ITIEQ C48

Chapter 48 – Cosplay

From the very moment Shen Qinghe stood there and got picked out by the old master, his mind cracked in disbelief. No one had ever told him that men could enter the monastery openly as well!

Well, thinking about it—since male beauty and relationsⁱ were widely valued in Great Yong, men were just as desirable if someone intended to do unspeakable deeds.

He glanced at Xiaoman, the little liar who had falsified reports of military intelligence. Xiaoman lifted her face with an ingratiating smile.

Good. White Lotus Sect—that’s another debt added to your account.

“Stand straight. Henceforth, you are to serve the Holy Lotus Bodhisattva. Not just anyone qualifies for a place beneath his seat! Only those with destined affinity are chosen!”

The selected girls and boys straightened proudly, while those passed over looked visibly dejected, frustrated at being denied entry.

Hidden among the crowd, Shen Qinghe scoffed. Affinity? What they really wanted was looks. If there truly existed some Holy Lotus Bodhisattva granting passage to the next life, he ought to show himself and punish these pretenders—these ‘faithful’ who judged others only by appearances.

After the White Lotus priests had shamed the officials days ago, a heavy reward had been granted from above. Now the head priest was at his most arrogant, his feet so light he walked as though on clouds. Strolling leisurely through the rows of candidates, he bent with interest when he noticed a small child with shorter stature, trying to examine her face closely.

“Hm? You…”

Xiaoman, both fearful and disgusted, forced herself not to spit at the wretched man.

The priest frowned at her lowered head and reached to grab her. Xiaoman’s knees weakened, but suddenly a shadow covered her. Shen Qinghe leaned protectively forward, half‑bowing over her:

“You must take my sister. The devotion of us sisters—let Heaven and Earth bear witness.”

The overseer froze. Where had this tall “girl” suddenly come from?!

His face instantly darkened. Had his subordinate gone blind this year? Didn’t he know what type was being sought from above? These were… what kind of goods?!

“Go, go! With faces like yours, clearly you lack spiritual roots! Even if you stood before the Holy Lotus Bodhisattva—”

Shen Qinghe lifted his face.

“—But then again!” The priest gasped, beard twitching so violently he nearly suffocated himself. “Looking carefully… the sincerity of you sisters could certainly move the Holy One!” He shot Shen Qinghe an appraising glance. A little too tall, a voice too deep, but god, that face. Beautiful—so stunning he could never regret having chosen him!

The priest stroked his beard with satisfaction and moved onward.

Just like that, they got in.

So it really was all down to face value.

Shen Qinghe stood and gently patted Xiaoman’s head, reassuring her. “Don’t fear. Don’t shake. I’m here.”

Xiaoman leaned close, whimpering a small “mm.”

After all, she was barely past the age of being coddled by her parents. To be thrown from innocence into a den of wolves, plotting matters of life and death—there was no way to stay composed. Yet with that adult’s hand still resting warmly on her shoulder, she forced courage into her heart, thinking only of her sister.

I must endure. Sister’s fate depends on me.

The screening of “fated ones” was conducted on such shallow standards that it went quickly. Among dozens present, the old priest was finished in moments.

“Enough, enough. These will do. As for the rest, don’t wear long faces. Pray daily to the Bodhisattva’s tablet at home, and blessings will still find you.”

Shen Qinghe’s group of the “chosen” were ushered in through a side gate. Because of his build and features, nearly every priest looked him over with hungry eyes. Even Shen Qinghe, with all his self‑confidence, felt unsettled. Luckily, nothing came of it—he was waved along with the rest to assigned quarters.

He and Xiaoman were placed together in one large dormitory, a communal bunk for ten. They were each issued a grey‑white robe.

To add “immortal elegance,” the robes were cut wide and flowing on both men and women, looser even than the dresses he had recently worn in disguise. Freed from constraint, Shen Qinghe changed immediately—movement was easier now.

“Since you have entered White Lotus Monastery, you must abide by its rules. Robes neat, demeanor solemn. No naked body or bare feet, no loud chatter, no frivolous laughter or obscene gestures. Each morning and evening you shall pay respects, maintain full vegetarian diet, abandon all worldly ties, and serve the Holy Lotus Bodhisattva with undivided devotion. Only then may you attain rebirth in bliss everlasting.”

Their supervisor, a stern middle‑aged priestess with hair tied back immaculately, intoned the regulations.

Shen Qinghe listened meekly, yet inwardly thought: This monastery conducts filth in shadow, but the facade is impeccable. Even simulation games don’t reach this level of realism. No wonder that day when Lord Kong came, nothing incriminating could be found.

