Śramaṇa Sengding was a native of Danyang. Originally he studied the Tattvasiddhi, synthesising it broadly with achievement. As his investigations and critiques grew strenuous, he contracted leprosy. Thereupon he reflected, 'My physical form has become different from my peers; my learning must change its track.' Consequently, he cut off all worldly concerns and took refuge in the school of dhyāna. At first he resided on the forested hills of Zhongshan, resting alone in quietude in an empty study. His attendant Daoyou served and provided for him, presenting him only with a single bowl of plain non-glutinous rice congee each day. Otherwise, his mindfulness continued unbroken, feeling no shame before the empty void. For several years he did not enter villages or towns. Traversible depths of his concentrated mind produced ever greater secluded results. Thus his doors and windows were further hidden away, and his breathing renewed itself; his walls and courtyard were high and steep, and worldly attachments grew slight. Because his subtle sincerity gained a response, his ailments suddenly dissolved, causing his body, head, face, and eyes to become simultaneously whole and purified. His sideburns and eyebrows grew in, surpassing ordinary days. Although his appearance was doubly extraordinary through the working of merit, his eyebrows were thickest, measuring several inches long, and a bluish-red complexion spread across his face, making him an extraordinary figure. As Ding met with such spiritual omens, he exerted himself day and night. The mountain was full of tigers, their tracks forming paths. By virtue of his compassionate nature, they would enter his room; before his bed and in the courtyard, tiger tracks abounded. Sometimes, when dhyāna thoughts temporarily surfaced and he could not remain settled, he would walk the mountains throughout the night, heedless of thorny brush, and wild beasts and birds of prey would see him as one of their herd. Yet Ding was as at ease with them as if walking in a city. His capacity to nurture sentient beings was beyond compare. When Emperor Wen of the Sui built a monastery in the western capital, he summoned him from afar to reside there. Ding's heart, devoted to the practice of dhyāna, found no use for worldly affairs. As for accepting precepts or receiving the rites of a master, he set his will against them to the end; whenever an occasion involving exalted formality arose, he would hide away upon hearing of it. Once he contracted a typhoid fever, his whole body burning with heat; he sat cross-legged as usual and abstained from food for three days. Śramaṇa Baogong, the leader of the bodhimaṇḍa, was Ding’s disciple. He personally urged him to eat, but Ding replied, 'The momentum of the illness is about to overwhelm me; life cannot be guaranteed. One should rely on the Dharma for aid; what use is food?' He then closed his mouth and sat quietly; when seven days had passed, his illness was suddenly cured. Such was the determination and dedication of his conduct. In the closing years of the Daye era, he dwelt at the Dahe Monastery in the Southern Mountains. A band of bandits came to rob him, but Ding showed no fear at all. A bandit said, 'Have you not heard that there are low-born brigands in the world?' Ding replied, 'Even if there were high-born brigands, I would not fear them; how much less low-born brigands!' Thereupon they stripped off his clothes, yet he showed no sign of stinginess. When they were about to seize and drag away his sitting felt, Ding grasped it and said, 'I rely on this to get through the winter. If you take it away now, my life will surely not survive. You may rather take my life here; this felt cannot be separated from my life.' The bandits looked at each other and stopped. In the sixth month of the seventh year of the Wude era, because of a slight illness, he sat cross-legged as usual and quietly passed away before anyone realized it, at the age of over eighty.

19.18

Śramaṇa Daolin, surnamed Li, was a native of Heyang in Tongzhou. At the age of twenty-five he generated the resolve to leave home, entering Mount Taibai and building a hut amidst deep crags where paths were cut off from climbing. Nourishing his body on wild herbs and fruits, and regulating his mind solely by the Dharma, he pursued no other ventures. At the beginning of the Kaihuang era of the Sui, when the profound school was first opened, an imperial decree ordered the ordination of seven people, selecting the most outstanding talents. The authorities carried out an inquiry and searched out Lin. Emperor Wen personally ordered him to take ordination, but Lin bitterly declined, saying it was not possible, and petitioned: 'This poor monk has heard that men of the mountain forests go forth and do not return, their bright spirit alone bound to the woods and springs. Hoping to follow the tracks of those gone before, I ought by principle to sever ties with ordinary ranks. Your Majesty has broadly opened the Dharma gate and purified the seas and lands; I beg you to bestow this name upon those who aspire in vain.' The Emperor said, 'Name and substance corresponding to each other has long been so. Let the Dhyāna Master merely register with the government office, while personally retaining your mountain dwelling.' Lin did not comply and fled back to Mount Taibai, continuing his former practice. Later, when the matter was reported to the throne, officials searched further into obscure places, exhausting crags and inverted caves, before finally capturing him. Yet his ethical conduct remained unblemished. The imperial commendation was earnest and profound, showing extraordinary reverence. He was bestowed an incense burner and other items, and ordered to reside at the Daxingguo Monastery in Fengyi. After staying a short while, he fled again to the south of Mount Liang, where the river cliffs bend and wind, a place known as a natural stronghold. He carved a cave into the mountain and concentrated his path within it. In the seventh month of the seventh year of the Wude era, he sensed a slight illness. He left instructions to his attendant disciples not to violate the Vinaya rules. Music of reed pipes was heard resounding in the sky, and clergy and laity gathered in joyful wonder. An extraordinary fragrance also fell, as large as peaches and dates; the assembly gathered them to make offerings, none knowing what they were called. When burned, they emitted a delicious and refreshing scent that astonished all who smelled it. After three days, his vital energy clear and bright, he passed away sitting cross-legged. His corpse was kept for seven days, its colour and appearance unchanged. They carved a niche at his mountain dwelling to place him. The crowd gathered like smoke, numbering over ten thousand, sending him off with singing and dancing, an honour in both life and death. From the time Lin took to the Path, self-discipline was his priority; from start to finish, frugality was his pursuit. Women are the root of generating defilement, which he particularly cautioned against. Thus, throughout his life, Lin never met them face-to-face, never expounded the Dharma for them, never accepted food from them, and never stepped onto the foundation of their rooms. Even shortly before his death, when someone came to inquire about his illness, Lin sensed it from behind a partition and stopped her from afar, not allowing an in-person meeting. This was because his conduct was pure and communicated with the unseen. Moreover, he compassionately rescued sentient beings and deeply protected the nature of creatures. Fleas and lice were allowed to wander freely on him; whenever he lifted his clothes, he did so very slowly, fearing they might be startled and run away. This capacity for benevolence and nurture is indeed hard to match.

