Chapter 115: Greed Beneath the Buddha

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His madness had successfully set her heart trembling, leaving her in unbearable torment while somehow mending every wound left by a lifetime of being unloved.

Zhong Huayan considered herself a woman with sound values, yet deep within, where her traumas and deprivation of love lay buried, she found herself drawn even more to this kind of extreme affection.

It was intense enough, bloody enough, yet it could fill the emptiness and chill in her heart.

Fu Yanyan’s love was like a slow-acting poison—making people dependent, making them addicted. Once they tried to break free, every inch of their bodies would ache.

Zhong Huayan had only officially begun a relationship with him, and not even a few months had passed. How could she possibly have been so thoroughly affected by a man?

She had once been called an emotionless machine at the company. With no man in her heart, she could wield her blade with divine precision, and had single-handedly carried the entire Zhong Corporation through seven years at its peak.

After finishing her meal at the restaurant, she changed into her school uniform. The school had invited a professor that day, supposedly to give a lecture on art exhibitions.

She was, for the time being, somewhat interested in academic lectures. After all, they offered a chance to gain more knowledge.

Because Zhong Huayan was tall and slender, the white school uniform looked even more elegant on her than it would on a noblewoman. The simple silver diamond butterfly brooch pinned at her collar was especially striking, setting off her neck and collarbones until they seemed almost dreamlike.

As the gleam of the silver diamonds skimmed across her neck, the flecks of light they left behind sparkled brilliantly. Her hair fell lightly to her waist as she descended the staircase against the light. With every step, even the radiance seemed to leap along with her strands.

When she returned to Capital University in high spirits and made her way toward the art lecture, she was suddenly drawn by the sound of a guzheng.

A sorrowful melody drifted from a sealed room. It was not a familiar composition, but seemed more like an original piece.

What startled her even more was that its flavor could never have come from an ordinary guzheng performance. Its notes leaned toward the ancient modes—lofty mountains and flowing waters, a lofty tune with few who could appreciate it, a rare meeting of kindred souls.

Zhong Huayan pushed the door open on tiptoe. With a creak, light slowly spread from behind her, filling the dim gray room.

The young man before her was gaunt to the point of emaciation. A fine coat hung over his body, while his fingers were unnaturally pale and so thin that every joint showed clearly.

He was playing the priceless guzheng with complete concentration. Only when the light reached his neck did he seem to notice her and stop.

Even his ankles, though they did not look frail, resembled works of art, setting him apart from ordinary mortals at a glance. His entire being was astonishingly pure and clear.

If Fu Yanyan resembled a holy man touched by Buddha, then Fang Wenjin looked more like an immortal.

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However, because of what had happened in the underground palace beneath the Aomeng restaurant, seeing someone so gaunt inexplicably filled her with a gloomy, bone-deep chill.

On the cabinet beside him stood a four-cornered rosewood Buddhist shrine, something that clearly did not belong in the school.

The shrine rested there in silence. The Buddha within was perhaps the most spiritually radiant statue she had ever seen. Enclosed in a massive, decayed rosewood shrine, the golden Buddha seemed to press down upon the boy’s presence, as though the old, worn room had overwhelmed his character. Perhaps it was simply that the boy was too dazzling, making the room appear even more antiquated by comparison.

“Congratulations, fellow student Li Yanyan, on another victory.”

Though his manner carried the distant restraint of a gentleman’s friendship, the admiration in his eyes was impossible to conceal.

“No, I only made it through to the next round. The grand finals will be held in the capital.”

“I’ll definitely go and watch. By the way, I heard that a shocking murder took place in Aomeng. I was rather worried about you at the time, but it seems I was worrying for nothing.”

“Thank you. I was there when it happened, so it was rather dangerous. This guzheng of yours is a collector’s piece. During the Ming Dynasty, it would have been called an ancient qin. It should be a Zhongni-style Zhonghe qin made by the Prince of Lu. It must be worth a great deal.”

A faint tremor passed through the young man’s eyes. His hand gently caressed the instrument.

The qin was dark red, and a glance was enough to show that it had been refurbished. Even the strings had yellowed slightly. When played, its tone seemed to carry the listener back to the Ming Dynasty: the clash of weapons, the sweep of armies, the grandeur of a land swallowing mountains and rivers. Images of desolation and loneliness flashed before the eyes, while the lingering notes seemed to circle endlessly in the air.

“Indeed. Would you like to try it, fellow student Li Yanyan?”

She had always loved antiques—the resplendent pearls left behind by Chinese civilization, whose value was immeasurable and which inspired the deepest fascination.

After politely expressing her thanks, Zhong Huayan sat down and began plucking the strings with her bare hands. In the tranquil room, mottled patches of light fell across the floor.

The two of them admired the ancient instrument together. It was an idyllic scene, and beneath their shared passion, all their troubles gradually vanished, leaving only the pleasant, melodious sound of the guzheng strings. If the instrument had not been so precious, she might even have hummed a few Kunqu melodies. Yet the music possessed such an effortless ancient charm that she could not bear to disturb it.

When the piece ended, Fang Wenjin’s eyes were filled with reluctant longing. He sat lazily astride the chair, his wrists and ankles pale, delicate, and full of an almost otherworldly vitality. Yet his gaze remained fixed on her, silently and intently.

“You believe in Buddha too?”

She rose and walked toward the four-cornered rosewood shrine on the cabinet, examining the statue inside.

“I don’t believe in Buddha. But everyone says that wishes made before Buddha come true. I want to try.”

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She was slightly astonished. Few people would dare to speak so honestly before Buddha.

“Indeed, many people buy statues like this and place them in their homes, burning incense, worshiping Buddha, and making wishes every day. As far as I know, this type of statue should have scriptures carved beneath its base.”

Zhong Huayan glanced at him.

Fang Wenjin’s expression was gentle. He merely nodded indulgently. “If you’re interested, you may have a look.”

Calmly, she picked up the statue. With Buddhist figures of this kind, the inscriptions beneath the base were usually essential for determining their exact origin and value. This was also one of the standard methods used when appraising antiques.

Of course, such statues were often purchased by nobles and high officials not merely for collection, but also for burning incense and making wishes. The most efficacious practice was said to be placing a written wish beneath the statue and kowtowing before Buddha as a sign of devotion.

She carefully lifted the statue and opened its base. There were no scriptures inside. Instead, a slip of paper fell out.

When she unfolded it, she saw that the words had been written in graceful, vigorous strokes, as delicate as bamboo engraving.

“Fang Wenjin wants to be with Huayan forever.”

Zhong Huayan was so startled that her hand went slack, and the paper drifted lightly to the floor.

She turned her head toward the languid young man in the chair. He rarely smiled. One jade-white ankle rested on the seat, while his eyes held an unmistakable, probing curiosity.

Then, unexpectedly, he revealed a gentle smile. One eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly, and in a voice as light as the falling paper, he spoke with a steady, soft breath—the musical quality born from years of theatrical training.

He murmured, “You want to be with Sister Huayan forever? Buddha, oh Buddha, can this dream really come true?”

At that moment, Zhong Huayan no longer felt that the boy embodied peaceful, carefree beauty.

A bone-chilling sensation crawled over her entire body.

She felt as though the figure before her were a skeleton wrapped in a young man’s skin—cold, sinister, and deeply unsettling.

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