The sky, as though shrouded by a colored glass dome, shed a pale gold radiance. Living Buddha, Shi Shan nestled at the peak of the lotus flower rostrum, gazing down at Lou Cheng conversationally.
Funnily enough, the lips of the Buddha Wisdom King mirage beside him moved ceaselessly, reciting scriptures. The dissonant chanting, like the ones heard by tourists when they passed temples during morning and night classes, made it hard to decipher what was being said.
As the solemn and ethereal chanting reverberated, lotus flowers bloomed, one after the other. They were born in mud, but they remain unsullied. They were sluiced by water, but they remain elegant. Ephemeral existences, detached from worldly affairs.
The surreal vista didn't distract Lou Cheng. Not a ripple formed in the ice lake that had taken shape in his mind.