19.19

Śramaṇa Fa'ying, whose secular surname was Wang, was a native of Kuaiji in Dongyue. From childhood, he was by nature reserved and quiet; wherever he dwelt, his mindful contemplation and profound reflection were hard to shake. Upon reaching his majority (at twenty), he left home and served the śramaṇa Tanchong, taking the cultivation of dhyāna as his foundational learning, which is recorded in [Tanchong's] separate biography. At that time, in the early days of the Zhou dynasty, the gateway of dhyāna was first opening up; those who observed the Dharma and practiced cultivation hastened along the path one after another, and Fa'ying was preeminent among his fellow disciples. Later, when the Zhou persecution occurred, he fled into seclusion in Zhongnan Mountain. For six years he ate pine needles, clothed himself in moss, and concealed his form, single-mindedly cultivating mindfulness and wisdom to eliminate past misdeeds. With his intense diligence, the gateway of the Dharma grew ever purer; wherever his mind was applied, the realm of delusion was cleared away. Tigers and wolves were repeatedly moved to crouch beside his hut, or even entered his room as if having some karmic connection. Fa'ying inherently understood the conditions of living beings and was also skilled in addressing meditation illnesses; confronting them as if they were house dogs, he administered the three refuges to them. From then on they grew tame, and their kind visited in even greater numbers. In the Sui, when ordination was permitted again, he returned to serve Master Chong. As his mastery of dhyāna had deepened, he received special certification, and the five hundred disciples were all entrusted to his charge. In instructing and promoting them, he fully fulfilled the hopes of the congregation. In the twelfth year of Kaihuang (592 CE), an imperial edict ordered a search for and selection of those senior in the cultivation of the three trainings; the transformation throughout the realm was held to begin with the seat of dhyāna, and twenty-five men were selected. Among those high in practice and understanding, Fa'ying was made the head. An imperial decree ordered that five separate assemblies be established within the capital city, each having one man to instruct and train them day and night. Fa'ying led three hundred disciples, continually transmitting the practice at Shiji Monastery. The offerings of the four requisites were all provided by the authorities. His fame spread far and wide; an imperial decree bestowed three hundred bolts of silk, which he then used to produce a complete canon of scriptures and personally upheld it. In the early years of Wude (618–626 CE), without having suffered from any illness, he said: 'I am now about to depart; fragrant flowers have already appeared to welcome me.' Having spoken, he passed away at Qingchan Monastery at the age of eighty.