With this scale and organization—spread nationwide—it had to be backed by some powerful force.

But who?

He was musing when the woman detailed their training: not only scripture recitation, but also music, tea appreciation, melodies of the five tones. Shen Qinghe’s eyes narrowed—he suddenly saw more clearly the intent behind White Lotus.

Temples and monasteries had once flourished in Great Yong, reaching prominence under Qing studies²—Bao Hua Temple, Ji Qing Monastery, even bestowed “national” designations. In the classics, these places were called pure realms. But with rites decayed and society shattered, even sanctuaries had been corrupted into centers of debauchery by calculating men.

Cangzhou’s White Lotus Monastery, built just a year ago, still hid its face. Elsewhere, the long‑standing ones must be cesspits. Ordinary beauty was no longer novel; now they twisted for novelty—using white walls and plain robes as backdrop for perversions. Building a false god, deceiving and abducting countless good women. Ingenious, vile, nauseating.

And they dared cry “sacrilege”? This was sacrilege.

Shen Qinghe’s eyes flickered coldly at the enshrined Holy Lotus statue, and he laughed bitterly.

The bronze bell tolled. Echoes lingered. A new day began.

After Lord Kong’s abortive raid, the White Lotus tightened patrols. Shen Qinghe found no opening for three days. Worse, the incense fumes gave him headaches, dizzy spells. Sometimes, during morning chanting, he swore the towering Bodhisattva was grinning directly at him.

The first hallucination jolted him awake—he pinched his thigh, checked—the clay statue sat frozen. Using his peripheral vision, he noticed the others: dazed expressions, blissful smiles. They were under the same spell.

Yes—the incense had hallucinogenic properties. The more one inhaled, the more visions arose.

Those of them serving inside, kneeling close to braziers, inhaled the most. First came nausea and vertigo, explained away by priests as “awe at beholding the holy image.” Later, when visions grew stronger, devotees took them as divine revelations.

Pilgrims were the same. With each visit, more incense absorbed, their conviction in White Lotus only deepened. On that day they had braved swords to defy the officials—surely because they truly believed a divine guardian within the walls.

So the spread of White Lotus across the land—it all rested on manufactured faith, drug‑induced belief.

Another brushstroke was added in Shen Qinghe’s mind. This hidden faction had resources, knowledge, and mastery of pharmacology, even mass production.

He had meant to search deeper. Time was gone. His system could only analyze ingredients—who knew what long‑term effects the drug might wreck on body and mind? They must escape quickly.

No delay. The move would be tonight.

At dusk, Shen Qinghe dropped several pills into the communal water vats—harmless, but inducing extraordinary sleepiness. He warned Xiaoman not to eat or drink, to wait for nightfall.

The sky was black, wind fierce, moon veiled, all silent.

Shen Qinghe opened his eyes. Xiaoman sat up tense and ready.

“The supplies I gave you—place them at every brazier. Light fuses from a distance; their blast is strong.” He donned his robe as he spoke.

Xiaoman had been anxious all afternoon, rehearsing the routes in memory until she could walk them blind. She stepped across the threshold, but Shen Qinghe called softly:

“If someone spots you, walk away. Don’t think twice. We don’t need a child charging the front lines. Remember—your sister is waiting.”

Xiaoman nodded fiercely, refusing to let her tears spill, then dashed off.

Shen Qinghe took a deep breath, tied his hair, and changed back into male attire.

In truth, he had not bothered disguising the past days, and by now the overseers barely cared if he was male or female—confident he’d fetch a fine price regardless.

Now the Monastery hunched in the night, wickedness unveiled.

The dark clouds drifted, cicadas shrilled, moon shone sharp, alighting the stage for flames to come.

The system whispered a tiny “good luck.”

Shen Qinghe nodded imperceptibly and strode to the front gates. Here was where Lord Kong had been repelled. He pulled off the heavy bar, dropped it with a thud, and stepped steadily toward the looming statue—

Still smiling in false compassion, staring down humanity, seated in gold‑painted lotus. Given time, they might have gilded it real gold.

Not anymore.

He turned to the incense cauldron.

Climbing up, he took a clay bottle, dug warm ash aside, buried it deep. The sweet cloying scent seared his head. Deeper still he found cool ash—and, lodged beneath, a ledger.

Barely ten meters from the gate.

Ha.

“The most dangerous place is the safest. Someone here understands psychology.”

He flipped through—yes. This was the record: the comings and goings, the trades, the purchases, buyers spanning all Cangzhou. Faces familiar even—two colleagues at the prefectural yamen among them!

