Lenamanti was an Indian monk who dwelt at Yongning Monastery in Luoyang, the capital of the Northern Wei. He was skilled in the five sciences and adept in occult arts. At that time, Qimu Huaiwen, the regional inspector of Xinzhou, was ingenious and knowledgeable, endowed with a broad and perceptive natural intelligence. Whenever the state constructed palace quarters or military implements, he was involved in all of them; the benefits he brought to both public and private affairs were supreme in his day. He was also ordered by imperial decree to repair Yongning Monastery. Seeing that Manti possessed extraordinary arts, he frequently sent provisions and treated him with deference, hoping to gain some instruction and insight. Yet Manti regarded him with indifference and never welcomed or engaged him in conversation from the start. Huaiwen resented him in his heart.

At that time, there was a Rouran guest at the Xuanwu Hostel south of the Luo River who had previously been an old acquaintance of Manti in the Western Regions. Riding a horse and dressed in furs, he frequently came to visit the monastery. The two got along well, talking, laughing, and clapping hands together, never tiring throughout the day. Standing by, Huaiwen saw them conversing in a barbarian tongue and could not understand their back-and-forth exchange. He then said to Manti, "I am a man of diverse interests. Lately I have provided offerings and served you, hoping that you, Master, would condescend to speak with me, yet you did not grant me a single word. This man is merely a northern barbarian, with the heart of a beast and the face of a human, slaughtering living beings and feeding on blood—what is there worthy of esteem in him? I did not expect that when facing one another, you would make such distinctions between him and me!"

Manti replied, "Do not look down upon him. Even if you have read ten thousand scrolls of books, in practical application you might not necessarily surpass him." Huaiwen said, "With the knowledge I possess, I should compete in skill against him and wager a horse!" Manti asked, "What skill do you have?" Huaiwen said, "The ability of mathematical calculation. Whether gazing at mountains or overlooking waters, I can fathom their heights and depths from afar; whether pacing grain bins or treading cellars, I do not err by even a pint or a peck." Manti laughed and said, "This is mere child's play. In front of the courtyard is a jujube tree that is exceedingly large, and its fruits are plentiful and full. As it is now early in the seventh month, all have ripened. Do you know how many fruits there might be upon it?"

Huaiwen was astonished, laughed, and said, "What a calculator knows must rely on the right-angled triangle theorem and benchmarks; through them, astronomy and geography can both be inferred. But what outward signs do the proliferation or thinning of grass and trees possess? Calculating this is truly empty talk!" Manti pointed to the Rouran guest and said, "This man knows it at once." Filled with indignation and disbelief, Huaiwen immediately drew up a contract and wagered a horse. The elder, venerable monks of the monastery all came to watch together and acted as witnesses. Manti explained everything to the Rouran guest, who smiled and accepted the challenge. Huaiwen further stipulated, "If you can truly know it, you must tell how many have developed seeds and how many have withered and died without seeds." Once the terms were settled, the Rouran drew an object from a leather pouch at his waist. It resembled a modern steelyard, strung with five-colored threads, each strand strung with white pearls. With this, he measured the tree—moving up and down, flanking it from side to side, drawing out the threads and winking his eyes. Circling it for a long while, he shook his head toward Manti with a smile and reported the numbers. Men were then dispatched to knock down all the fruits completely, and they inspected them one by one. In cases of doubt, Huaiwen himself cracked them open to verify whether the count of seeds had developed or not. In the end, there was neither deficit nor surplus. He thus won the horse and returned.

Whenever Manti saw the people of Luoyang traveling far to Mount Song and Mount Shaoshi to gather firewood, he would say to himself, "The common people labor so hard carrying loads across such distances! I would like to temporarily drag these two mountains to lie at the head of the Luo River, and once the people have cut enough wood, release them back; I would not consider this difficult. This is merely an art of calculation. However, the ignorant would falsely accuse me of being a sage, and therefore I dare not do it." When Manti was near the end of his life, he said to his disciples, "I will remain for another three to five days, and then go on a journey to a certain place. You should mindfully cultivate the correct path and do not harbor fond attachments." He then took to his bed with an illness, closed the door, and lay down. The disciples peeked through a crack in the door and saw that Manti's body was not touching the bed; he was lying on his back suspended in the empty air. They called one another to look together. One monk suddenly coughed, and Manti returned to the bed as before. Calling out to them from afar, he said, "Who is outside the door? Why do you not come in? Because the bed was hot, I sought some coolness; do not be surprised at it." A few days after this, he cast off his life.

25.37

Shi Chaoda: his clan name is unknown. He was a monk devoted to religious practice during the Northern Wei, possessing much learning and intellectual understanding. The emperor strictly prohibited prophetic apocrypha and searched for them everywhere. Someone falsely accused Da of possessing them, whereupon he was arrested and remanded to the prison in Xingyang. At that time, the Duke of Boling of the Wei investigated and thoroughly interrogated him; Da reported the truth, but the duke was greatly enraged and fastened a cart wheel around his neck, keeping strict guard over him. Knowing that he had no way to survive, Da single-mindedly recollected Avalokiteśvara. When the fourth watch of the night arrived, the cart wheel suddenly disappeared, and he saw that all the guards on watch were in a deep slumber everywhere. He therefore slipped outside, wishing to escape far away; but because he had been tied up in prison for a long time, his legs had become cramped and stiff, so he could not walk far. When dawn broke, barbarian cavalry rode forth in all directions to pursue him. Da reflected that he would inevitably fail to escape, so he hid in the grass. The cavalry came and trampled the grass completely flat; although they passed right by his side, facing him directly, they did not see him. Looking up at the faces of the barbarians, their eyes were all obstructed as if by ox hide. Da surrendered himself to death with single-minded devotion, reciting [Avalokiteśvara's name] with utmost sincerity. In the middle of the night, the barbarians departed, and immediately thereafter he managed to escape.