19.20

Śramaṇa Zhi’zhou, whose courtesy name was Yuanlang, had the secular surname Zhao. His ancestors were natives of Xiapi in Xuzhou; during the Jin dynasty, they crossed the Yangtze River and resided at Qufu in Lou County. His spiritual capability was transcendent and far-reaching, becoming manifest even when he was young. In the years of his elementary studies, he left his parents and devoted himself to the Way, serving Dharma Master Tao of Faliushui Monastery as his pupil. Tao was the cap and crown of the state of Wu, a pillar and beam of the Buddhist order. Zhou served him diligently by his side, seizing every moment to request instruction. After receiving full ordination, he set his aspiration on broad learning. At that time, Dharma Master Jue of Dazhuangyan Monastery was a treasury of doctrine and a repository of scriptures, his Way outshining the foremost masters. Carrying his book-satchel, Zhou lingered there, devoting twelve years of effort; he plumbed the ultimate depths, pure and clear like cold water. When Jinling lost its rule, he paced leisurely back to the east. At his original monastery, he widely promulgated the four truths; students gathered in crowds, their discussions filling the hall. Yet having long been weary of the city's edge and having early been fond of hills and valleys, he transcended worldly ties and withdrew to Huiju Monastery on Ma'an Mountain. The benevolent and the wise thus found harmony here, unchanging to the end. As still water reflects clearly, those seeking the Way converged in ever greater numbers. Elders and promising youngsters alike implored him to leave the mountain to benefit both clergy and laity, unbound by minor conventions. He therefore complied again. Those who held scriptures filled the seats; those who had been arrogant bowed their heads in humility. But after the virtue of the Chen dynasty faded away, the monastic assembly dispersed, and he flew back to his old valley. Then he encountered the collapse of the state and the dismemberment of the territory. Following the times and avoiding hardship, he drifted along without attachment; stillness and movement were both forgotten. On the fifth day of the seventh month in the fifth year of Wude (622 CE), he fell ill and passed away at the residence of Xue Shitong, the prefectural governor of Wuzhou, south of Dalie City, at the age of sixty-seven. On the twentieth day of the eleventh month of that year, when bandits retreated and the roads grew peaceful, his disciple Fadu and others escorted the sacred casket back to his home mountain. At that time, people and circumstances were desolate, and the tomb had not yet been properly arranged. On the fifteenth day of the second month in the fourth year of Zhenguan (630 CE), his disciple Huiman and others built a new round tumulus on the western ridge of the monastery. Zhou’s demeanor was serene and detached, his discernment deep and far-reaching. His deportment was exemplary, his conduct standard. His magnanimity encompassed mountains and seas; his spirit drifted leisurely among mists and clouds. Gain and loss were of one mind to him; compassion and pity embraced all kinds. Difficulties or success did not alter his thoughts; joy or anger did not show on his face. He revered former masters and guided the younger generation; both monastics and laity held him in high esteem and took him as their model. In addition, he had a great love for the seal scripts and was especially skilled in cursive and clerical script; he also perused historical charts and was very adept at poetry. Together with his elder brother Bao'ai, he was bathed in the Dharma stream; the two brothers from the Chen realm spread their fame and achievements together. He lectured on the Chengshi lun, the Xiao Zhaoti, the Xuanzhang, the Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra, the Pañcaviṃśatisāhasrikā Prajñāpāramitā Sūtra, and other texts, each more than ten times. He also constructed halls and pavilions; cloistered corridors surrounded them, magnificent and facing south. He made a sixteen-foot dry-lacquer statue of Maitreya along with various attendants. Furthermore, regarding the seven niches of clay statues made by He Chong, the Minister of Works of the Jin dynasty, which had grown ruined over the passage of time, he brought them back to Liushui Monastery, decorating them with lacquer cloth, cinnabar, blue, and ornate painted patterns, thereby fully displaying faith and illustrating the Dharma. Śramaṇa Daogong of Huixiang Monastery said: 'I, being gnarled and crooked like useless wood, was unfit for compass and rule, yet the master carpenter halted his axe and suddenly bestowed his gaze on me, praising and inspiring me for over three decades. Parting the clouds to face the moon, we composed poems like Cao Zhi and Lu Ji; sitting on rocks and spreading rushes, we debated the treatises of Sengzhao and Sengrong. Where is my old friend now? Looking up at the solitary curtain, all is bleak; his illustrious conduct can no longer be followed, and looking toward the tall pines, I choke with grief. Fearing that hills and valleys will easily change and bamboo and silk are fragile, I commit his fine virtue to the dark stele, raising his pure dust to immortality.' The inscription reads: / The five aggregates form the city walls, the six thieves make the hills. / Tightly bound by the net of attachment, coiled round by the rope of karma. / The heroic Subduer arose with boundless compassion; / The perilous path suddenly grew still, the defiled ocean instantly cleared. / In the eight trees the radiance was concealed; the five masters succeeded in line. / Inheriting these bequeathed instructions, he was truly a Bodhisattva. / Bright and pure as the precept jewel, rolling with waves like dhyāna water; / Possessed of the Way and virtue, knowing sufficiency and knowing where to halt. / His learning embraced the scriptures; his thoughts went deep beyond words. / Joyous eloquence poured like a river; drinking the wind, disciples gathered like clouds. / The bolt and bar for the seven assemblies, the collar and belt for the four groups; / Raising the fallen net, they truly relied on him. / When the worldly path collapsed, he moved to teach by the river’s shore. / Coming and going at the behest of things, hiding or appearing in accord with the times. / Why cherish an earthen vessel? The Pure Land is the goal. / With arising and ceasing, what joy or sorrow is there? / The grave of the past is closed; a mound is raised upon the old tumulus. / The spring plain’s grass is level; the old mountain’s pines clasp their hands. / The forest darkens with the birds’ longing; the deep path is gripped by cold. / The wondrous consciousness returns to the True; the dark wilderness receives him in vain.

