Lin Zhuo, a young handyman from Dongsheng Shenzhou, glimpsed the door of spiritual practice among the morning bells and evening drums of Chaoyin Temple.
There are no immortal roots and spiritual bones, only beads of sweat dripping when fetching water and chopping firewood; there is no heaven-defying inheritance, only a half-volume of the moth-eaten Diamond Sutra.
From sweeping the floor to realize Zen to holding beads to slay demons, he used his flesh and blood to measure the desolate world beyond the eighty-one difficulties.