There was also the monk Daoren of Sengming, who served as the abbot of the Northern Terrace Grotto Monastery. When the Wei clan ruled the world, they constantly suspected śramaṇas of being rebels. They rounded up several hundred monks and bound them with fivefold bonds, with Sengming as their leader. Binding him tightly with ropes from head to foot, they set the dawn as the time for his beheading. Ming was terrified and single-mindedly recollected Avalokiteśvara. By midnight, he felt the ropes loosen slightly; secretly joyful in his heart, his focused devotion became all the more earnest. When dawn arrived, the ropes suddenly snapped entirely and fell away. Having thus obtained liberation, he fled and rushed into the mountains. The next morning, when the prison warden came to look for him, he could not be found; only the severed ropes remained on the ground. Recognizing that this was brought about by divine power, he immediately reported it to the throne. The emperor believed that the monk had not rebelled and thereupon released them all at once.

25.38

Shi Huida: his surname was Liu and his given name was Sahe (pronounced *sugufan*). Originally, he was a Jihu barbarian from Dingyang in Sancheng, northeast of Xianyang. Formerly he did not serve the Buddha and was illiterate. By character he was ferocious and recalcitrant, brave and strong with great vigor, and took delight in hunting and archery. He served as an assault cavalryman of Liangcheng, stationed at Xiangyang. His parents and three brothers were all still living; his household was very wealthy, and he acted haughtily and lawlessly in the local villages, behaving without restraint. Later, at a wine banquet, he fell ill and died, whereupon he witnessed the marks of the manifold sufferings of hell in their entirety. There is an extensive separate biography detailing the sacred traces. Later, Da went forth from the household and dwelt in Wencheng Commandery; the high plains southeast of present-day Cizhou were his birthplace. Today there is a shrine and an image of him, revered by both barbarians and Han Chinese, located within Anmin Monastery under its administration. He once traveled to Wu and Yue, just as recorded in the previous biography.

In the first year of the Dayan era of the Northern Wei emperor Taiwu, his transformative teaching was drawing to a close, and he set out to return to the west. Traveling as far as Fanhe Commandery in Liangzhou, he looked northeast toward the Yugu Valley and bowed to it from afar. None of the people understood this, so they asked him the reason. Da said, "On this cliff, an image will appear. If the spiritual image is complete and perfect, then the world will be peaceful and the times tranquil; if it has defects, then the world will be in turmoil and the people will suffer." Da traveled as far as a stone gully seven *li* west of the county seat of Jiuquan in Suzhou, where he died. His bones were all shattered, the size of sunflower seeds, and could be threaded through; they are currently in the hands of a sculpted image in an ancient monastery west of the county seat. A stele at the monastery reads, "I am not a great sage; wandering and converting others is my practice." The inscription is incomplete.

Eighty-seven years later, at the beginning of the Zhengguang era, there was suddenly a great storm with thunder, and the mountain split open, projecting forth a stone image eighteen feet in height. Its form and features were dignified and majestic, but it had no head. Stone was immediately selected and craftsmen were ordered to carve a separate head; when it was mounted, it fell off again. They therefore left it as it was. The fortunes of the Wei declined, and his words were verified. When the first year of the Zhou dynasty arrived, while dredging the gully seven *li* east of the city of Liangzhou, a light suddenly appeared, illuminating both the hidden and visible realms. Onlookers marveled at it, and it turned out to be the image's head. They respectfully conveyed it to the mountain cliff and installed it, and it matched seamlessly. For more than forty years the appearance had been missing parts, and the body and head were separated in different places by more than two hundred *li*; now the auspicious marks were complete again, and peace was present in this time. In the first year of the Baoding era, it was established as Ruixiang Monastery. There were lamps whose light flowed and shone, and the sounds of bells echoed through the air without interruption, none being able to fathom their cause.

In the early years of the Jiande era, the head of the image repeatedly fell off. The Grand Preceptor and the Prince of Qi went in person to inspect it and ordered it to be repositioned, but at night it fell as before. After several dozen attempts, they used other materials to make a head, but in the end it fell to the ground. Later, the Northern Zhou eliminated the Buddhadharma; it lasted only four years before the neighboring state perished. Only when perceptive people observed this did they realize his foreknowledge. Although it suffered destruction, the image remained standing upright. At the beginning of the Kaihuang era, the scriptures and images were widely propagated; the venerable image was adorned, and the monastery buildings were further elevated. In the fifth year of the Daye era, Emperor Yang went in person to pay homage and presented lavish donations, adding further glory and splendor. Consequently, he changed the old name to Gantong Monastery. Therefore, copies made to transmit its form were of unfathomable proportions: estimated at eighteen feet, whenever measured directly, it always differed. This caused faith to increase and renew day by day.

At the beginning of the Zhenguan era, I traveled through the regions beyond the passes and thus visited Da's original shrine; the sculpted image was solemn and dignified, receiving growing respect day after day. Across the prefectures of Shi, Xi, Ci, Dan, Yan, Sui, Wei, Lan, and others, they all painted and copied his likeness and made offerings to him everywhere, calling him "Master Liu the Buddha." Because of him, the barbarian nature was reformed, and those who practiced the precepts were numerous. This is recorded on the stele for the making of the image by Yao Dao'an.

25.39

Shi Daotai was a man of the late Northern Wei. He resided at the Hengtang Aranya on Mount Chang. In a dream, a man said to him, "When you reach such-and-such a year, you will die at the age of forty-two." Tai detested this intensely. When the designated year arrived, he fell gravely ill; in great anxiety, he used all his personal wealth to create merit. A friend said to him, "I have heard that making offerings to sixty-two kotis of bodhisattvas is equal to reciting the name of Avalokiteśvara once. Why do you not take refuge with utmost devotion? Your life span can surely be prolonged." Tai had an awakening; thereupon, for four days and four nights, he concentrated his devotion without interruption.

