Inside the room sat an old man.
One look, and you could tell he was a true master.
How could you tell? Hard to say—this author's skills are limited.
But if you had to describe it: pure, clear eyes, a mysterious aura, a compassionate gaze, the air of a living Buddha reincarnated, and so on.
The old monk chanted softly, "Amitabha."
Harry joked, "Boundless Heavenly Venerable."
The old monk didn't get angry. He simply asked, "What brings you to the Eastern lands, benefactor?"
He didn't treat Harry like a child, and his question was quite strange.
That alone made it obvious—there was definitely something off here. The monk clearly knew Harry wasn't just an ordinary person.
Confused, Harry replied, "Why can't I come to China? That's regional discrimination. Aren't you afraid the Buddha won't let you reach the Western Paradise?"
The old monk closed his eyes and softly chanted "Amitabha" again, as if apologizing to the Buddha for what he had just heard.
"Eastern cultivators and Western wizards made an agreement long ago: wizards are not to enter China," the monk said calmly.
So cultivation really does exist! Harry was thrilled inside.
Of course, he wasn't expecting to become an immortal cultivator himself. No one was going to teach him, and he hadn't even fully mastered magic yet.
Though he was intensely curious about what had happened between East and West, now was not the time to ask.
Putting on a pitiful expression, Harry explained, "I heard there are many strange and talented individuals in the East. I have a kind of illness that no one in the West has been able to cure, so I came to China in search of a way to save my life."
The old monk asked curiously, "What are your symptoms?"
Harry pointed to his head. "Someone tried to harm me when I was little, and now there's a bad guy in my brain. I'm constantly worried he'll try to take over my body one day."
Too many things wrong with that sentence. The monk didn't even know where to begin.
His eyes lit with a soft golden glow as he looked at Harry.
Immediately, he saw the dark, evil aura entrenched in Harry's mind—it was faint, but definitely there.
Voldemort's soul fragment was essentially a malicious ghost. And Buddhist techniques were highly effective against all evil spirits and illusions.
What was a huge problem for Harry was, to a professional like this monk, a trivial matter.
"You need not worry, benefactor," the monk said. "It's merely a malicious spirit latched onto you. I can help eliminate it."
That easy?
Harry was a bit skeptical. "What do I need to give in return?"
The monk stared at him, making Harry feel a little uneasy, and then smiled gently. "Nothing at all."
"Oh, in that case—I'll go find someone who does charge," Harry said, turning to leave.
"Wait," the old monk called out hurriedly.
Harry stopped and looked back at him.
With palms pressed together and eyes closed, the monk said, "I only ask that you remember this favor. In the future… please do not bring harm to Eastern cultivators."
Instinctively, Harry asked, "Who's calling the shots?"
"Hmm?" The monk looked puzzled—he didn't understand the question.
Harry gave a slightly awkward smile. "Ah, nothing."
He said, "I'm just a completely ordinary, utterly insignificant little wizard in the Western magical world. You really overestimate me. There's no way I'd ever be involved in something so grand."
"Though you may be small now, I believe you will one day hold great influence over the Western magical world," the monk replied.
He let out a quiet sigh. The Eastern cultivation world had fallen into decline—across the entire Daoist sects, not a single practitioner had reached the Foundation Establishment stage. The most powerful among them was Shushan's Grand Elder, who had only reached the 11th level of Qi Refinement.
Over 300 years ago, the most powerful Western wizards had come to China, intending to build a wizarding school and recruit magically gifted Chinese students.
Naturally, the cultivation world opposed them. Every sect treated it like a major threat and joined forces to assess the West's capabilities.
At first, they were shocked by the strange and unpredictable nature of Western magic. But once they understood it better, they saw it as nothing special.
Back then, the strongest cultivator was Master Chongxu of Kunlun, who was at the peak of the Golden Core stage—just one step away from reaching the legendary Nascent Soul realm.
They met with the Western wizards in the mountainous region of Sichuan to negotiate.
Master Chongxu used the Five Thunders True Art: dark clouds blanketed a ten-mile radius, then he summoned divine lightning from the heavens.
Three lush mountains, each over a hundred meters tall, were instantly obliterated—reduced to three charred craters.
That kind of power was simply beyond human capability.
The Western wizards turned pale, lips trembling.
And their supposedly strongest spell—Avada Kedavra—was scoffed at by Eastern cultivators, dismissed as nothing more than a slightly stronger mental attack.
The only reason it was so deadly in the West was because wizards paid no attention to strengthening their mental fortitude.
At the time, the Head of Kongtong Sect, who had just entered the Golden Core stage, mocked them openly. He challenged their spells, took multiple Avada Kedavra curses, and walked away with nothing more than a pale face.
After that, the Western wizards gave up all hope. If they could have fled right then, they would've.
What kind of monsters were these?
The Eastern cultivation world showed no mercy. They forced the most respected among the Westerners to sign a treaty declaring that no wizard may enter China without permission.
They had arrived full of pride—and left with their faces ashen.
Naturally, such an embarrassing incident was never recorded in official history.
…
But now, with spiritual energy so scarce, the vast Daoist sects couldn't produce even one Foundation Establishment cultivator.
If the West tried to "invade" the East again, what could they do?
This had been a major concern among the top sects for years, though it was never discussed openly with junior disciples.
The older generation who had fought Western magic had left behind notes: while magic didn't possess overwhelming offensive power, it was strange and unpredictable, and far easier to learn and spread than Eastern cultivation techniques.
It was like those third-rate fantasy novels: dragonfolk may be powerful, but they couldn't rule over humans. Why? Because humans could reproduce far more easily. If you have one dragon expert, we'll throw a million humans at you until you're buried under the pile. Simple.
Three hundred years ago, Eastern cultivators scoffed at Western magic.
But now? That was no longer the case.
This old monk was a master of Vajrayana Buddhism. He had lived a life of abstinence and enlightenment, and had cultivated the Heavenly Eye.
His intuition was screaming at him like a siren:
"Baldy! The answer to all your problems is standing right in front of you—this kid! Do you hear me?!"
That was the very first thought that struck the monk when he laid eyes on Harry.
"Alright," Harry said instantly, once he understood that this was the only request.
If he really did gain such power one day, of course he wouldn't let the West invade the East. And if he didn't… well, then it wouldn't be his responsibility anyway.
Hearing Harry agree, the old monk felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his heart.
"Very well," the monk said. "I shall now help rid you of this affliction."
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