19.21

Shi Fazang was surnamed Xun and was a native of Yingyin in Yingchuan. At the age of three he lost his father and lived solely with his mother; at ten she also passed away, leaving him standing alone. Because of this suffering and hardship, he profoundly realized impermanence, taking refuge in the triratna in hopes of blessings and protection. At the age of twenty-two, on the eighth day of the fourth month in the second year of the Tianhe era of the Zhou (567 CE), Emperor Ming ordained monks, and Fazang accordingly left secular life. In the fourth year of Tianhe, an imperial prince was born, and an edict summoned eminent and virtuous men to the Liquan Palace; Fazang was among this number. Emperor Wu personally hastened to the palace hall and called out in the Xianbei language to inquire after the monks, but they were dazed and none answered. Standing in the last row, Fazang stepped forward from the assembly and replied in the Xianbei tongue. The assembled officials in the palace courtyard all rejoiced at this response. An imperial decree was spoken to the hundred officials: 'This man of the Way is small in body but great in mind; he alone surpassed the gathering of companions to answer Our words. Can he not be called a sturdy man of the Way?' An edict was issued bestowing two hundred and ten strings of cash. From then on, having met the Emperor face-to-face, he repeatedly received solicitous inquiries. Although residing within the monastery, his mind yearned for secluded forests; ancient sages and present worthies all relied on the quiet of the mountains. In the second month of the second year of Jiande (573 CE), Fazang cleansed his mind and purged his worldly intentions, carrying his bowl and holding his scripture cases to seek refuge in Zigai Mountain, which is one of the peaks of the Zhongnan range. He stood an independent dhyāna chamber beneath a high crag, clothed himself in a patched robe of a hundred scraps, and fed on atractylodes and pine. Facing the blue sky, he watered his mind; inhaling the white clouds, he satisfied his intent. On the eighth day of the first month of the third year, as he strolled upon the mountain peak, he suddenly came upon seven sweet apricots. He went forward and ate them; their lingering flavor was luscious and delicious. When he walked around seeking more, there was no trace of where they had come from. Grateful for this unseen aid, he applied himself even more diligently to his practice. On the twenty-third day of the fourth month of that year, statues were smashed and scriptures burned, and the monks were ordered to return to secular life. For two years, supplies were granted to those who yielded, but Fazang alone lived in the mountains, concealing himself in reliance on the Way. Through eight years he constantly thought of opening the Dharma. In the ninth month of the first year of the Daxiang era of Emperor Xuan (579 CE), he went down the mountain to seek an audience with the Emperor, intending to exalt the triratna. Arriving at the southern gate of the city, he was not permitted entry, but he argued his cause forwards and backwards. The Great Master of the Upper Rank Tuowang Meng and the Master of the Secondary Rank Yilou Qian of the Military Guard Office asked him whence he had come, where his companions were, and who his patrons were. Fazang replied: 'In the second year of Jiande I abandoned the monastery and entered the mountains. It was only in the fourth month of the third year that the monastic clergy was prohibited. I alone remained in the mountains, while the rest all returned to lay life; by secular law their followers were suppressed and dismissed. I was merely a lone person in the mountain: the forests and valleys were my home, the birds and beasts were my companions, and the plants and trees were my grain. Yet I reflected to myself that under the whole sky there is no land that is not the king's; having dwelt on Zigai and eaten the mountain's provision, by this standard the sustenance came from the gift of the Supreme Lord.' Meng and the others submitted a memorial, and an imperial decree came down: 'We wish to govern and transform as a bodhisattva. Since this monk has come from Zigai Mountain, he matches Our intention precisely. He should be ordered to grow his hair long, wear the robe and cap of a bodhisattva, and serve as abbot of Zhihu Monastery.' Yuwen Yi, the Duke of Pei and Palace Scribe, was dispatched to inspect and execute the order. Tang Yi and Yuan Xinggong, Masters of the Secondary Rank of the Palace Secretariat, submitted a counter-memorial, saying: 'All the monks of the realm were ordered to return to secular life; ordaining this one man alone violates the late Emperor's edict.' In the tenth month, at the eastern side of the city, Fazang had a separate audience with Emperor Xuan. The Emperor asked about the names of the three teachings and said: 'We wish to govern and transform as a bodhisattva—whether manifesting a heavenly body, emerging from the earth, or taking the form of a deer or horse—using such transformative methods to gather in sentient beings. How is this?' Fazang cited the story of the Prince of King Śubhavyūha admonishing his father, and further said: 'In the past, when Your Majesty was a subject and son, you could not correct and remonstrate with him, thereby allowing the late Emperor to burn sacred scriptures and cast coins from divine images. Based on this rebellious atrocity, how did it differ from the First Emperor of Qin?' The Emperor grew angry and said: 'You defy the clear edict of Our late Sovereign; you may be executed.' Fazang said: 'Having offended the Sage's countenance, I beg to be executed in the city market, that both the hidden and the manifest may witness it. This is truly my original resolve.' At that time his life hung by a suspended vine, yet his words and demeanor showed no fear. Through nine successive memorials, his composed words grew ever more vehement. When the tenth memorial reached him, the Emperor asked: 'Are you frightened, man of the Way, or not?' Master Fazang said: 'Of what human beings value, nothing surpasses life. Being placed in the ground of extreme punishment, how could I not be frightened?' Hearing this, the Emperor solemnly changed his countenance and said: 'A True Man who protects the Dharma and aids Our multitude of beings! This is indeed the goose-protecting bhikṣu. We do not kill an innocent person.' He ordered that Fazang's punishment be remitted and no further inquiry