Beneath the curtain where he sat, he suddenly saw a bright light enter from outside the door. He saw the tops of Avalokiteśvara's feet and ankles radiating bright golden light, which said to Tai, "Are you reciting Avalokiteśvara?" By the time Tai lifted the curtain, in an instant it was no longer visible. Weeping with sorrow and joy, he broke into a sweat and immediately felt his body become light; his affliction was thereupon cured. Only when he was forty-four did he recount this to like-minded friends. Tai later ended his life at the natural span allotted by Heaven. There was another monk whose circumstances were the same as Tai's, which is why they are not recounted here.

25.40

Shi Sengrong was a man of the early Liang dynasty. He resided at Donglin Monastery on Mount Jiujiang. Sincere of purpose and broadly learned, he took wandering and converting as his duty. He once urged a household in Jiangling to receive the precepts and take serving the Buddha as their vocation. Previously they had a shrine to a local spirit which they no longer honored; everything was donated as offerings. Rong dismantled it and sent the materials to the monastery, staying behind to establish merit. Seven days later, the mother of the master of the house saw a ghost holding a red rope, intending to bind her. The mother was terrified, so they further invited monks to read the scriptures and practice circumambulation, whereupon the demonic apparitions ceased.

Later, as Rong was returning to Mount Lu, he lodged alone in an inn. At the time, it was snowing, and he only fell asleep in the middle of the night. He saw a host of ghost soldiers, exceedingly numerous. Among them was a ghost general wearing armor and carrying a blade, extraordinarily tall and imposing. An attendant holding a folding chair placed it before Rong, and the general sat down upon it, assuming a fierce expression and raising his voice to say, "Why do you say that ghosts and spirits have no efficacy? Quickly drag him down to the ground!" Just as the ghosts were about to lay hands on him, Rong silently recited Avalokiteśvara's name. Before his voice had ended, he saw behind the bed where he stayed a heavenly general, about ten feet tall, wearing yellow leather trousers and a tunic, raising a vajra pestle to strike them. The ghosts immediately scattered in fright, and their armor and equipment were shattered into fine powder.

Rong once exhorted a husband and wife in Jiangling to both receive the five precepts. Later, implicated in a robbery, the husband fled, while the wife was captured and imprisoned. Meeting Rong on the road, she pleaded for mercy and asked for rescue. Rong said, "Only single-mindedly recite Avalokiteśvara, and do not trust in any other path." After entering the prison, the woman recited without ceasing. In a dream, she saw a śramaṇa standing before her, kicking her with his foot and ordering her to leave. Suddenly she felt the three-piece wooden pillory binding her body naturally fall away. Seeing that the gate was still locked and guarded by several layers of gatekeepers, she thought there was no way out, so she went back to sleep. In her dream, she saw the same monk as before, who said, "Why do you not leave early? The gates will open of themselves." Upon hearing this, she arose at once; the multiple gates stood wide open, and she stepped over the threshold and left. Going several *li* to the southeast, she was about to reach a village. The night was dark; her husband, having fled earlier, traveled by night and hid by day. The two suddenly met and were both greatly startled. Questioning each other in the brush, it turned out to be her husband. Thereupon they joined with merchants and fled far away, ultimately escaping disaster.

25.41

Śramaṇa Fali: it is not known who he was. He was ascetic and possessed firm resolution and virtue. Desiring to erect a vihāra in Lu Commandery but lacking sufficient funds, he went with the śrāmaṇera Mingchen to Shanggu to solicit a cartload of hemp. As they were returning to the monastery with their task complete, traversing an open marsh, they suddenly encountered a wildfire. Since their cart was downwind, there was no way to escape. At that time, Fali was asleep from exhaustion; by the time he awoke, the fury of the flames had already reached them. Raising his voice, he called out 'Guan—', not yet finishing 'shiyin', when immediately the wind shifted, and the flames were instantly extinguished. They returned in peace and safety. Moreover, śramaṇa Fazhi had originally been a layman. Traveling alone through a vast marsh, ferocious flames converged simultaneously from all four quarters. Knowing that he was certain to die, he pressed his face to the ground and called upon Guanshiyin. Wondering why he was not being burned, he raised his head to look: every shred of grass throughout the entire marsh was completely consumed, save for the space where Zhi lay, which was just large enough to fit his body. Moving him to awakening through this, he left home to pursue the Way, striving with vigor and valor such that he preceded the rest of the assembly. Moreover, śramaṇa Daoji wandered in the Western Mountains of Shouyang and was captured by two bandits, who tied him to a tree and were about to kill him. He only recollected Guanshiyin, awaiting his death. The bandits drew their swords and struck repeatedly, but none caused any injury. Frightened by this, they fled, and Ji thus obtained his release; this matter was widely related. Moreover, when śramaṇa Fazhan and others were walking in the mountains, they met with robbers. They only recollected Guanyin. The robbers drew their bows to shoot them, but when they wished to loose the arrows, they were unable to do so. The robbers then submitted in good faith and tried to throw their bows to the ground, yet they could not release them either. Knowing that these were holy men, they abandoned their efforts and fled. Zhan and the others were spared, and this was everywhere reported. All of these were figures from the end of the Wei. There is separately a Record of the Spiritual Resonances of Guanyin, whose accounts are vast and extensive, so they are not recounted in detail here.

