Monk Jing from Tongshou Temple was nearly in tears.
Really, even though he was holding back, tears were already spinning in his eyes.
How sinful!
He was originally just a bottom-of-the-barrel street swindler, occasionally relying on his not-too-bad skills in poker and mahjong to scrape together a bit of cash in the lowest-end gambling dens, of course, not too much.
If he won too much, he would be discovered.
If discovered, his hands would be chopped off.
He didn’t want that.
He wanted to live a long life and be buried peacefully.
So, he mixed in carefully and lived on.
As for finding a proper job?
He did that before he was fifty, too.
Convenience store clerk, chopping vegetables at the diner, car washer, parking attendant, etc., he had done them all.
Those were the happiest tis of his life.
Although they were hourly jobs, not formal employnt, and didn’t pay much, he could still earn a little every day, and occasionally even get a free work al.
But once he passed fifty, such jobs said goodbye to him.
He was replaced by younger people.
However, he did not curse his fate or others.
After all, compared to those who jumped off the rooftops after the financial tide receded, he was much happier.
At the very least, he was still alive.
Still living like a human.
Thus, his cardboard ho was the cleanest, and he cleaned around it every day.
Until...
An old monk appeared.
It was a misty morning when the old monk, covered in blood, collapsed at the ’door’ of his ’ho’.
If it had been sowhere else, he would have turned a blind eye and walked away heartlessly.
But at the ’door’ of his ’ho’, he couldn’t just ignore it.
He didn’t know what had happened to the old monk.
He only carried the old monk into his house and then cleaned up the blood.
Afterwards, he treated the monk with his cherished dicines.
To live a long life, having dicine was essential.
He always kept a portion of reserve funds for purchasing necessary dicines.
From cold dicine, anti-diarrheals to iodophors, bandages, and so on.
These things seed basic, but at critical monts, they were lifesaving.
He had seen too many ’neighbors’ lose their lives over a simple cold.
The old monk was gravely injured.
Covered in wounds from head to toe.
Many were deep to the bone.
It was a wonder to him that the old monk was still alive.
Likewise, there was the old monk’s recovery power.
After he disinfected and applied dication, the old monk woke up by evening.
Weak, but that was normal.
Ordinary people with such serious injuries would have long been dead and cold.
"Thank, thank you."
The old monk struggled to express his gratitude.
"Don’t thank ."
"If you died at my doorstep, it would trouble too."
"Hurry up and eat, recover quickly, and then leave quickly."
He spoke indifferently to the old monk.
Then, he took out two cans from his ’ergency rations’.
Canned goods are easy to preserve and have a long shelf life.
Especially canned at, which was a treasure during hard tis.
He only had three cans hidden away.
Now he took out two just to help the old monk recover quickly.
Even so, he already had argunts prepared to convince the old monk to eat the cans of at.
But unexpectedly, this old monk didn’t seem to mind eating at at all.
Completely different from any monk he knew.
The old monk was peculiar in more than that.
Apart from not eating at, the old monk was also very interested in playing cards and mahjong.
Probably a fake monk!
The earlier injuries must have been from being caught while swindling!
That was what he thought at the ti.
And thus, their distance closed.
After all, they were sowhat in the sa line of work.
Days went by, day by day.
The monk’s bald head was soon covered with a layer of short white hair, his body healed, and when he was well, he’d walk around the ’ho’ in his old clothes for half a day.
Sotis they’d pick up cans together.
Occasionally, they’d rummage useful things out of the trash.
Then what?
Naturally, they’d exchange them for so beers.
He and the fake monk would drink together, chat together, laugh together.
He was the one laughing.
Because this fake monk always treated legends as truth, telling him stories with all the details.
He didn’t believe it.
Then, a few months later, the fake monk suddenly said he had to leave, had so matters to attend to.
He didn’t hold him back.
How could people like them hold soone back?
Absolutely no regret!
He didn’t see the fake monk off, just returned ’ho’ early.
And then, staring at the clothes the old monk had left behind, he spent the whole night in a daze.
Life has to go on, right?
Another month passed.
After his life had returned to calm, the old monk reappeared.
Still injured, still covered in blood, collapsed at the ’door’ of his ’ho’.
"Hey!"
"We may be swindlers, but we must have a bottom line!"
"It’s okay to scrape a al or two, but don’t go overboard."
"Otherwise, you’ll end up dying on the streets!"
He said these words, but his actions were swift in ’carrying’ the fake monk back ’ho’.
The following days beca a repeat of the previous experience.
In a cyclical pattern.
Every ti the fake monk left, he always returned injured.
When healed, the fake monk would tell him stories.
Stories about how to deal with demons and ghosts.
The heroes in those stories had the Visualization thod, the Breathing thod, the Technique thod.
He found them interesting and rembered quite a bit.
At his age, there was a lot he couldn’t rember anymore, but mysteriously, he rembered everything the fake monk told him, word for word.
At first, he found it strange.
But later, he got used to it.
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