be made. He bestowed upon him the bodhisattva's robe and cap and, as before, appointed him abbot of Zhihu Monastery. Repeatedly receiving favored orders, he was able to continue the Śākya lineage. Having obtained a second life, he took his leave of the Emperor and requested permission to conceal himself in the forests, springs, mountains, and marshes. The Censor Bao Hong received an imperial decree that Fazang was free to roam across the five counties of Wannian, Chang'an, Lantian, Zhouzhi, and Hudu, but whenever the Emperor needed to see him, he must not remain hidden. Although he had received the gracious decree, the Dharma had not yet been broadly opened; his heart was heavy, constantly yearning for the sacred Way. When the virtue of the Zhou was on the wane and the Sui's mandate was about to rise, on the twenty-fifth day of the fifth month of the second year of Daxiang (580 CE), the Sui progenitor acted as Chancellor. While Fazang was studying at the Tiger Gate for six months, he went down the mountain again to discuss the triratna with the Grand Chancellor through the night. He was forthwith tonsured and granted a set of Dharma robes, fifteen bolts of variegated silk, and one dan of Qingzhou dates. Soon afterwards he returned to the mountain. At the beginning of the seventh month, Fazang was summoned down the mountain to deliberate further on opening the teachings. On the fifteenth day, Fazang was dispatched along with the Duke of Jingling to oversee the ordination of one hundred and twenty monks; they were all granted Dharma robes and returned to their respective dwellings. Fazang stayed overnight alone at the Chancellor's residence, discussing through the night the inception of the teaching. On the thirteenth day of the second month of the first year of Dading (581 CE), the Chancellor ascended the throne like a dragon and changed the era name to the first year of Kaihuang. On the fifteenth day, Fazang received an imperial decree to summon those previously ordained and install them at Daxingshan Monastery to practice the Way for the state. From this point the Dharma gradually broadened and flowed throughout the realm within the seas. Were it not for Fazang's pristine and clear moral conduct and his flourishing dhyāna mind, how could he have repeatedly entered vermilion gates and frequently mounted the imperial couch? Thereafter, whenever there was a gracious edict, special words of comfort were added, and an imperial order instructed the princes and dukes that all should know the Emperor's regard. In the second year of Kaihuang, Zhao Wei, Secretariat Drafter, announced an edict that Fazang be provided monthly with poria, dates, apricots, clarified butter, oil, firewood, and charcoal as a regular supply. Yet his nature lay in emptiness and tranquility, seeking neither glory nor profit. In the fourteenth year, he submitted a memorial requesting the cessation of his stipend, taking whatever was given as offerings. The Guard General Suo Heye, harboring pure faith, invited him to his residence and made offerings to him with exceptional etiquette. Perfumed by accumulated goodness, he eventually donated his residence to be a Buddhist monastery. Fazang led the laity in practice and held a vegetarian feast for ten thousand monks. Su We, the Vice Director of the Right, often came to visit him and erected a great hall with revered statues. The Drafter Pei Ju proclaimed an imperial decree addressing him as 'Dhyāna Master Fazang, head of the tonsured monks,' and another great vegetarian feast was held. The flourishing of the promotion of the Dharma was so great that it was unmatched. His dwelling place was named Jifa Monastery, which is today's monastery at the north gate of Longzheng Ward. He once gathered his thoughts in compassion and benevolence; when birds and beasts were donated, he kept and nourished them. The geese knew the proper times and circumambulated, and even the dogs did not eat past noon. Such observations of the Vinaya are too numerous to record in full. When Emperor Yang was Prince of Jin, the third son of the Grand Defender Lin died prematurely of a lingering illness and was interred at this monastery. A stele inscription was carved: 'The ways of the world are like an illusion; life and death are like floating foam. Why was the prematurely deceased child so short-lived, and why was Pengzu so long-lived? Alas, my child has gone and cannot stay. May he forever be a seed of the Dharma, eternally relying on the assembly of the Dharma!' The Prince accordingly bestowed a long-life staff on Fazang, saying: 'Whenever you lean on this staff, remember me from time to time.' Fazang replied: 'The King's young child has passed away to enter the Dharma gate forever; when I lean on this long-life staff, how could I dare forget your virtue?' In the sixteenth year, when the Sui progenitor visited Qizhou and became unwell, the princes, dukes, and those below commissioned images of Avalokiteśvara, and all were decreed to be placed in Jifa Monastery for offerings. In the first year of Renshou (601 CE), Emperor Wen had six life-size images of Śākyamuni made and decreed that they be placed in Master Fazang's monastery. In the second year of Daye (606 CE), when Crown Prince Yuande died, all the meritorious deeds, scriptures, images, and Buddha halls were entrusted to Fazang. In the final years of Daye, an imperial decree was issued that the Nine Palaces all be converted into monasteries and monks ordained, with continuous administrative leadership maintained. Because Fazang's reputation was widely known, he was appointed Sthavira of the Taiping Palace Monastery. He comforted and guided young and accomplished alike, never neglecting any matter under his jurisdiction. When the Great Tang initiated its uprising and a hundred people were of one mind, the Prince of Huai'an repaired weapons and banners at this monastery, and subsequently requested Fazang to accept his lifelong offerings. At the beginning of Zhenguan, his devoted offerings became even more profound, and he wished to repay him boundlessly; but before the completion of the monastery could be arranged, the Prince passed away, and the original aspiration was unfulfilled. Fazang also came to his end. In the third year of Zhenguan (629 CE), he died at the Guantai in Hu County. He was accordingly encoffined at Yunji Monastery south of Wuzidui. The śramaṇa Xiaocai, who had long known of his virtue, engraved an inscription on a stone tablet set beside his niche.

