Chapter 20: The Nameless Temple

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Luo Gan hurried through the pouring rain, drenched from head to toe. Helpless against the relentless downpour, he was forced to take shelter in a temple. The county town was still several miles away, yet the rain had chosen this moment to fall. Luo Gan, now dubbed the “county busybody,” had worked little in recent days, shuttling endlessly between villages and Anping County.

In his time in the Great Tang, the events he had experienced far outnumbered those of the previous year—some joyous, some sorrowful. Each time he embarked on the search for clues, casting aside all from his real world, his hope for turning his life around persisted as long as the game was not over. This hope drove Luo Gan to endure every hardship to find the treasure.

There was still a distance to Lord Liu’s residence. The rain fell steadily, and hunger gnawed at him. Glancing back at the temple, its incense still burned, though it was rather deserted. Looking up, he noticed the temple had no name. A monk swept fallen leaves in the rain.

A monk? Well, hunger cares little for details. Luo Gan had done many good deeds in this era, gathering virtue. People say good men live in peace, so he decided to pay a visit to this nameless temple.

He climbed the moss-covered stone steps. Inside, a stale smell lingered, carried through the rain, oddly reminiscent of burning plastic. Stranger still, as he approached the monk, he found his hair amusing—normal in front, yet the back of his head sported plenty, looking almost comical. Luo Gan’s obsessive tendencies twitched. But the monk’s attire was oddly fashionable—tight cuffs, wide yet not bulky robes, soaked by rain but not filthy. The monk seemed unconcerned by the rain, sweeping leaves at his own pace.

Luo Gan stepped forward and asked, “Greetings, abbot.”

The monk, not raising his head, barked angrily, “Who the hell are you calling a baldhead?”

The retort left Luo Gan befuddled. Was this not a monk? He’d never heard of such a thing.

Luo Gan said, “But you’re wearing a monk’s robe…”

The monk replied, “Wearing a robe makes me a monk? So wearing mourning white means someone died at home?”

Luo Gan conceded, “You’re not wrong… I’m here to ask for something to eat.”

The monk said, “Asking for food? Wait till I finish sweeping these leaves.”

Luo Gan looked at the sodden pile of leaves on the ground. Sweeping them would take ages.

Luo Gan asked, “Why sweep leaves on a rainy day? Why not wait for the rain to stop?”

The monk replied, “You young people nowadays procrastinate everything. Today’s work must be done today. If you can’t finish today, what makes you think you’ll feel inspired to catch up tomorrow?”

Luo Gan considered this. It made sense. Chronic procrastinators always push tasks to tomorrow, then tomorrow to forever. The monk had a point. But then he thought…

Luo Gan said, “Wait, I’m really just here to see if you have anything to eat.”

The monk paused, broom in hand, hands on hips. “Do I look like I run a vegetarian tavern?”

Luo Gan shook his head.

The monk said, “Glad you know! Here, no work, no food!”

He handed the broom to Luo Gan, who refused to take it.

The monk was displeased. “So, not gonna work? Then you want a fight?”

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He spoke while striking a pose, as if ready to brawl with Luo Gan. Luo Gan’s stomach growled, his head spun, and now he had to deal with this insufferable monk. He was truly unlucky.

But there was no way around it. Nothing edible within miles, and this era certainly offered no food delivery. Despite his irritation, Luo Gan had to accept the broom and get to work.

As the rain eased, a mist rose, making everything hazy. Within the nameless temple, two figures swept the courtyard: one calm, tending slowly; the other darting about like a motor.

The rain stopped.

In a side room of the temple, Luo Gan sat on a cushion, devouring steamed buns ravenously, heedless of choking. The monk handed him a towel, and seeing Luo Gan absorbed in eating, simply draped it over his head, then brought a bowl of cool water for him.

Luo Gan asked, “Is it just you here?”

The monk replied, “Yes.”

Luo Gan sighed, at a loss for words. Suddenly, he remembered the letter he carried and hurriedly checked if it had gotten wet. Rooting around, he found it—soaked through.

The ink had begun to blur, warping where water touched it. Luo Gan groaned, almost in tears.

Luo Gan said, “Oh no, everything’s gone wrong. Why am I so unlucky?”

The monk looked over, perfectly calm.

The monk said, “Young man, don’t worry. Leave this to me.”

In that instant, the monk’s confident demeanor rekindled Luo Gan’s hope. Perhaps he could save this crucial clue.

The monk unhurriedly picked up the letter, laid it flat on the ground, then sat cross-legged, hands pressed together, eyes closed in meditation.

Luo Gan waited quietly for something to happen. The monk neither chanted nor cast spells. He simply sat… A quarter hour passed. Luo Gan kept waiting, thinking maybe this was a power-up phase. Even in games, skills had cooldowns, right? Yes, surely.

An hour went by… Luo Gan could wait no longer.

Luo Gan asked, “What exactly are we doing to dry the letter?”

The monk opened one eye. “You’re far too impatient.”

Luo Gan spread his hands, pacing more urgently. “So what are we waiting for?”

The monk said, “Just this—quietly… waiting for the wind.”

Luo Gan, exasperated, asked, “Waiting for wind? If there’s no wind, I won’t get anything done?”

The monk was helpless before such impatience. Why were there so many worldly people unable to wait in peace, to let nature solve things in its own time?

The monk said, “Fine, I’ll use some effort.”

He drew a breath deep from his core, slowly released it… then gently blew on the letter. It flipped over. Luo Gan could only sigh.

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Looking at the letter, the monk was surprised. “This… looks like some kind of prescription, doesn’t seem very modern.”

Luo Gan was astonished. “Modern? Prescription? Abbot, could you be…”

The monk barked again, “I am not a baldhead!”

Clearly, he cared deeply about being called bald, which was peculiar.

Luo Gan said, “Then you must be connected to the clues somehow.”

The monk replied, “That’s right, I’m an NPC. You finally figured it out.”

Indeed! After the previous charlatan, at last another NPC. The game was on the right track.

Luo Gan said, “Finally, someone reliable.”

The monk, still sitting calmly, said, “I’ll study what’s written here. Might help you understand it.”

After searching everywhere in vain, finding someone who understood things was better than all his struggles.

Luo Gan, delighted, said, “Great, great! So you’re open for business every day, right?”

The monk replied, “No, depends on my mood.”

Luo Gan asked, “Depends on your mood? Even temples are mood-dependent?”

The monk said, “No choice—monks need sleep too.”

Luo Gan retorted, “Lazy, really… What about the leaves when you sleep, sweep them the next day?”

The monk shook his head, hands pressed together. “No, no. Fallen leaves are nature’s legacy. Sometimes letting them drift in the wind, enjoying the freedom of the cycle, is a kind of compassion.”

Luo Gan said, “In the end, it’s just laziness… And your hair isn’t properly shaved either.”

The monk replied, “Can’t help it. The game’s artists stay up all night making the game, you don’t know how hard they work. Lost all their hair before thirty, and forgot to check if the model’s back of the head was bald. We all need to be understanding!”

With that, the monk lit a stick of incense for the great Buddha in the main hall, saying, “You’d better hurry. Judging by the progress of the other contestants, you're about to fall behind.”

This remark plunged Luo Gan from bliss to despair. The situation was far from optimistic.