The gods and Buddhas remain silent, but they see the spring breeze

Everyone in the capital knew Lord Bradley Sterling, heir to the Sterling estate, was hopelessly in love with Miss Layla Cunningham, the minister’s daughter.

Then, after Layla inadvertently drew a divination slip at Kingsport Monastery that read “fated to bear no children,” not a soul dared propose.

So Bradley declared he had drawn the same ill-fated lot. He knelt in the ancestral hall for three days and nights, endured thirty-three lashes, and nearly gave his life to secure her hand.

On their wedding night, the man who claimed no religious belief summoned the abbot to seek a remedy. Willingly taking vows, he donned monastic robes and entered seclusion at Kingsport Monastery for three years, chanting prayers and striking the ritual block.

All that time, Layla lived as a wife in name only.

Yet she never complained, steadfastly awaiting their reunion.

For nine hundred and ninety-nine days, without fail, through rain or shine, Layla would climb the mountain path to the monastery, kneeling and bowing low with every third step. At the summit, she copied a volume of the Diamond Sutra in her own blood and burned it as an offering.

The abbot said sincerity would move the heavens.

Today was the final day. Layla had come especially early.

It was the dead of winter. The rain had frozen into stinging pellets that turned to ice upon the ground.

“May my husband, Bradley Sterling, find joy and health, and live a long life.”

With devout reverence, Layla bowed her head, performing ritual prostrations every few steps as she climbed, the prayer a constant whisper on her lips.

Her maid, Julia, held an umbrella to little avail. Icy pellets dusted Layla’s fox-fur cloak. She shivered, her breath misting the air, yet the relentless rhythm of her ascent never faltered.

The staircase seemed endless. A single misstep would send her tumbling to her death.

Reaching the monastery gate, she stumbled and fell, striking her forehead hard enough to raise a lump. Her cloak was smeared with dark mud.

Layla scrambled to her feet. To approach the sacred task in such a state felt disrespectful.

So Julia found her a warm cell in which to change.

One final volume, copied in blood, and the curse of their “childless fate” would be broken.

Bradley could return to her. They would raise a family and grow old together.

At the thought, a smile warmed Layla’s face. The familiar, sharp pain returned as the dagger sliced her wrist.

She dipped the brush into the welling blood—but before it could touch the paper, indecent sounds drifted from the adjoining cell.

“My lord, you spend every day here entangled with me. What if your wife discovers us?”

“She’s too busy with her prostrations and her bloody scriptures. Now, be good. Turn over.”

“But today is the last day. What will become of me after this, Eva?”

“To make a place for you as my mistress, I arranged for her to draw that barren lot. Yet on the day she entered my house, she still looked down on you, humiliated you. Three years have passed. That pride of hers must be worn away. Does it not reassure you, watching her pitiful decline with me here every day?”

Eva had been his mistress—the concubine his mother had selected to secure the succession.

On the day Layla wed Bradley, he had presented the girl to her. “This is the woman Mother chose to bear me an heir…”

Layla had immediately thought of her own fate and frowned uneasily.

Unable to bear her distress, Bradley sent Eva away at once, holding and comforting Layla for a long time.

But Eva appeared on a chair outside their bridal chamber, a white silk cord in hand, weeping bitterly.

“If my lady cannot abide me, then grant me this cord. Let me hang myself and be done with it.”

Fearing a scandal would displease his mother, Bradley spent the entire night coaxing Eva in a side chamber. He never came to the bridal suite, never consummated the marriage.

He had said, “Layla, my love, our wedding day should not be tainted by such ill omens.”

Yet the very next day, he produced a divination slip from Kingsport Monastery, marked with the worst fortune.

“The abbot says a childless fate is our divine will. But if the one I love kneels in prayer for nine hundred and ninety-nine days and copies the sacred texts in her own blood, the curse can be broken. Layla, are you willing?”

In their childhood, Layla had fallen into the water. Bradley risked his life to save her. Since that day, her heart had been his.

Later, it was Bradley who fabricated the lie about his own barren fate and insisted on marrying her.

Disregarding her parents’ objections, Layla began her devotions for him the day after the wedding, becoming the capital’s notorious, love-mad fool.

To show his sincerity, Bradley waited for her at the monastery each day.

He said, “Dearest, you do so much for me. I will never fail you!”

“Having no heirs was never the great matter. But now that we are joined, if my fault leaves you childless and full of regret, no punishment could ever atone.”

“I will wait for you at Kingsport Monastery. Let us strive together, husband and wife, for our future child.”

“My sweet, though I have taken vows, my heart is not pure. I pray all the gods will take pity and allow me to devote myself to you alone.”

Back then, Layla wept with gratitude, believing she had found her lifelong happiness—believing Bradley had shouldered the burden of a barren fate for her sake, sparing her the pain of her own exposed wound.

But today, the gods had opened her eyes. The one to whom he had devoted himself was not her, but that servant girl—Eva, who had initiated him into the ways of the bedchamber.

His daily visits to “wait” for her were merely an excuse to watch her humiliation with his mistress!

It was divine mercy that let her see the full truth today, turning three years of devotion into a bitter jest.

Amidst Eva’s soft moans, the brush in Layla’s hand snapped. The broken piece struck the paper, the blood spreading in a sinister bloom.

She caught Julia’s arm as the maid moved to kick the door down and shook her head.

So these three years of kneeling had all been a lie—a colossal deception constructed around a fabricated crime.

Layla’s face turned deathly pale. She stared at the wound on her wrist, opened anew each day for three years, never allowed to heal. It gaped like a mouth, the raised, gnarled scars around it like twisted worms mocking her stupidity.

With a bitter smile, she took up a new brush. She had copied 998 volumes for him. This final one would repay the debt for her childhood rescue.

Saturating the brush with fresh blood, she set to work with solemn, single-minded focus.

When it came time for the final dedication, her brush halted. The once-familiar phrase, “May my husband, Bradley Sterling, find joy and health, and live a long life,” now refused to form.

After a moment’s thought, she wrote instead: *May the man who saved me in childhood achieve his heart’s desire.*

Layla stood. Suddenly, she remembered the young man who, three years ago, had mounted his horse for the frontier, his eyes full of quiet sorrow. “Layla, I go to the border where life and death are uncertain. If you ever change your mind, as long as I live, even if mountains crumble and oceans run dry, I will come for you.”

Layla lowered her gaze. For three years, he had sent her letters each month. They spoke of camp life, polite and distant. Only the final two words, “Awaiting your reply,” held a thread of earnest hope.

She had never answered.

Layla looked at the scripture before her, the ink still wet. Her eyes rested on the phrase: “achieve his heart’s desire.” A strange feeling stirred within her.

She said, “Julia, send a letter to the General’s residence. Tell him…”

“In seven days, I will be waiting for his bridal carriage.”