25.42

Śramaṇa Zhixiang, surnamed Hao, was a native of Fu in Zitong. He served as an official in Baxi Commandery. The Grand Administrator, Zheng Zhen, ordered Xiang to carry tribute offerings down to Yangdu. Seeing how the founding emperor of the Liang and his nobles revered the triratna, he resolved to leave home. Upon returning to upper Shu, he made a firm vow to his family, and since his wife and children shared his intention, they all shored their hair at the same time. After leaving home, during the Datong reign-era of the Liang, he dedicated himself to ascetic practices, eating one meal a day, constantly sitting, focusing his mind on the principles of the Buddha, and staking his very life upon it. At that time in Nanwudu—now Xiaoshui County—there was a Daoist master named Fa'ai who ostentatiously flaunted esoteric arts. Xiang went to observe him. In the evening, Ai used his mantric powers to manifest a great deity, whose body was dressed in robes and caps and whose appearance was magnificent and imposing. Coming forward, he lifted the rope bed four or five feet off the ground. Xiang then recited the precepts, and the deity immediately galloped off. In a moment he returned, lifted the bed again (only moving one corner, as before), and departed again. Shortly after, he came once more and stood before Xiang. Xiang kept his mind upright and pure, without the slightest stir. Soon the deity left again and manifested his face above the roof; the ridgepole of the building split open with a tremendous noise, yet Xiang remained fearless. Seeing that he did not move, the deity came to prostrate himself, begging for mercy and repentance. At dawn, Xiang said to Ai: 'What you value is an evil art, not the correct Dharma. You ought to abandon it.' Later, Xiang went to Yi to listen to lectures. Because he had been born in a remote frontier region, his profound speech was somewhat mingled with vulgar expressions; though he met with slight and ridicule, he forgot himself in the Way and took no offense whatsoever. Furthermore, while traveling on the road, he lodged at a Daoist abbey. The Daoist priests had long heard of Xiang's renown and, fearing he would convert their disciples, refused to invite him in. That night, a pack of tigers encircled the courtyard and roared at one another; the Daoist priests were uneasy the entire night. At dawn, they pursued him and took the bodhisattva precepts from him. He once traveled through Hongnong and saw a man angling beside the water. Xiang admonished him to stop, but he would not heed his words. Xiang then spat into the water, whereupon a great serpent suddenly raised its head, looked all around, and came toward them. The angler immediately took refuge, turned to Xiang, and left home. At that time, the Liang dynasty's fortunes gradually declined, and troops mobilized in the Fu region. He parted ways with Dharma Master Tuan, going to different territories: Tuan entered Mount Jinglin, while Xiang entered Mount Qingcheng, gathering disciples to cultivate practice. Xiao Hui, Prince of Liang, had always held Xiang in deep veneration, and provided him with indigenous Liao people to attend to his affairs. Before he had leisure to complete the construction, he contracted a grave illness. Knowing that his life could not be saved, he said to his disciples: 'I have always vowed to be born in a Pure Land, but lacking superior karma, though I will not be born in the three destinies, neither will I be born in the heavens; I will return to be born in Fu land to become a śramaṇa. Strive diligently to practice the Way, and only then will you meet with me again.' Sitting cross-legged with solemn dignity, he abruptly passed away. He was forty-four years old. The Liao people on all four sides of the mountain, seeing that he died while sitting, all came to marvel, bowing, making offerings, and reforming their customs to practice good. The disciples followed his orders and exposed his corpse beneath the pines. Earlier, when Xiang had established himself at Bailin Monastery west of the city of Mianzhou, after the compound was completed, he planted a parasol tree at the front of the hall, which flourished luxuriantly. Suddenly, on the fifteenth day of the fourth month, its leaves fell for no reason. Moreover, on this day when the karmadāna struck the bell, at first it made no sound. Great and small were bewildered, unable to fathom the reason. The sthavira, Sengchao, believing that a great catastrophe was at hand, took his tin staff and fled to avoid it. In a moment a messenger arrived with the report that Xiang had already passed away: the withering of the tree and the choking of the bell were manifestations of the morning of his passing. This monastery was more than four hundred li from Qingcheng, yet this resonance of unseen movements was surely beyond human contrivance. In the early Liang, there were also Daoxiang and Senglang, both of whom had miraculous manifestations; their traces were roughly similar, belonging to the class of Master Zhi.

25.43

Śramaṇa Senglin was a native of Wu. He possessed deep, unadorned virtue, and his conduct had the power to move living beings. During the Datong reign-era of the Liang, he traveled up into Shu to Tongzhou. One hundred and forty li northwest of the city was Mount Douchuan, atop which stood a spirit shrine; the local populace revered it, regularly going there to offer sacrifices and pay respects. Lin went to live there, sitting in dhyāna silence for several days. Suddenly, a great python coiled itself in front of his rope bed, raising its head as if bowing in courtesy. Lin conferred the three refuges upon it; having received them, it departed. From then on, all was peaceful and settled, with no calamities or strange occurrences. To the north of that mountain, on the sunny side of the Fu River, there had never been monkeys. After Lin took up residence there, two of them came to stay with him. Those who first saw them said they had crossed the river to come. Later, whenever Lin walked out of the mountain gate, the monkeys would cross back across the swirling waters; this happened more than once. Over a long span of time, they bred and gave birth, until there were several tens of them. At times, they would escort Lin to the mouth of Longmen, gazing after him before returning. Later, he went to an old temple at Chishui Cliff; its buildings were completely dilapidated, leaving only overgrown woods, so he sat in the open air. A tiger squatted in front of the grove, looking down at Lin. Lin preached the Dharma for it, and after a good while it departed. Thereafter, he traveled alone and intrepid, not shunning ferocious beasts, constantly practicing benevolence and deliverance, converting and inspiring a great many. In the end, he passed away in the region of Tong.

25.44

Śramaṇa Huijian: it is not known where he was from. In the early Liang he was in the monastic Way; his keeping of the precepts was lofty and strict, and his courage was extraordinary. To the east of the administrative hall of Jingzhou, there had previously been a separate three-room study where ghosts and monsters had long appeared frequently. When Wang Jianwu was in charge of the administration, there was still no one who could dwell there. Only Jian, who was Lord Wang's household master, was entrusted to reside there alone. He lived in one room himself, and placed scriptures and statues in the remainder. Soon, he saw a person dressed in black clothing without eyes emerge from the wall and lean against Jian's door. At the time, Jian's eyes were open and his mind was clear, but his mouth could not speak; in his mind he recollected Guanshiyin. After a good while, the ghost said: 'Hearing of your vigorous cultivation, I came to test you. Now that your spirit and countenance are unmoved, how could I press upon you further?' Suddenly, he vanished back into the wall. Jian slowly arose, washed, rinsed his mouth, and completed his devotions and recitation, then returned to sleep as usual. In a dream, the figure said to him: 'Having dwelt here since the end of the Han for several hundred years, my nature is unbending and upright, and there is much I cannot tolerate. You are truly a person of pure conduct and goodness, so I make a special allowance for you.' With this, the disturbances ceased entirely. Jian dwelt there for many years, peaceful and secure as in the beginning. Whenever he traveled elsewhere, there was still no one who could live there.