19.22

Shi Huichao, whose secular surname was Shentu, was a native of Lucheng in Shangdang. Embodying the Way and cherishing chastity, his resolve was as ice and frost. At first he shook out his robes to abandon secular life, went north toward Jinyang, and resided at Daxingguo Monastery, taking dhyāna contemplation as his occupation. Although he briefly reviewed the orthodox teachings and fully grasped what was heterodox and orthodox, he relied especially on the path of practice rather than pursuing mere words. He thus constructed a separate bodhimaṇḍa, abundantly arraying ritual images, with banners and flowers hung in alternation and all the ritual implements fresh and pure. He also gathered rare incenses and displayed many varieties; constantly making offerings by burning incense, the clouds of smoke followed one after another. Chao himself constantly dwelt within, sitting upright in pure robes, refining his examination and contemplation to match his resolve. Therefore, rare incense filled the room and miraculous relics filled the jars; as they were dispensed in response to needs, blessings flowed, replenishing whatever was depleted, without anyone knowing how it occurred. In the middle of the Renshou era, after Empress Xian passed away and Zhanding Monastery was established, Chao was summoned to the capital on account of his renown. His purification of body and robes surpassed ordinary days, and his elicitation of auspicious omens and presentation of offerings continued uninterrupted as before. In the first year of Wude (618 CE), since Bingbu was his old home where many harbored faith, and the transformative power of the Way in response to conditions could hardly be restricted by boundaries, he returned to Xingguo Monastery, where monastics and laity rejoiced, vying to pay him homage. In the winter of the seventh year, having taken a slight illness and feeling unwell, he announced his impending departure. The entire monastery assembled to wait and listen to his final instructions. Chao sat upright as usual, his spirit even more vibrant. He addressed the assembly, saying: 'Living together for many years, ordinary feelings easily create distance. If anyone has caused irritation, I hope your minds will be open. Human existence is hard to encounter, and the wholesome mind is easily lost. At this moment, take responsibility for yourselves and do not stray in future lives.' Having spoken, he clasped his hands over his heart; unnoticed, he passed away. Seeing no response, they thought he was not yet gone, but when they placed fine silk fluff to his nose, they realized he had stopped breathing. He was then over seventy years old. He sat as if possessing divine colors, his appearance more radiant and pure than ever. Rare incense coiled and filled the room and courtyard, and music was heard in the sky, without anyone knowing its source. His disciples and the great assembly were stunned and awed. Men and women rushed to the scene, their weeping choked beneath the cold clouds, jamming the monastery grounds while offerings of incense and flowers piled up. In the middle of the twelfth month, a date was set for the burial. Monastics and laity from far and near lined the roads, vying to press forward. From the monastery to the mountain was over ten li, with people and horses converging like spokes on a hub, like a bustling market. He was carried on a corded chair, seated as if entering absorption. With the road utterly crowded and sudden restraint impossible, they diverted the procession through the western wall to break open wilderness for burial. The crowd again pressed close as if the heavens were collapsing. He was then encoffined beside Kaihua Monastery on Longfu Mountain, and placed within a cave chamber. After a full year, his body remained intact and undecayed, and daily offerings of homage, incense, and flowers never ceased. Later, the entrance to the cave was sealed, a stupa was erected above it, and an inscription was carved to its right to commemorate his deep virtue.

