I'm Xiao Ang, fourteen years old, and in my second year of middle school. My goal in life: finish copying the stack of “consecrated scriptures” Grandma brought back from Trumpet Temple, and show her how much I care.
After all, I'd practiced calligraphy for five years. This was easy. But as I kept copying, things started to get weird:
I never forgot anything I read for the placement tests and shot straight into the top ten in my grade. I ran a kilometer in the fitness test and left the student athletes half a lap behind, turning the PE teacher white as a sheet. A punk threw a punch at me, and I was fine, but his hand ended up fractured.
Grandma insisted the Bodhisattva had answered her prayers, telling everyone, “My grandson unlocked his wisdom by copying scriptures.” My homeroom teacher suspected me of cheating and made me take another test on the spot. I got a perfect score. The whole school thought I'd secretly taken stimulants, and even the education bureau came to investigate.
More absurdly, a Taoist priest camped outside my building for three days and shouted, “Master, please take me as your disciple!” whenever he saw me. The cultivation world was abuzz with rumors that a reclusive powerhouse who looked like a middle-schooler was hiding somewhere in the city. An evil cultivator tried to steal the scriptures in the middle of the night, only to be chased off by Grandma with a broom.
But I never wanted to cultivate immortality.
I just wanted to copy scriptures in peace, make porridge with Grandma, and get into a good high school. How did copying scriptures turn me into the universally acknowledged young supreme of the cultivation world?
Later, someone asked me: You have a chance to ascend. Why don't you go?