25.45

Śramaṇa Senglang was a native of Liangzhou. When the Wei invaders attacked Liang, the citizens within the city were originally few, so they pressed and conscripted the religious practitioners to fill the ranks of the army, adding them to every squad. When the assault carts were applied, the entire city fell. Three thousand monks who had mounted the city walls were seized and brought to the army camp, before the ruler of Wei, who said to them: 'Religious practitioners ought to sit in dhyāna and practice the Way; instead, you act as rebels. You thoroughly deserve public execution. They shall be beheaded tomorrow.' When the appointed mealtime arrived, a red vapor several fathoms long pierced the sun and passed straight through it. The Celestial Master, Kou Qianzhi, who was trusted by the emperor, submitted a memorial: 'The heavens sending down an anomaly is precisely for the sake of the religious practitioners; it was truly not their original intent. I pray that you do not kill them.' The emperor's younger brother, Prince Chijian, likewise joined in admonishing and pleading. The emperor then issued an edict to halt it, yet the captives were plundered and dispersed into forced-labor gangs; only Lang and several other monks were separately assigned to the imperial quarters. When the Wei army marched back eastward, Lang and a fellow student rebelled together on the way. The battle lines and defenses were strictly arrayed, offering no place to flee; to the east and west were sheer cliffs of unfathomable depth. Above, there was a large tree drooping over the side of the precipice, so they tied ropes from the drum and banner poles to the tree and suspended themselves down. At the time, the night was pitch-dark, and the bottom of the cliff was nothing but thorns, offering nowhere to set foot. Wishing to climb back up to the top, they feared being discovered by the army. Panicked at their lack of a plan, they clung to the rope and hung suspended, a posture that could not endure for long. They said to each other: 'Now disaster has arrived; our only recourse is to recollect Guanshiyin.' They then knocked their heads against the rock, single-mindedly concentrated. In a short while, a radiant light emerged from the direction of the sun, illuminating heaven and earth, revealing a place amid the thorns where they could descend. Following the light they reached the ground, whereupon it suddenly grew dark again. Knowing this was divine, they rejoiced in their spiritual encounter and lay down to sleep. After a long while it dawned, and only then did they hear the army stirring and preparing to depart. However, with myriad folds of mountain valleys, they knew not the way out; they could only walk toward the sun. They encountered a large tiger that emerged before them. They said to each other: 'Though we escaped the peril of the invaders, we have entered the tiger's mouth again.' Lang said: 'It is not as you say. Precisely because we had spiritual resonance, the light was manifested; meeting this tiger now, might it not be a sage pointing out the way?' Thereupon, the two walked straight toward the tiger, which immediately went ahead; if Lang lagged slightly behind, the tiger also paused briefly. By morning they finally reached an outlet, whereupon the tiger's whereabouts were lost. Following the road, they proceeded forward; in seven days they reached Qiuchi, then went on to Liang and Han, emerging in Jingzhou. His final end is unknown.

25.46

Śramaṇa Sengyi: it is not known who he was. He was steadfast and possessed deep discernment. Whenever he mounted the seat to lecture, heavenly flowers would scatter down upon the Dharma seat. During the Yuan Wei, he resided at the valley monastery of Master Lang on Mount Tai, gathering disciples and instructing them, never tiring in his pure devotion even in his advanced years. In the monastery were a Gaoli statue, a Prime Minister's statue, a Central Asian statue, a Women's Country statue, a Wu Country statue, a Kunlun statue, and a Mount Tai Capital statue; these seven statues were all of gilt bronze and were displayed together in the monastery hall. The hall doors were always open, yet birds and wild animals never dared to enter, as is still the case today. Thus the statue praise by Lingyu says: 'Arriving in resonance with response, they truly belong to no single place; is it not that their spiritual penetrations are darkly manifested, their principles beyond ordinary discussion?' Yi sustained himself by upholding the Dharma, disciplining his conduct to make offerings. On the evening before his passing, a śrāmaṇera who had died long ago appeared and bowed, saying: 'Since I left your service, I have constantly been employed by the Celestial Emperor, scurrying without leisure, abandoning the cultivation of the Way's karma. Before long, the Celestial Emperor will invite you, Master, to lecture on the sūtras; I pray that through a single word I may be freed from the suffering of bodily form.' Yi then bathed, burned incense, and sat upright in a quiet room waiting for the time to arrive. When the appointed time came, a celestial being indeed entered the monastery and his room, whose caps, robes, feathers, and retinue were majestic and extraordinary. The assembly of monks, when first seeing this, merely thought, 'What noble of the world is this, entering the mountain to pay respects?' and were not alarmed or amazed. Only when Yi passed away without illness that day did they recognize the divine resonance. His chief reciter lived in Yanzhou, and the other incense-bearers and chant-masters were scattered in other prefectures; when later examined, they had all died on the very same day. Some say that Sengyi was Zhizhan, a companion of Master Lang; since the previous biography omitted him, he is compiled here now. Zhan attained the first fruit, and his stūpa still stands beside Lingyan Monastery on Mount Tai, as seen in his separate biography.

