With just that one screenshot, Jiang Luo tricked several big red envelopes out of people.
The group chat went wild, turning the image into all kinds of memes with different captions for laughs. Jiang Luo watched them mess around with a smile, then went back to WeChat to ask Chi You: [Feeling good?]
Chi You replied with several red envelopes—his silent way of laughing.
Jiang Luo accepted them all without hesitation: [This money is real, right?]
[Dear Student Jiang, aside from ghost money, I have plenty of real money,] Chi You said lazily. [Enough to take you anywhere in the world to enjoy life.]
Jiang Luo caught the man’s implication: [You want to travel with me?]
The malicious ghost replied: [I just want to spend another half-month with you.]
Chi You was deeply dissatisfied with the weak and burdensome image he had left Jiang Luo with during their escape from Dawu Mountain. He wanted to replace that disheveled impression with a strong and perfect version of himself.
But Chi You never told anyone that when he opened his eyes and realized he was still alive—when he saw Jiang Luo next to him, worn out but still guarding him—a never-before-felt emotion surged up inside him. Subtle and strange, it seemed like… satisfaction, or maybe a sense of safety.
Chi You had never thought he would open his eyes again after losing consciousness. Never thought Jiang Luo would stay, even when he had become a burden.
It was a wholly unfamiliar experience for him.
Traveling?
Jiang Luo was shamefully a little tempted. He turned his head to look at Cyril, who was still watching the screen with great interest, and typed: [Cyril, are there any good tourist spots in your country?]
Mention tourism and Cyril perked right up, no longer sleepy. With enthusiasm, he told Jiang Luo about all the famous tourist attractions in his country and eagerly invited him: [Jiang, our country’s carnival is coming up soon—want to come?]
Jiang Luo stroked his chin thoughtfully: [I’ll consider it.]
The Fated One, intentionally ignored, remained kneeling for three full days. His attitude was unfailingly respectful and devout. Every morning he arrived punctually, and he didn’t leave until the temple closed. He never ate or rested during the day—he would kneel for twelve hours straight.
Yet despite lowering himself in worship to Jiang Luo, he did not appear pitiful or servile. On the contrary, the Fated One carried himself with composure and dignity, neither overbearing nor self-deprecating.
Who would see someone sincerely worshiping a god as merely currying favor? Others would only see his sincerity.
At the end of the third day, the Fated One smiled as he rose from the floor. “It’s late. This junior will return tomorrow to seek your guidance again.”
Just as he was about to leave, the true god—who had silently watched him kneel for three days—finally spoke: “Why have you come?”
The god’s tone was calm, laced with a hint of curiosity. But even that curiosity was faint, as if asking idly why an ant was crawling in the wrong direction.
A flicker passed through the Fated One’s eyes. He bowed respectfully and said, “This junior wishes to seek your guidance.”
“Guidance on what?” the god asked.
“On how to become a god,” replied the Fated One.
This time, the god remained silent for a long time.
That silence said nothing, yet it seemed to drip with ridicule. The Fated One lowered his eyes and quietly waited for the god’s response.
After a long pause, the god spoke directly: “You cannot become a god.”
The Fated One smiled lightly, not showing the slightest discouragement. “Why not?”
“How could a mortal become a god?” the god said.
Those two words—mortal being—made the Fated One’s smile falter.
The desire to become a god had practically become his obsession. His two centuries of effort were all to transcend the category of “mortal.” That word was the one he hated most—like a knife stabbing into his flesh.
He countered: “Why can’t mortals become gods? Since ancient times, there’ve been countless legends of mortals ascending to godhood or enlightenment. Why not me?”
Once again, he bowed. “I beg for your guidance, senior.”
The god asked in confusion: “Why do you want to become a god? For divine rank and salary? For eternal life and unity with heaven and earth?”
The Fated One’s expression grew distant. He looked toward the hip-and-gable roof of Dazhao Temple. The evening glow had faded, casting shadows over the land.