19.23

Śramaṇa Zhixi had the secular surname Chen and was a man of Yingchuan. An ancestor had held office and lived as an itinerant official, taking up residence in Minyue. From childhood, Xi was aloof and bore ambitions beyond worldly affairs; seeing old age, sickness, and death, he comprehended the impermanence and peril of the mundane world. Looking inward at his own confusion, he took pity on those sinking in delusion, developing a deep aversion [to samsāra] as if pursued by a foe, and vowed to abandon worldly toil and seek out superior realms. Having heard of Master Zhizhe striving high on Mount [Tiantai], peacefully meditating at Folong, warning and instructing the lost, and serving as a ferryman for the world, he directed his sincere devotion from afar across the dark waters, and upon reaching the age of twenty, finally achieved his wish. Upon meeting [Zhizhe], the teacher-student bond was settled at once; he received the complete precepts and the instructions on meditation. He pursued tranquil concentration with the urgency of extinguishing fire on his head, the unruly horse of his mind became somewhat tamed, and scattered thoughts were cast aside. Bound by his master's bequeathed instructions, he permanently resided at the Folong meditation site; those delighting in samādhi all revered him as a teacher. In the leisure of his silent sitting, he occasionally oversaw the construction of monasteries, the halls and quarters all being solemnly arranged. Only the scriptural terrace had not yet been built; as work was about to begin, there was Incense Burner Peak with its steep cliffs and distinctive trees, yet its local spirits possessed great supernatural responsiveness, and since antiquity no one had dared even gaze at its precipitous crags, much less scale them to fell trees. The assembly conferred, saying: 'Now that we are constructing the scriptural terrace to make offerings to the jewel of the Dharma, we must prioritize what is rare and pure; how could we act carelessly? The tamarisks and cypresses of Incense Burner Peak are the finest of woods; we can gather them together to serve as offerings.' Having deliberated, they went to consult Xi and laid out the matter before him. After a long pause he replied: 'The mountain spirits guard and cherish them; one must not act rashly.' None dared speak further, and each returned to their quarters. That night, [Xi] dreamed of someone delivering a message that read: 'The tamarisks and cypresses of Incense Burner Peak are entirely relinquished to the scriptural terrace.' Having received this hidden indication, he at once gave directions, prepared provisions, and divided the laborers into teams to enter the mountain and fell the trees. An attendant asked: 'Yesterday you did not permit it; why take them now?' He replied: 'Yesterday was up to others, today is up to me. Just take them without worry; there will surely be no mistake.' Following his instructions, they went to harvest them; although the tamarisks and cypresses grew exclusively on perilous heights, they were all collected without any obstacle. In former times, the late master Zhizhe had converted the common folk during the Chen dynasty: from the shores of Tiantai out to the ocean's edge, all rivers and creeks were relinquished to become life-release ponds, with hunting and fishing permanently forbidden, a practice also followed under the Sui dynasty, with both instances mandated by imperial decree. After the Sui fell, many among the later generations turned to wickedness, vying to erect fishing weirs across the rivers and streams, slaughtering aquatic creatures who had nowhere to appeal. [The monks] therefore bowed before the meditation master, went to the shrine of the late master, and burned incense with prayers. At that time, a fisherman saw a monk standing atop the weir; thinking he had fallen into the water, he steered his boat to rescue him, but upon reaching him, the figure vanished. Consequently, none of the fishing weirs caught any fish, and the people reported this to one another, reforming from evil to good and ceasing their fishing. There was a monk, Fayun, who wished to practice dhūta on Incense Burner Peak. Xi admonished him: 'The mountain spirit there is unyielding, while your Dharma power is weak; if you go there, you will certainly find no peace. Beware and do not go.' Yun did not heed his words and went to the mountain; before two nights had passed, the spirit manifested its form and drove Yun back. When he related the matter, he remembered the previous advice and developed profound reverence. A disciple named Daoxuan was reciting sūtras in his room; Xi came to call him, saying: 'This evening a monk will come.' As soon as he finished speaking, he went to the gate and saw a monk dressed purely in a patched robe, carrying a khakkhara and holding an alms bowl, of extraordinarily lofty bearing unlike ordinary men, approaching from outside. When they were twenty-odd paces apart, as soon as [the monk] turned east of the path, he vanished. A moment later, a bronze bell was heard from the eastern mountain, echoing loudly through the valleys; Xi then said: 'It was meant to summon me.' A few days before his death, he said to his disciples: 'My life has not long; you may prepare scented water.' Just as he finished bathing, wild birds and beasts of odd colors and rare forms never before seen in the mountains all gathered beside his room, treading the earth and soaring in the air, crying out mournfully, dispersing only after a day had passed. On the night of the seventeenth day of the twelfth month, he sat cross-legged and upright, holding a ruyi scepter, and expounded the Dharma with profound wording and principles. Having finished, he said to his disciples: 'It was by happenstance that I met you; now we part forever, with no set time to meet again.' Having spoken, he remained silent for a long time. Seeing the disciples weeping, he opened his eyes again and admonished them: 'Where there is life, there is death; everything that has a beginning must have an end. Such is the nature of the world; why should it grieve you? Now as I depart, do not disturb me in this way.' He also said: 'Since I began practicing meditation forty-nine years ago, my back has not touched a bed. I have not betrayed the faithful donors nor the incense and lamps. If you wish to see me again, you must diligently exert yourselves, for the power of walking the path does not fail anyone.' A disciple then inquired: 'May we ask where the Upādhyāya will be reborn?' He replied: 'According to what I saw in a dream, my karmic reward is in Tuṣita, in a blue palace located in the northwest of the heaven. I saw the Great Master Zhizhe, with celestial beings seated on jeweled thrones to his left and right, with only a single throne left empty. When I asked why, the reply came: 'Guanding will ascend here to expound the Dharma after six years.' On the morning of the eighteenth day, he told his disciples: 'You must all take your noon meal early; my life will last only a moment.' That day, villagers climbed the mountain to inquire about his illness; when they finished eating and took their leave, Xi said: 'Since you took the trouble to come from afar, remain a little longer until this poor monk departs.' The people did not understand and insisted on leaving without staying. At that time, the bright sun shone in the sky without a single cloud. He told the visitors: 'Since you will not stay, leave quickly; rain will soon fall.' Shortly after they departed, a heavy rain poured down. At the age of seventy-two, at the hour of the horse on the eighteenth day of the twelfth month in the first year of the Zhenguan era (627 CE), he sat cross-legged, upright and solemn, his breath subtle and faint as if entering meditation, and did not return. At that time, the sound of string and wind instruments was heard in the sky, audible to the entire assembly, and ceased only after a long time. After several days, he was placed in a stone niche; his complexion was blooming and pleased, his hands and feet supple, no different from life. The stupa-niche where he was interred was two hundred-odd paces in front of the niche of his late master, Zhizhe.