25.47

Śramaṇa Sengzhao, whose clan origin is unknown, lived at Danling Temple on Mount Tai. By nature he was unrestrained and fond of seeking out marvels; whenever he heard of strange spiritual traces, he never failed to climb up and explore them. Having heard that beneath waterfalls there were many caves where immortals and sages dwelt, he traveled during the Putai era of the Northern Wei to Rongshan, where he saw a cave beneath a cascade of flowing water. Entering through the cave, he walked for about five or six li before emerging outside it. Following a faint path toward the northeast and ascending several li, he came upon a stone canal two or three paces wide; its water flowed westward, clear and transparent, with medicinal herbs bordering the canal, their vines trailing over the ground. To the north of the canal were three tile-roofed huts, very ancient and crude in appearance. In front of the courtyard, ears of grain lay strewn about, half-eaten by birds and sparrows. Inside the eastern hut were several shelves of yellow scrolls; in the middle were two iron mortars, as well as cooking pots and vessels, all covered with floating dust, showing no signs of cooking at all. Inside the western hut sat a śramaṇa, upright and solemn, with dust burying his knees. Looking in all four directions, one saw only dense forests and overhanging ravines; it was no longer a dwelling of mortals. Presently he encountered a divine monk, about sixty years of age, whose eyebrows were more than a zhang long and hung coiled over his ears. Seeing him, the monk was delighted, as if meeting an old friend, and asked where he had come from. He himself said, "Three of us fellow-students came here to escape the world. One has gone out and has not yet returned; one has been dead for a very long time, as if entered into the concentration of cessation (nirodha-samāpatti); he is now inside the western hut—have you seen him? What surname rules as master today?" [Sengzhao] answered that it was the Wei house. The monk said, "The Wei house has possessed the realm for a long time; is their surname not Cao?" Sengzhao said, "Their surname is Yuan." The monk said, "I did not know." Thereupon he took ears of grain, pounded them into gruel, and went into the forest to fetch pears and jujubes from beneath the leaves, giving them to him to eat. The monk said, "Just eat; I do not eat this." He further asked what sūtra he recited. Sengzhao said, "I recite the Saddharmapuṇḍarīka Sūtra." The divine monk nodded and said, "An exceedingly fine work of vigorous progress! All those many sūtras on the shelves in the eastern room are recited by me. Would you care to hear them?" Sengzhao joined his palms and said, "I dare only obey your command." The monk then recited them section by section, his voice clear and penetrating, lasting throughout the entire night. Sengzhao struggled with sleepiness. The monk said, "Just sleep; this is merely my constant practice." Throughout the daylight he did not sleep, and prepared food for him again. Sengzhao thanked him, saying, "I have been fortunate to meet you. Now I will temporarily return and soon come back to serve you." The monk did not detain him either, but only said, "My fellow-student has gone traveling; if you were to encounter him, you would attain great awakening. It is a pity you did not see him." Having said that he must return, he bade him farewell. Sengzhao retraced his path and was able to return. He gathered companions to go again, but the waterfall and cave could no longer be found. In present times, such occurrences also happen in the various peaks of Mount Zhongnan; as there are many further travels, it is not without reason.

25.48

Śramaṇa Daofeng, whose clan origin is unknown, was called by contemporaries one who had attained the Way. Together with three disciples, he lived on Mount Gu in Xiangzhou, seeking neither gain nor support. Some said that he refined cinnabar, alchemy (yellow and white arts), medicine, divination, and physiognomy, leaving none of the worldly arts unmastered. Emperor Gao of Northern Qi, when traveling between Bingzhou and Ye, often visited and consulted him; Daofeng responded without hesitation, pointing out things as they arose. The emperor once ordered wine and steamed suckling pig, commanding them to be placed before Daofeng and ordering him to eat them. Daofeng made no refusal at all, but ate his fill with abandon. The emperor laughed heartily and said no more to him. After the imperial carriage departed, [Daofeng] said to his disciples, "Remove the items by the head of the couch." When they uncovered and cleared the couch, they saw that the previously served steamed suckling pig was still there, completely untouched as though never chewed. At that time, in Shikusi, there was a monk practicing sitting meditation. Every day toward the west, looking eastward toward the mountain peak, an eighteen-foot golden statue would appear. This monk rejoiced in secret, considering it an auspicious omen, and bowed in worship day after day, which went on for about two months. Later, lying down in his room, he suddenly heard a voice beside his pillow saying to him, "Where else in the world is there a Buddha? Your Way is now accomplished; you are the Buddha yourself! You should carry yourself properly as a Buddha; do not be careless and frivolous." Having heard this, the monk immediately assumed an air of dignity, looking upon the other monks as if they were weeds and chaff. In front of the great assembly, he pointed sideways to his chest and said, "Do you folks recognize the true Buddha? The clay shrines and painted images cannot even utter words from their lips—what wisdom or thought do they possess? You see the true Buddha yet know not to pay homage, still treating me as in former days; you shall all fall into Avīci!" Moreover, the pupils of his eyes had turned red, and he shouted erratically. The entire monastery knew this was meditation madness (dhyāna fright). Before it could fully break out, they carried him to Daofeng's place. [Daofeng] immediately addressed him, "Have you frequently seen a golden image appear on the eastern mountain over the past two months?" He answered, "I indeed saw it." [Daofeng] further said, "Did you hear a voice beside your pillow telling you to be a Buddha?" He answered, "It was indeed so." Daofeng said, "This is merely wind disturbance that has caused a loss of mind. If not treated early, you might run mad and become uncontrollable." He then applied needles to three acupuncture points, and thereupon the madness did not erupt. When Daofeng was approaching death, he said to his disciples, "I have been in these mountains for a long time, causing you the toil of drawing water from the valley. Now as I depart, I have nothing to leave you, so I shall leave a spring for you. With no more hardship of climbing and descending, apply yourselves diligently to cultivate your practice of the Way." He then pointed to a square stone near the hearth, and there emerged a dark spring, clear and reflective, neither overflowing nor diminishing; it still exists today.

