Shen Ruorou's fate was sealed the moment Shen Weiwan hurled the piles of evidence before the emperor. The account books documenting Liu's embezzlement, the secret correspondence between Shen Ruorou and Li Xiu, and even the records of her covert purchases of witchcraft paraphernalia, like poisoned daggers, ripped apart her carefully maintained facade of gentleness. Enraged, the emperor, with a single stroke of his imperial pen, expelled the Liu family from the capital, while Shen Ruorou was specially decreed to be "sent to Ci'an Temple on the outskirts of Beijing, permanently forbidden to practice spiritual cultivation and never again to set foot in the capital." This imperial decree, like an invisible chain, bound her to the ancient temple in the desolate mountains for the rest of her life.

The First Night at Ci'an Temple: Falling from the Clouds into the Mire

Ci'an Temple sits in Cuiwei Mountain, thirty miles outside Beijing. The late autumn mountain breeze whirls fallen leaves across the mottled plaque at the temple gate. Shen Ruorou was escorted here by two officials. Her brocade skirt had been replaced by a rough, gray monk's robe. Her once meticulously cared-for nails were cracked from the bumpy ride, leaving blood scabs mixed with dust, forming dark red marks. She knelt in the center of the Buddhist hall, gazing up at the cobweb-covered beams. The stench of stale incense and mold lingered at her nose, and the cushion she rested on was aching her knees.

"Shen Ruorou," the old nun said, her skinny fingers brushing against the scrolls, her voice like polished sandpaper, "since you've entered our temple, you must sever worldly ties. From today on, your Buddhist name will be 'Jingxin,' and you'll be responsible for washing the robes for all the monks in the temple." She paused, her cloudy eyes gazing at the thinly frozen well in the backyard. "According to the temple's rules, we must rise at yin and rest at hai. Those who violate this rule will be punished by copying the Heart Sutra a hundred times."

As the night deepened and the stillness deepened, Shen Ruorou lay on her hard bed, the straw rustling beneath her. From the dormitory next door came the rustling of mice. The warp and weft of her coarse monk's robes rubbed against her skin, as if every fiber mocked her poverty. She thought of the soft brocade quilts in the general's mansion, the incense offered by the maids every morning, the admiring glances of the crowd at the Spring Banquet—all those silks, satins, delicacies from land and sea, everything she had once thought was within her reach, now transformed into cold reality, slamming hard into her face.

The tears finally burst forth, streaming down her cheeks and dripping onto the rough pillow. She cried until midnight when she suddenly heard the cough of the old nun next door: "Why are you crying? If you find it too noisy, go to the well and freeze!" The sound was like an ice pick, piercing the last shred of her dignity. She bit her lip hard, swallowing the sobs back in her throat, her nails digging deep into her palms, the taste of blood filling her tongue.

[Three years of hard training? Nothing but endless torture]

Shen Ruorou's "asceticism" was far from the serene contemplation of ancient Buddhas and morning bells and evening drums she had imagined. The nuns in the temple had long since learned of her origins from the escorting officers, and they looked upon her with disdain and wariness. Every day before dawn, she would carry a wooden bucket to the well to wash clothes. The freezing winter water was bone-chilling, and even with coarse gloves, her fingers quickly became red and swollen, cracking and bruising. Her hands, once meticulously cared for by the maids, were now covered in chilblains and calluses, and she often trembled with pain while washing clothes.

Even more unbearable was the lack of news. The incense offerings at Ci'an Temple were sparse, and when a pilgrim occasionally came up the mountain, she would approach to inquire about news from the capital, only to be met with horrified glances and hurried steps away. It wasn't until six months later, on a rainy day, when an elderly woman who had worked as a handyman at the general's mansion came up the mountain to pay her respects, that she finally found her chance. Hiding behind the incense table, she trembled and asked, "Old lady, in the capital... Miss Shen..."

The old woman was so frightened when she saw her that she nearly knocked over the incense and candles. She looked around before lowering her voice: "Miss Shen... is now the consort of the Seventh Prince. A few days ago, she followed the Seventh Prince to the foot of the mountain to give alms. That grand ceremony... wow, it was quite glorious!"

Those words struck like a thunderbolt, darkening Shen Ruoruo's vision. She stumbled into the woodshed, her back against the cold earthen wall as she slid to the ground. The scene from the Spring Festival banquet instantly flooded her mind—the tea-soaked lapels, the itchy skin, the pointed glances, and Shen Weiwan's half-smile. She recalled the scandal of Li Xiu being labeled a "homosexual," and the elaborate wedding gowns Shen Weiwan wore when she married into the prince's mansion. All those things she had once disdained, believing would eventually belong to her, now became sharp blades piercing her heart, causing excruciating pain with every breath.

She banged her head against the wall, the "dong, dong, dong" sound particularly piercing in the quiet woodshed. Her nails dug deep into her palms, leaving new wounds before the old ones healed. Blood seeped out, staining the cuffs of her coarse monk's robes red. She remembered Shen Weiwan's words, "Sister, please wear something to hide your shame," and her own embarrassing appearance at the banquet, scratching her head. Hatred gnawed at her heart like a venomous snake, nearly suffocating her.

[A sign of madness: Croton powder becomes a death warrant]

What truly broke Shen Ruorou was an ordinary afternoon. A new pilgrim arrived at the temple, carrying a food box to fulfill a vow, and inside it were several pieces of croton cakes. When the familiar, slightly spicy aroma of croton peas drifted into the laundry room, Shen Ruorou was laboriously scrubbing a heavy monk's robe. She suddenly raised her head, her eyes instantly becoming wild and obsessive, as if possessed, and stumbled towards the Buddhist temple.

"Give me the Croton Cake!" She snatched the food box from the pilgrim's hand, her nails scraping against the wooden box with a harsh sound. The pilgrim retreated in fear. The old nun tried to stop her, but she pushed her away fiercely. Shen Ruoruo hid in the corner with the food box in her arms, grabbed a piece of Croton Cake and stuffed it into her mouth. The bean powder got all over her face, but she was completely unaware. She just ate, laughed, and cried, her voice hoarse as a broken gong: "Hahahaha! Shen Weiwan! You tricked me! You will not live well!"

"Itching powder... yes, itching powder!" She suddenly screamed, frantically tearing at her monk's robes, "Itchy! Itchy! Shen Weiwan, you bitch!"

The old nun and several older nuns restrained her, only to find her clinging to the food box tightly, repeating the phrase "The Broken Sleeve Croton Powder Spring Feast." From that day on, Shen Ruorou's mind often wandered. She would stare at the spider webs in the corner, plotting how to get back in, and drawing crooked symbols on the ground with dry branches. She would suddenly scream while washing clothes, claiming to see Shen Weiwan's smiling face floating on the surface of the water. More often, she would simply sit in the corner, hugging her knees, staring blankly into the distance, mumbling to herself, no one knowing what she was saying.

My dear, there is more to this chapter. Please click on the next page to continue reading. It will be even more exciting later!