The national school idol is a girl

"good."

When Mr. An said this word, his voice was gravelly.

I thought that his grandson had really figured it out.

Until that little figure stood outside Bo's courtyard, looking at the window all afternoon.

Only then did Mr. An realize that it didn't seem to be the case.

Qin Mo held an amulet in his hand and held his red panda suitcase with one hand. His ascetic little face was even more indifferent than before.

It wasn't until he got in the car that he said, "Grandpa, I want to go to Mount Wutai after returning to China."

"Mount Wutai?" Mr. An looked sideways. After all, his grandson had never been interested in this aspect. Buddhism?

Qin Mo hummed and then looked down at the amulet in his hand: "Mount Wutai."

Mr. An has never refused any request made by his grandson.

Especially at this moment.

Because when the grandson turned his head and looked at the retreating scenery outside the car window, his head was lowered.

Three days later.

Mount Wutai.

Not many people come to worship.

Anyone who has read Buddhism knows this.

The first and fifteenth day of the lunar month are the days when the incense is most prosperous.

But today, the seventh day of the lunar month.

The number seven has a general meaning in the Yan Kingdom.

But on this day.

Above the long steps.

Thousands of steps.

A small figure, with an indifferent profile and a thin layer of sweat on his forehead, bowed as he walked.

A total of nine hundred and ninety-nine prayers.

Sweat soaked the sweater.

His black hair was filled with moisture.

But these don't seem to affect his dignity.

Probably because he is really too young.

The young novice monks looked at it and were all watching.

There is still snow falling on the top of the mountain.

When snowflakes fall on the top of your head, they turn into water.

Seeing the figure getting closer and closer, the young novices trotted into the temple.

"Master, master, there is someone outside, there is someone."

The old monk who was knocking on the wooden fish put down the Buddhist books and raised his eyes to look at the young novice monk: "Cousin, what day does no one come to the mountain? Where are all the Buddhist books you read?"

"No, go out and see. There is a child."

The little novice is a child himself, yet he calls others children?

The old monk shook his head and was covered in sandalwood as he walked around.

I didn't pay much attention to it at first.

Until he saw the figure bowing one step at a time, he paused first, and then recited "Amitabha."

The cold wind blew, and snowflakes fell on the shoulders of the figure in the mountain stream, but the little boy's face was more eye-catching than the snow on the mountain.

That scene is very similar to Tsangyang Gyatso’s poem.

He said: "That year, I kowtowed and prostrated on the mountain road, not for pilgrimage, but just to be close to your warmth. In that life, I walked around mountains, rivers, and pagodas, not to cultivate the next life, but just to meet you on the way. The moment I met you, I ascended to immortality, not for immortality, but for your safety and happiness."

The old monk was waiting, waiting for that noble little figure to come to him.

Qin Mo knew etiquette. Even though there was sweat on his forehead, he still half bent over and called out: "Master."

No matter when you perform the nine hundred and ninety-nine steps of worship, you must fulfill his wish.

The old monk lowered his eyes, but there was helplessness in his eyes: "Where did the little donor come from, and what do you want?"

Qin Mo pulled out a red rope from his neck. There was an amulet tied to one end of the red rope: "Someone asked for this for me. Master, can you give me a piece of Buddha's words?"

"Do you believe in Buddhism?" the old monk asked.

Qin Mo shook his head: "I only believe in myself."

The old monk asked again: "Then why do you come to seek the Buddha's words?"

"She believes it."