25.49

Shi Yuantong. His family clan is unknown. He went forth from the household in his youth. Universally affectionate, comprehensive, and broad [in knowledge], he was known for his warmth and acumen. He lived at Da Zhuangyan Temple in the capital Ye, where he scrutinized and cantillated the Nirvāṇa [Sūtra], thoroughly examining its text and purport. In the fourth year of the Wuping era of Northern Qi (573 CE), when the summer lectures were suspended, a guest monk arrived whose appearance and robes were unadorned and plain, yet his conduct and deportment were vast and refined. Because of an illness, he sought refuge across several monasteries; but because his affliction was foul-smelling and stifling with stench, the monastic assembly all abhorred him and none dared let him stay. Tong observed that his capacity and discernment were vast and profound, deeply marveling at his composure, and so welcomed him into his chamber. Though there was defilement, from the first he harboured no disdain or reluctance. Day by day their mutual regard grew; gradually comprehending the guest's thoughts, he asked what he studied. The guest replied, 'The Nirvāṇa [Sūtra].' Tong had long made this his ongoing practice, and they hit it off as if old acquaintances. Tong then set forth and discussed the deep essentials of the scripture and what prior masters had long been perplexed by and never resolved. The guest monk concurred with what was adduced, and further established chapters and verses, evaluating and interpreting them clearly and with profound elegance. Delighting that they were attuned in the Way, Tong doubled his previous attentiveness. He prepared medicines and broth, watching over him morning and night. Once in the night, he brought a cup of spring liquor, saying, 'As a guest lodged in affliction, taking this is best.' The guest then knitted his brows and drank it, stopping after a single swallow. When the summer ended, the illness was cured, and he took leave of Tong to depart. Tong said, 'The time of robe-distribution is now drawing near; official monasteries as a rule receive gifts of robes. If you wait three to five days, I shall present you with a winter robe.' The guest said, 'I have already caused you much trouble; how could I allow further burden?' Tong firmly detained him, and having made a robe, gave it to him. Approaching departure, grasping Tong's hand, he admonished him, saying, 'Cultivating the Way admits no deceit even in a dark room. The Dharmabhāṇaka offered wine before: I feared injuring your kind intentions, yet it was not correct principle. From now on, this practice should be severed. Have you ever been to Gushan Shiku Temple? I live in a modest small temple further down, exactly five leagues north of Shiku. Going around the post station east of the ravine, there is a small vale; to the east is Zhulin Temple. On a favorable occasion, consider visiting each other.' Tong respectfully apologized for his prior fault, promising he would surely go to call upon him. Thereupon they parted. At the beginning of the next summer, because few monks visited the Shiku Mountain temple, more than a hundred monks from official temples such as Zhuangyan, Dinguo, Xingsheng, and Zongchi were gathered into a single rotation. Tong at that time was lodged at Shiku for the summer, intending to visit Zhulin. He gathered the hosts and guests, inquiring where the temple was located. The assembly all laughed loudly and warned Tong, 'Do not spread such delusive talk! Zhulin is utterly elusive; it is merely a persistent legend among the worldly.' Tong considered that the guest monk had come to rely on him, and their encounter was of extraordinary intimacy; his speaking of this matter could hardly be an empty pointer. The assembly also wondered at it, and so each brought incense and flowers to go with Tong. Arriving at the small valley five leagues north of the temple, heading east there was a faintly discernible footpath. Travelling about five leagues and climbing a mountain knoll, they saw an old man wearing a kerchief bound on his forehead, cloth trousers, and a short coarse jacket, wielding a mattock and clearing over twenty mu of wasteland. Seeing from afar the assembly of monks releasing their horses and advancing, he said, 'Where are these men of the Way from, not keeping to the paths?' The monks said, 'We reside at Shiku, and wish to head toward Zhulin.' The old man became furious, saying, 'Last year the official temple released horses that ate my young crops; my son blocked and protected them, and was beaten nearly to death. Now you come again with such brass?' Dragging his mattock, he came in pursuit. The dozen or so monks looked toward the valley and fled; he pursued none but Tong. He said to Tong, 'It is you who are stubborn and do not turn back; I will let you enter the mountain to feed the tigers.' Tong then went east for several leagues, coming upon a winding ravine that was shallow yet dense and lush. Following the ravine further east, he merely heard the sound of cantillation and recitation on the southern peak. Tong asked where Zhulin was located. A voice responded, saying, 'Where do you come from? Could it be Dharmabhāṇaka Yuantong?' Tong said, 'It is.' He then parted the woods, traversed the treacherous terrain, and approached Tong, briefly recounting their separation, overflowing with joy in expressing his feelings. He said, 'The monastic assembly of the small temple down the mountain is a motley crew; in their mindset and deportment, they rarely meet expectations. Yet since you have deigned to come, you must ultimately reach the temple.' Advancing together for several leagues, they suddenly saw double watchtowers, high gates, long galleries, and compound courtyards; tall bamboos pierced the clouds, and green pines eclipsed the sun. Outside the gate, black-lacquered troughs over a hundred feet long were arranged in ten rows, all adorned with animal masks holding rings, ornamented with gold and bronze, and filled with grain and beans. Beside them were hoofprints, yet the ground was swept clean. He then made Tong stand to the left of the gate, notifying him, 'I must first consult the Great Upādhyāya.' In a moment, he guided him inside to the west porch corridor of the lecture hall. The Upādhyāya sat upon a high dais, attended by fifty or sixty youths and clerks. The Upādhyāya was around ninety years of age, with lofty, refined brows and face, resembling an Indic monk. Leaning against a desk, he processed documents, with people reporting affairs beside him. Tong paid homage and stepped back to stand. The Upādhyāya addressed him, 'Since you reside in an official temple, generous offerings are hard to relinquish. How could you condescend to come? This temple truly has nothing worth seeing.' Tong recounted his reasons in full, whereupon orders were given to lodge him. [The guest monk] led Tong to make the rounds of the chambers to pay respects, seeing that the monks in two chambers each sat