19.24

Shi Zhiman's secular surname was Jia, and he was a native of Taiyuan. He possessed an exceptional and distinguished determination, standing aloof from the ordinary and petty. At the age of seven, he renounced household life, following his master to seek instruction; whatever doctrine he received, he practiced strictly in accordance with the teachings. When he reached capping age, he advanced to receive the full precepts; his monastic comportment became an exemplary standard, and his guidance grew all the more extensive. Furthermore, he listened to such scriptures as the Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra, thoroughly grasping their primary import. Having roughly rounded out [his study of] the nominal teachings, he chose tranquility to conclude his cultivation. Thereupon, he went to Mount Shimo in Shangdang, where he gathered disciples to practice the way. His disciples were solemn and respectful, and both monks and laity took refuge in him. Reverent offerings piled up, but he amassed them only to disperse them. It was then the beginning of the Sui dynasty, when the great Dharma was newly being promoted. Zhiman continued to propagate the state's conversion, expanding its reach. Consequently, those who heard of his fame came carrying their book-chests, rushing like a torrent. The crowd was a mixture of refined and coarse, both long-standing and recent followers. At first, he established ceremonies of worship and repentance to restrain worldly dispositions; afterward, following their inclinations, they engaged in quiet contemplation and tranquil sitting. Zhiman personally attended to the assembly's affairs, his presence gracing the monastic ranks. His deportment was upright and elegant, his majestic aura severe and imposing. With striking brows and clear eyes, he confronted both monks and laity; all who participated in paying respects felt their spirits awestruck and their hairs stand on end, universally regarding him with reverence as a preceptor of the Bodhisattva Precepts. Yet Zhiman did not value personal renown, nor did he treat the correct Dharma lightly. Though people bitterly implored him, he would not immediately transmit them; instead, he personally exerted utmost sincerity in the Vaipulya repentance, circumambulating to seek definitive verification. Only when he dreamed of the Buddha rubbing his crown and preaching the Dharma to him—exactly as depicted in the sūtras—would he then bestow the transmission. Hence, both monastics and householders longing for the precepts flocked to him without cessation. Yet, intent solely on quiet contemplation and weary of such noisy superficiality, he moved to the South Stream Hermitage on the east mountain of Licheng. Mind-quelling practitioners once again gathered like a forest. Cultivating both dhyāna and repentance, they discarded neither serenity nor insight. But as his aspirational reach was vast and enduring, it was at times disrupted by practical affairs. He then traveled to Yanmen Valley to rely on Dhyāna Master Zan, engaging with conditions to cultivate mindfulness and wisdom. Zan was a discerning mirror among monks, an exemplary guide in the halls of meditation, his speech and deeds pure and lucid, as detailed in his separate biography. Zhiman lamented having met him late, but his joy in following him was immense. Following Zan, he traveled widely, learning from whatever he honored. He also dwelt at Kaihua Temple, settling his thoughts to cultivate the mind. Soon after, Emperor Wen summoned Zan to the capital; the gates of meditation thus collapsed, and the assembly dispersed. Zhiman thereupon gathered more than fifty of his like-minded companions and went west into Mount Tu'an in Lanzhou, continuing their work as before and profoundly moving students. In the twilight of the Sui, when the way declined and rebel bands arose like bees, the common people fell into misery; yet Zhiman's assembly remained peaceful and unbroken—such was the fruition of spiritual resonance with the Way. When the Great Tang raised its righteous uprising, the fourfold assembly rushed to take refuge. He then led his companions into the city to draw near to people and propagate the Way. Initially, he resided at Zhenzhi Temple in Jinyang; as the fame of his teachings spread widely, those returning to take refuge crowded like a marketplace. Emperor Gaozu issued a special edict to relieve his toil, ordering him to reside in the residence of the Duke of Xu, with all provisions supplied directly from the Righteous Granary. The Emperor personally went to pay respects and inquire, but looking upon him, he was filled with awe. Turning to Pei Ji, he said: 'Why is it that upon seeing this dhyāna master, my hair stood on end?' Pei Ji replied: 'I reckon there can be no other mark; it must be the protection of the precept spirits.' Later, on another day of audience, the Emperor said: 'I, your disciple, am delivering the common people; now that the great creation of our righteous uprising has arisen, I pray there will be no obstacles to my going and returning, and I will build a temple for you.' Once the Emperor ascended the imperial throne in the capital and the realm was largely pacified, in the first year of Wude, an imperial edict designated the residence where Zhiman lived as Yixing Temple, with all four requisites of offering provided solely by the state. In the third year, as Zhiman's virtue commanded worldly reverence and his reputation spread further, the Emperor wished to lodge him in the capital and issued an edict summoning him. But as northern barbarians invaded southward and the people were terrified, Area Commander Liu Rang, Duke of Hongnong, petitioned to keep Zhiman in order to steady the public mind. A special decree was granted allowing him to stay, thereby reassuring court concerns. In the fifth year of Wude, the Xianyun flared violently, and war chariots were repeatedly deployed. Because the monks of Mayi were bold and daring, beacon fires were repeatedly lit on their account. Taiyuan bordered Wuxiang, where military ways were customary. An imperial edict was therefore issued to select over two thousand monks to fill the ranks of the two prefectural garrisons. Immediately, another decree was handed down: 'The religious practice and conduct of Master Zhiman's single temple is pure and eminent; it shall be exempt from this draft.' Because of this, his radiant deeds were praised anew, and his glorious reputation reached near and far. Among the distinguished scholars of Jinchuan who survived the purge, seeing Zhiman calmly receive this auspicious blessing, all came to praise him; some bowed in submission to his precept standards, while others relied on him to practice and dwell there, consistently numbering over two hundred. Yet Zhiman never slackened in his constant cultivation, strictly maintaining his sincerity. Whenever someone lagged in study, he would personally summon and admonish them separately, thoroughly citing sacred authority to guide and transform their ordinary minds. All who were present to receive his instruction shed tears and prostrated themselves, choking with sighs for a long time—all because his personal conduct in upholding the Dharma inspired those before him. Hence, his matching of teachings to capacity was never in vain. In the fourth month of the second year of Zhenguan, on account of overexertion and disruption, he slightly felt unwell. Though the illness lingered, his fundamental nature remained undisturbed. Disciples gathered daily to receive his final instructions and exhortations. There was a śramaṇa named Daochuo, who long held great vows and was a devoted and reverent friend; he thus urged Zhiman: 'Dharmas arise and cease; the Way resides in conditions. Contemplating marks makes it easy to enter the gate, while delving into emptiness heavily restricts attainment. Please advance along the Way as you have preached, with a firm date in mind.' Zhiman looked directly at him and said: 'My accumulated years of sincere cultivation hoped to uphold this: when conditions are empty, there are no marks to be conditioned by; when leading to the real, what is there to lead? How could I, for the sake of an expedient Dharma of a single lifetime, remain buried for kalpas? Please take your leave early and do not defile your deluded consciousness.' Daochuo then withdrew. Such was Zhiman's unyielding rectitude in guarding the subtle truth. Soon his breath gradually weakened, but his will and strength remained robust. Attendants stood around him, and onlookers filled the room. Zhiman sat upright, raised his face, and slowly surveyed his disciples; at the hour of Kunwu, he suddenly passed away at the age of seventy-eight, on the ninth day of the sixth month of the second year of Zhenguan. On the eve before his demise, the great earth shook, and the branches of the temple trees broke. The whole assembly mourned in fright, knowing the signs of decline had appeared. 'Mount Tai has collapsed!' The man of Dharma has departed—the grief was just so. The entire town was grief-stricken as if they had lost their minds. On the twelfth day of that month, he was temporarily interred in Tongzi Valley on Mount Long, where a stūpa was erected and a stele inscribed to record his virtues. From the time Zhiman abandoned the secular world to follow the Way, over sixty years passed; he cleansed himself in purity and rectitude, like ice and frost. In tattered robes and on meager food, he merely warded off hunger and cold; he frequently refrained from grains to restrict greed and attachment. His eyes never cast improper glances, his words were never frivolous, and he never looked upon women of fair complexion. Those of tender age did not sleep in his room; only those who had received the full precepts for many rains-retreats were permitted to serve near him. At set times, he faced the assembly to admonish them with monastic rules; at other times, he secluded himself in his small room, emerging only at daybreak. In his room was only a single corded chair, with his begging bowl bag hanging on the wall; apart from what was needed for sitting in accordance with the Way, there was nothing else. This caused all who beheld him to stand in awe, changing their countenance and unconsciously giving rise to reverence. Moreover, he placed special emphasis on making offerings to the Saṅgha and diligently built monastic foundations; he kindly welcomed the poor and destitute, providing all manner of medicines and remedies, untiring and vigilant in his intent to benefit living beings.

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續高僧傳 — 道宣, Classical Chinese