“Child’s father, look, he’s awake. The cold spring really worked. I told you there was nothing to worry about—how could anything happen so easily to our Henry Linton!” A voice, both familiar and strange, reached his ears.

He slowly opened his eyes. It was still dark, but hadn’t he woken up? Completely puzzled, William Norton struggled to lift his arm, and only then did he sense something was off. That strong, sturdy arm didn’t look like his at all, and the coarse cloth clothes he wore, with their faint musty smell, were something impossible to find in the palace. What on earth had happened?

Looking up, he saw a face before him, wrinkled like the bark of an old tree. “Henry Linton, you’ve slept for a whole day and night. What’s going on? As soon as your mother and I got back, we found you passed out by the woodpile. Are you hungry?” The speaker was a middle-aged man, whose aged voice was full of deep affection.

Henry Linton? William Norton felt utterly lost. That wasn’t his name, was it? But why did it feel so damn familiar? A strange dizziness swept over him again, as if thousands of steel needles were stirring in his mind. After a weak, pained cry, William Norton fainted once more. In the haze, he only heard two anxious voices, so different from each other. But now, those voices echoed again and again, growing ever more distant.

“Child’s father, what should we do? What should we do? Henry Linton has always been healthy—how could he suddenly come down with such a strange illness?” Charles King looked completely at a loss, so anxious she was about to cry. With only this one son, if anything happened to him, how could she go on living?

“What’s the use of panicking! If you hadn’t trusted that damned traveling doctor, Henry Linton wouldn’t be like this!” Samuel Linton scolded. “Judging by Henry Linton’s condition, this isn’t a minor illness. Listen, last time my leg injury was treated by Master Clark at Ziyun Temple on the mountain. I’ll go up and ask the master for help again.”

“But your leg can’t handle much walking…” Charles King hesitated. “Why don’t I go instead?”

Samuel Linton shook his head. “Master Clark always prefers peace and quiet. Usually only Henry Linton goes up to chat with him. It wouldn’t be proper for a woman to go there. I’ll risk it one more time—sigh, as long as our son is all right!” With that, he propped himself up with a rough wooden crutch and limped out the door.

When he woke again, William Norton felt as if his mind was filled with many new things—another person’s complete life experience. But the strangest part was, it was exactly the same as those peculiar dreams he’d had before. It seemed he had become that Henry Linton. But even so, where had the original owner of this body gone? He thought and thought, but couldn’t make sense of it. Fortunately, all of Henry Linton’s memories remained, and since he’d been quite familiar with the two elders in his dreams, now, suddenly experiencing such deep warmth for real, he actually felt a kind of joy.

“Amitabha, Little Linton has finally awakened.” A Buddhist chant interrupted his thoughts. That’s right—from today on, he was Henry Linton. No longer would he have to live like a walking corpse, weighed down by the false title of prince. William Norton—no, his name should now be Henry Linton—bit his tongue hard. When the sharp pain told him this was no dream, Henry Linton was finally certain he had truly changed identities.

A natural smile appeared on his face as Henry Linton struggled to sit up. “Thank you, Master, for saving me.”

Robert Clark wore a light yellow monk’s robe, with a half-worn kasaya draped over it. A faint spiritual glow seemed to radiate from his face. He glanced at Henry Linton with deep meaning, then pressed his palms together and said, “A monk should always be compassionate. Little Linton and I are fated to meet, so there’s no need for thanks. If you hadn’t often come to Ziyun Temple to ask me about the scriptures, I wouldn’t have bothered to save someone with whom I had no connection.” As he said this, Robert Clark’s face suddenly showed a mocking expression quite out of character for a monk. “Who would have thought that after a lifetime of killing, I’d end up saving people?” With that, he ignored Samuel Linton’s earnest attempts to keep him and walked straight out the door without looking back.

“Guanyin Bodhisattva, practicing the profound Prajna Paramita, clearly saw that the five skandhas are all empty, thus overcoming all suffering and distress. Shariputra, form does not differ from emptiness, emptiness does not differ from form. Form is emptiness, emptiness is form. So too are feeling, perception, volition, and consciousness. Shariputra, all dharmas are marked with emptiness; they do not arise or cease, are not defiled or pure, do not increase or decrease. Therefore, in emptiness there is no form, no feeling, perception, volition, or consciousness; no eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, or mind; no form, sound, smell, taste, touch, or dharmas; no realm of sight, and so forth up to no realm of mind consciousness, …” The recitation of the Heart Sutra drifted in from outside, growing fainter as it went.

Henry Linton sensed a hidden meaning in Master Clark’s words. Though he was not yet familiar with this body, he had already accepted all its memories—including the fact that its original owner had studied scriptures and knowledge with Master Clark. What was surprising was that this high monk, who seemed so learned in Buddhism, actually taught principles about governing the world and saving the nation, and sometimes even uttered extremely radical statements—quite different from what he had previously known.