within jewelled canopies, interlaced with manifold adornments that outshone the sunlight. Speaking to the guiding monk, they said, 'Who is that man, that he dares enter?' Waving their hands, they dismissed him. The monk looked embarrassed, and turning to Tong, said, 'Our temperaments differ, which causes disappointment. For now, go to my room, where you may rest.' He then led him into his room, fully recounting their past affinities, and served the midday meal. The meal tasted just like the ordinary flavors of Ye. After the meal, he led him to view images and icons, adornments, gardens, ponds, terraces, and pavilions; touring and viewing them all could not be exhausted. Tong consequently expressed his wish, saying, 'If I could but place my footsteps among the dust here and ever attend to sweeping and sprinkling, the aspiration of my life would be complete.' The monk said, 'Upon our meeting, I already bore this in mind; but I must consult the Upādhyāya, and know not whether it will be granted.' He spent the night with Tong, and at dawn went to consult him. The Upādhyāya said, 'I well know your intention, and do not begrudge a single room. But having received official invitations, your debt of recompense is not light. According to monastic law, one may not have one's name registered in two places. For now, return; once your official registration is removed, when you come, you shall certainly be accommodated. Do not harbor resentment.' Thereupon he sent him out, arriving beside the horse troughs. Tong looked back with longing and wept, lamenting his heavy misdeeds that prevented him from being permitted to stay. Grasping the monk's hand, he bid farewell. Walking west a hundred paces, he looked back and still saw the gate and watchtowers imposing and intact. Step by step he looked back, walking several leagues further, when suddenly he saw only craggy precipices and towering cliffs, no longer any monastery buildings. Gazing sorrowfully, he sought the road, arriving at the reclaimed land: there was not a trace left, only hazel thickets. Those with discernment commented, saying, 'The one who raised the mattock to chase the monks previously feigned supernatural monstrosity so that Tong alone would proceed, revealing that he possessed the affinity.' As for the Great Upādhyāya, was he not perhaps Piṇḍola? The *Introduction to the Mahāyāna Treatise* says: the venerable Piṇḍola, Rāhula, and other sixteen great śrāvakas are scattered across mountains and islands. Moreover, in other sūtras it is also taught that ninety-nine billion great arhats took tallies before the Buddha to remain living in the world, all abiding in mountains and seas of the three directions to protect the True Dharma. Now the monks of Shiku Temple often hear wondrous bells and chants reverberating through the mountain forests; thus we know that spirit palaces and immortal monasteries are not without reality. Formerly I went to Xiangbu to seek Gushan, which lies to the northwest of ancient Ye. Looking from afar, I saw a horizontal stone shaped like a drum. A popular proverb says: 'If the stone drum sounds, the realm is not at peace.' Toward the end of the Sui, its sound was frequently heard, and the four seas seethed in turmoil; this was indeed no falsehood. Zuo Si's *Rhapsody on the Wei Capital* says: 'The spirit gong sounds distant upon the high peaks; its wondrous ringing intermittently alarms the four quarters'—this refers to it. Ever since Emperor Shenwu moved the capital to Ye, saṅghārāmas were built across the upper and lower reaches of the mountain. Woodcutters encroached, and artisans quarried relentlessly. The spirits, wearying of the din and disturbance, for the most part abandoned it. Hence in recent times, those who climb and visit seldom encounter miraculous traces. Yet the legends of Zhulin are often remarkably distinct. Truly, because karmic dispositions have the refined and the shallow, the experiences perceived are varied. Recently, someone ascended from the eastern face of Gushan, seeing from afar a great avenue at the mountain peak lined with green pines. Following the road, he reached a palace of elegance and splendour difficult to describe; precious trees and beautiful maidens were engaged in continual delight. Inquiring of the men there, all said, 'We have just gone to Shaoshi, and will return toward dusk.' Advancing several leagues further, all was bamboo groves. Following the path west, he found the monastery. The assembly of monks, seeing the guest, received him joyfully, provided food and drink, and pointed out his return route. He then descended to the northwest of the mountain, no more than ten-odd leagues from Wu'an County. When Emperor Wu of Zhou pacified Qi, [monks] uniformly had no distinct vestments. In the Xiabang quarter east of Ye, there was an attendant in ordinary named Guo Mi, who had resigned due to illness and returned home to nurture purity in the lanes. Well-versed in the internal and external [teachings], he harbored compassionate aid in his heart; he took in and cared for all the elderly monks who had been defrocked. Residing at home reading and cantillating, he suddenly heard a knock at the gate. He sent a maid to look, who saw a śramaṇa holding a khakkhara and carrying a bowl, saying, 'This poor monk lives at Zhulin Temple on Gushan, and begs for food as the meal hour approaches.' Mi was near the gate, and hearing the voice, responded from afar: 'Monks should merely say they beg for food; what need is there to pretend to be a sage?' Going out in person to look, he searched in all directions but found nothing; only then did he know it was no ordinary person, regretting that his flippant remark had caused the holy one to conceal himself. Recently, in the early years of the Wude era (618–626), at the Baofu Cliff on Mount Jie, there was a śramaṇa named Huixiu, a monk of lofty purity. Meditating in solitary quietude, he suddenly saw three divine monks beside the Buddha hall. Xiu, wondering at this, thought they were mountain-visiting monks; he entered his chamber to take his sitting mat, preparing to pay homage. When he went to call on them, the youngest among the divine monks held a box in front, while the senior one was behind, riding the void, drifting slowly south toward the high peak, greeted by white clouds from the north and enveloped in darkness so that they disappeared. A short time later, he saw another monk heading east toward the cliff wall. Xiu pursued to pay homage, but he entered into the rock. At this cliff, bells frequently sound, struck according to the hours; though favored with their sounds and marks, he could not receive spoken instructions. These perceptual encounters are diverse and cannot be judged by a single standard. Broadly speaking, the spiritual wonders of cliff-caves essentially require empty quietude; if one engages in noise and clamour, one will rarely hear wondrous signs.

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續高僧傳 — 道宣, Classical Chinese