I Keep Accounts with My Lifespan, While Buddhism Strips Souls with Compassion

The night Fuhu Temple razed the Lu household, Lu Zhao hid at the bottom of a well, his little sister in his arms and blood at the rim. That was when the pagoda chose him as its master. The first divine Buddha's skeleton opened its eyes and taught him just one thing: if you want to live, refine me. He did, trading three years of his life and half his blood essence for a copy of the Demon-Subduing Blade Manual and the power to slay enemies above his level. That very day, he returned to town. Two warrior monks left behind to guard the place fell beneath his blade. A registration certificate, a sack of spirit rice, and a death warrant that would follow him from then on. He headed north with his sister, feeding the pagoda through battle. Refining one cost him a year of life. The whispers in the pagoda grew louder by the day, and his name climbed higher on the Buddhist Order's Demon-Subduing List. People urged him to bow his head. He refused. A blade was more trustworthy than people, and life was meant to be spent. Compassion was their signboard; soul-stripping was their business. Every being he refined tore another brick from this order. Someone asked how many more he needed. He replied: enough to kill his way to Wanfo Temple.