape route.

A bead of sweat formed on his forehead—whether from heat or fear, he couldn’t tell. Qingtie thought grimly that he shouldn’t have mocked Helan Zhenjia earlier. At least that man had left a complete head behind—if he died here today, he might only leave behind a few catties of relics.

He surveyed the surroundings and quickly calculated: they were trapped in the narrow space behind the Medicine Buddha, with no way out on any side. The only option was to climb over the Buddha’s halo above its head. But the space was too cramped—there was no footing for lightness skills. He would have to climb using the carved patterns, all while dodging falling debris. If the roof collapsed midway, he and A’Lin would meet on the Naihe Bridge and share a bowl of Mengpo Soup as old acquaintances.

Elio’s Notes:

• Naihe Bridge: In Chinese mythology, the bridge souls must cross in the underworld before reincarnation.
• Mengpo Soup: A mythical drink given to souls before reincarnation that erases all memories of their past life.

The fire crackled everywhere, but a louder rumble seemed to echo from afar. The platform beneath his feet trembled constantly, and the dizziness from the shaking and heat distorted everything in his vision—even the golden body of the Buddha statue seemed to be melting—

Wait.

If it were hot enough to melt gold, how could he still be alive? Or had the Ten Aspects Sect cut corners when building the statue—was it merely wood coated with wax? If so, would climbing it cause it to collapse?

That faint anomaly gave him hope. His mind, dulled by heat, suddenly cleared.

He reached behind the Medicine Buddha and felt around. His fingers came away coated in gold powder. Where he had rubbed, a dark iron surface was revealed. That section seemed different from the rest. As the outer coating melted away, the seams became faintly visible before his eyes.

Qingtie thought: for a sect as large as the Ten Aspects Sect, they must have constructed secret tunnels to escape being trapped on the mountain. Could it be that this Medicine Master Hall is the entrance to one of those tunnels?

Ignoring the burning heat, he quickly searched for a mechanism. Suddenly, his palm pressed against an unusual protrusion. He pushed down hard. With a series of clicking sounds, a metal plate slowly lifted, revealing an opening large enough for a person. The statue was hollow inside, with a steep slope descending into the depths below.

The passage was narrow, making it difficult to carry someone. Qingtie muttered, “Excuse me,” set A’Lin down, then held him in his arms. Clinging tightly together, they squeezed through the opening and slid down the slope.

The deeper they went, the wider the tunnel became, and the slope gradually leveled out. The air was damp and cool, carrying the earthy scent of soil—unpleasant, but compared to the suffocating smoke, it felt like escaping from hell into a heavenly pool.

After sliding in darkness for a while, Qingtie stopped and lit a fire starter.

The surrounding stone walls bore marks of manual excavation, and the ceiling had been reinforced to prevent collapse. His guess had been correct—this was a secret tunnel built by the Ten Aspects Sect. It extended in only one direction, winding downward. Following it would likely lead to an exit at the foot of the mountain.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself, then helped A’Lin up. “It’s safe for now. Rest a while. Once you recover, we’ll leave.”

A’Lin nodded weakly. Between shock, fear, smoke, and fire, his face was pale beneath the painted designs—but at least he could stand with Qingtie’s support.

The small flame illuminated the sharp line of Qingtie’s jaw. A’Lin stared at his cold profile and suddenly realized—this was his true face.

Far more handsome than that foolish young master, and younger than he had imagined—but somehow, it felt exactly right.

He reached up and gently brushed Qingtie’s cheek, wiping away soot.

“Wh—”

Though Qingtie had remained composed through danger and escape alike, this sudden touch made him oddly uneasy. Seeing the soot on A’Lin’s hand, he wiped his own face. “Oh. Thanks.”

But his hands were covered in ash and powder—one swipe smeared his face completely. A’Lin’s shoulders shook as he turned away, unable to suppress his laughter.

Though his features were obscured by paint, his bone structure was excellent, and when he smiled, he was unexpectedly beautiful.

That kind of genuine, unrestrained smile didn’t belong buried underground—it deserved to bloom under open skies.

“…”

Qingtie glanced at his own hand, realized what A’Lin was laughing at, and reached out to smear A’Lin’s face in return, pushing him lightly against the wall. Unable to hold it in, he laughed as well. “Still laughing? You’re not any better than me.”

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