It was as if he were seeing his younger self, discovering a way to ascend to godhood for the first time in the temple’s sutra library. “I don’t want to become a god for those reasons.”
“Since I can remember,” he said, sitting cross-legged where he stood, speaking through the door to the god inside, “I’ve always pondered one thing.”
“I kept wondering whether gods truly exist in this world.”
“We worship gods, offer them tribute, pray to them, and use their power to suppress malicious ghosts. In theory, where there are ghosts, there are gods. But has anyone really seen a true god descend?”
“Buddhism has Shakyamuni, who became a Buddha after feeding his flesh to an eagle. Daoism has Patriarch Heavenly Master Zhang, a human who cultivated into an immortal. The old Heavenly Master in Qingcheng Mountain struck down six ghost kings and ascended in broad daylight after completing his merit. Both religions worship these figures, borrow their power to fight evil, eliminate karma—but has anyone truly seen them? Do they even truly exist?”
The Fated One seemed to forget there was a real god just behind the door, and continued slowly: “I seek godhood not for immortality, nor for almighty power. I’m just curious. Someone has to follow their curiosity to do things. And until it’s done, who can say whether it’s possible or not?”
“When I was young, I never thought humans would one day walk on the moon. Just like others now think my path to godhood is a mere fantasy—an impossible dream.”
He suddenly smiled, his eyes filled with reminiscence. “I’ve lived for two hundred years. When I went out in search of traces of gods and Buddhas, I witnessed countless wars and national disasters, including the most difficult of times. I saw many people displaced, dying unnatural deaths. Some had children starving at home, their own bodies nothing but skin and bones, yet they would still save a bite of food to offer to gods and Buddhas. They placed their hopes in temples and shrines, praying to gods and Buddhas, hoping they could relieve their suffering. But I never saw gods or Buddhas actually respond to their believers.”
“The dying pray to gods and Buddhas. Those with long lives also pray. The sinful seek to cleanse their murders, while the righteous hope the gods will punish the butchers.”
“I’m different from them. I don’t pray to gods and Buddhas for long life or wishes. I just want to test it—if I become a god, would I be able to respond to my believers?” the Fated One said calmly. “I just want to see what it’s like after becoming a god. As long as I can become a god, I’d be willing to die right after.”
His words were light and casual, yet calm and resolute. The Fated One’s pursuit of the path wasn’t for profit, nor was it to escape life and death. He had no desires, which was why he looked down on the masses who prayed to gods for their own selfish gains.
Even though it was a true god who told him he could not become one, the Fated One did not believe him.
Jiang Luo was silent for a long time. He had to admit, the Fated One had his own theory—and it was extremely persuasive. Even Cyril, listening nearby, fell into deep thought, thinking the Fated One made sense.
The Fated One had lived for two hundred years. He’d seen it all, and had developed his own logic. Jiang Luo wasn’t swayed by him, but he clearly saw how obsessive the Fated One was about becoming a god.
The more obsessive he was, the smoother his plans would go.
After a while, the true god finally said indifferently, “All that has form is but illusion.”
He was saying the Fated One was attached to appearances.
The Heart Sutra says, “All dharmas are empty.” The nature of form is emptiness, but one should not become attached to even that understanding. To cling stubbornly to the idea that “form is empty” is, in itself, a form of attachment.
The Fated One understood the meaning of this line—it was just another way of saying he was too obsessed with becoming a god, and therefore could not become one. He respectfully said, “I ask for your guidance, elder.”
“You said there are many legends of people becoming gods, immortals, or Buddhas. Indeed, there are many. From Chang’e flying to the moon to Shakyamuni becoming a Buddha upon touching the ground,” the true god’s voice was distant, as if coming from far away, shrouded in mist. “When the Western Zhou dynasty overthrew the Shang, they canonized 365 ‘true gods,’ most of whom were deified after death. Confucius was revered as a sage and also became a god after death. Qu Yuan and Wu Zixu were no different. Since ancient times, even the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors became gods after death. Even Guan Yu, revered across Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism, was canonized as a god after his death, becoming the ‘Great Emperor Who Subdues Demons Across the Three Realms.’ He is perhaps the most successful example of a man who became a god.”
