On the top of Mount Sumeru, the sound of Sanskrit music is loud and powerful, and the golden light condenses on the rain of flowers. A young man in coarse cloth monk clothes comes with his bare feet and steps on the clouds. His features and eyes are as quiet as a deep pond and an ancient well. Sitting cross-legged in the corner of the main hall, he was surrounded by Western disciples. After traveling for three hundred years, he was born into a spiritual form and worshiped at the door wall. This place is a safe haven when the catastrophe of the Conferred Gods is imminent. In the future, it will be a good opportunity to travel westward and spread Buddhism to the east. It's a pity that he has suffered for hundreds of years and doesn't even have an official name. As soon as I sat down, Mother Zhunti's eyes fell on me across the hall.