Shen Qinghe’s eyes hardened. He tucked the ledger securely, plucked incense sticks, lit them, flicked off the ember, and tossed them back into the brazier.

“A gift, from me—to the Holy Lotus Bodhisattva.”

He smiled for the first time while uttering its full title.

The statue smiled back.

And then the earth‑shaking roar of an explosion split the night. Flames painted the Bodhisattva’s face grotesque. For once, the merciful smile looked savage.

Young acolytes stirred awake in the dorms, saw firelight glowing eerily through windows. Terrified, they thought divine wrath struck because they had slept at prayer. They knelt, begging forgiveness—until the second blast shook the whole hall. Dust rained from beams. Now panic took hold.

Doors burst. Robed novices rushed out, and stopped cold at the sight: the great statue outside ablaze, an arm crashing down in sparks.

At first, the instinct was “a fire! Put it out!” But they looked—the idol itself was burning, the trees, the cloisters, flames hissing closer.

They were young, none with more than a year’s service. They stared dumbly at crimson sky, searing heat. Only belatedly came screams and sobs.

“Silence!”

A commanding voice cut through. A youth in wide sleeves and crown appeared from the fire, face expressionless:

“I am the Holy Lotus Bodhisattva. You—men of this monastery—borrowed my name for profit and murder. Now I bring divine punishment, to chastise you imposters.”

His face was androgynous, features like painted, eyes blazing red from reflected flame. His robe billowed in fire. Their minds, caught between terror and smolder, almost believed truly: the Bodhisattva came alive.

One man snapped out, shouting: “You wear a robe like ours! You are merely one of us—who claims you as revered?”

At that, others’ eyes sharpened, doubt seeping in.

Wake up at the wrong time, do you?

Shen Qinghe’s lips curled. He snapped his fingers—perfectly timed with another blast. Everyone dropped, clutching heads. Thunderclaps of falling wood followed; trees toppled, the ground thundered. When silence fell, only one figure stood—the self‑proclaimed Bodhisattva.

“Disrespect God, and you shall never enter bliss eternal—only burn forever in purgatory flames.”

Words like a mantra, a key that turned their deluded hearts. All fell kneeling, conviction sealed.

“We were deceived by these priests! Please forgive us, Holy One!”

“I pledge my life to serve you!”

Voices babbled prayers of tongue‑twisting litanies.

“…”

Indeed—fight magic with magic.

The fire ate quickly; time was short. Shen Qinghe turned away, leaving wails behind.

Side‑viewed by firelight, red glow clung to his robe like flames of karma.

“Didn’t you all want paradise? Then follow me.” He struck a pose with exasperation. Hot as hell out here.

Cheers rang, quickly muffled. They hurried after him.

Pilgrims staying in guesthouses rushed out barefoot, stunned by the massive procession. Then someone shouted words like “True Bodhisattva has descended to save us!” They, too, stumbled into ranks.

The fire blazed outward. Shen Qinghe nearly circled the compound, gathering Xiaoman along the way. His heart twinged at the blackened courtyard—this was supposed to be the site for his new academy! He had burned it himself, brick by brick.

Forget it. Filthy place anyway.

Better raze it clean.

Xiaoman, jaw dropped wide enough to fit an egg, could hardly believe her eyes—this official had rallied a legion.

A‑a‑amazing!!

Spotting her sister in the crowd, she sighed relief and happily traced the ranks.

The senior priests burst from quarters, aghast. Seeing everyone gathered instead of fighting fire, fury rose: “What are you all doing here?! Fight it!” His heart seared in pain and rage.

But the mob looked not to him, but to Shen Qinghe—awaiting his command.

The old men quivered. Years of power made them bold: whisk raised, they cursed—this brat was overstepping!

Shen Qinghe’s eyes skimmed coldly. A flick of the robe, and instantly the crowd surged them over. Blows rained fast, ropes bound tight. If not for Shen Qinghe idly sparing their lives, fists would have killed them on the spot.

Watching the madness, Shen Qinghe shivered slightly.

“Blind faith—cults are truly harmful.”

System: “Wow!”

“My Host, are you sure you didn’t misallocate your skill tree? You seem remarkably suited… in another field.”

“…”

“Weren’t you the one who swore off lawbreaking? I’m reporting you.”

Footnotes:

1. “Male beauty and relations” (男风盛行) – refers to historical homoerotic culture in parts of imperial China, where relationships with beautiful young men were fashionable among elites. 
2. Qing studies / 清学 – refers to revivalist scholarly movement of ritual, purity, and temple promotion that once brought monasteries to cultural prominence.