“Exactly,” the Fated One replied with a smile, “In myths, they say, ‘the wise and upright become gods.’ City gods and land gods in temples across the land are mostly righteous people given divine titles by local officials after death. Elder, when you look at me, do I not meet the standard for becoming a god?”
Ever since he decided to become a god, the Fated One hadn’t killed a single person. He had a good reputation and spiritual insight. When the old abbot of Dazhao Temple brought him in, he said the Fated One had a Buddha’s heart.
His heart was as firm as a rock, yet clear as a bright mirror. Not pleased by material gain, nor saddened by personal loss.
He seemed to be the perfect candidate for godhood.
But Jiang Luo simply didn’t believe he could become a god. A man like him, who secretly harmed others, had remained stuck at the false-god stage for years and had even predicted that he’d be killed by Chi You. If he could become a god, Jiang Luo would take his surname.
Jiang Luo was brimming with confidence, ready to start spouting nonsense. He hadn’t read many Buddhist or Daoist scriptures, but when it came to making things up, no one could beat Jiang Luo.
He said, “You were once a disciple of the Buddhist path. You should know what the word ‘Buddha’ means. ‘Buddha’—fo—is made up of the characters for ‘man’ and ‘not’—‘man not.’ It means one who transcends humanity, abandons the self, detaches from the mundane.”
The Fated One was stunned, his brow slightly furrowed.
“You mentioned Shakyamuni—he became a Buddha after death. Your so-called old patriarch also ascended only after transformation. Not to mention the other deities—who among them did not become a god only after death?” Jiang Luo said. “These gods and Buddhas have transcended the self and let go of worldly attachments. They hold the world in their hearts and are willing to sacrifice for others. I said mortals cannot become gods because you still have a mortal heart. Shakyamuni cultivated and suffered for twelve years before enlightenment. You’ve spent two hundred years, and you’ve yet to become a god, immortal, or Buddha. Do you really not know where you went wrong?”
The Fated One’s expression shifted slightly.
“Let go of your delusions of greed, anger, and ignorance. Repay the karmic debts you owe to those you’ve harmed. You are obsessed with hollow fame and have strayed from the true essence of godhood. Use your reputation to atone for your misdeeds. Only then should you seek your path.”
The Fated One was silent for a long time. “You want me to admit my wrongs to everyone?”
The true god inside the temple gave no reply.
The Fated One asked again, “You want me to admit the truth behind my prophecy all those years ago?”
Still, there was no answer.
Suddenly, in the incense burner before the Fated One, the burning incense snapped with a crack, as if answering him.
The Fated One looked at the long incense stick, a rare flicker of hesitation appearing on his face.
“Senior, this…”
He had never heard of someone with a tarnished reputation being able to become a god.
The true god cut him off, as if angered by the Fated One’s questioning. His voice turned cold. “Whether or not you become a god is your business. Whether you believe it or not is also your business. Now go. I want to rest.”
The Fated One fell silent and quietly left the temple.
Once he was gone, Jiang Luo stretched and began packing his things.
Cyril asked curiously, “Jiang, what are you doing?”
“Travel,” Jiang Luo shrugged. “Going out to play for half a month. This move is called retreating to advance. As soon as I leave, the one who’ll be anxious is the Fate-bound Man.”
Cyril nodded, half understanding, half not. Curious, he asked, “Then where are you going?”
“Your country,” Jiang Luo said, stuffing a pair of underwear into his backpack, the corner of his lips lifting. “I want to go surfing at the beach, ride a yacht, and see belly dancing by Gypsy girls. Who cares? I’ve wanted to travel for ages. Now that I’ve got the money and time, I’ll go wherever I want. I’ll party for half a month, then bring you back a souvenir.”
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