143. What on Earth is True Love

Aban was Ayi’s older brother; they were siblings sent to the temple to cultivate their spiritual practice, though their treatment differed vastly. Unlike most locals from the country of Wei, their faces were notably fairer and rounder, and even Aban appeared quiet and kind—a quintessential descendant of the Chinese diaspora.

In Wei, every man must undergo monastic training before fulfilling major adult responsibilities such as military service or marriage. Thus, nearly all males become monks before turning twenty, varying only in the duration of their practice. Most spend months or years training in the Theravāda tradition, with only a few committing to lifelong mendicant monkhood. Some, like Aban, start as novice monks from childhood to repay parental vows and later return to secular life for education.

The Buddhist sects in Wei belong primarily to Theravāda, or the “Lesser Vehicle,” but because there are hundreds of thousands of ethnic Chinese in the country, Chinese Mahāyāna Buddhism—referred to as the Huazong sect—is also present. Unlike some religious conflicts elsewhere, the various Buddhist sects in Wei coexist harmoniously; it’s common for monks from different traditions to live under the same temple roof.

Since Master Tianlong was also reportedly of Chinese descent, many Chinese-heritage novices like Aban were sent to this temple, offering a chance to practice Mandarin as well. Contrary to Bai Haonan’s expectations, Aban and his sister were not impoverished orphans; their family was well-off. Their parents had vowed before their birth to send their children to the temple. Because girls held low status in temple life, Aban accompanied his sister early on.

The monks, who loved playing soccer, gathered around with laughter and excitement. Upon learning that Bai Haonan was the new monk who had boosted the temple’s donation box income that day, their enthusiasm grew even more. Aban took on the role of Bai Haonan’s translator, explaining that Bai Haonan was a foreign monk from Vietnam. His passport confirmed that Wang Jianguo was an ethnic Chinese Vietnamese who did not speak Wei’s language, so calling him “Old Wang” was perfectly fine.

Bai Haonan generously allowed a little novice nun to take Ada away to play, but Aban sensibly explained that this was forbidden. In the temple, nuns were essentially treated as servants; disturbing the senior monks was unthinkable. He quickly sent his sister back to rest.

It turned out that since the last nun had passed away several centuries ago, there were no formal bhikkhunis or nuns in Wei. Only lay practitioners worked temporarily in the temple, mostly performing menial tasks such as cleaning and laundry. Beneath the temple’s peaceful and compassionate facade lay a stark gender disparity—a reality Bai Haonan felt keenly for the first time. He would later encounter even more shocking truths on this matter.

Finding a translator who spoke Mandarin was a rare treasure for Bai Haonan. Aban clearly admired the soccer skills of Longpi—the term Aban taught Bai Haonan. The venerable Master Tianlong, a figure of great authority, was called “Longpo,” while the senior teacher Ada was addressed as “Ajarn.” “Longpi” roughly meant “senior brother,” so the two instantly bonded as fellow disciples. Bai Haonan humbly asked Aban to be his senior brother since, in the soccer team, seniority was based on arrival, not age; Aban had already been a novice for over a year.

After applying to Ada, Aban moved in with Bai Haonan, finally resolving the language barrier.

The next morning, after their alms round and breakfast, Aban had to recite sutras and attend classes. Ayi, who had already washed a pile of bowls, took over translating for Bai Haonan. However, the little bald novice nun seemed far more interested in the goofy smiling poodle following them. Thus, the monastery gained a peculiar sight: a tall, sturdy young monk wandering about, followed a few steps behind by a small pink-robed novice nun, who swayed slightly as she walked, frequently reaching out to pet the deep brown, plump dog beside her.

Some monks had questioned why this little nun wandered outside alone during the day. Ayi stammered an explanation: she was merely translating for the foreign monk, a soccer-loving monk who only spoke Mandarin.

Indeed, during that morning’s alms round, it spread among the hundreds queuing that Bai Haonan was the new monk who had played soccer so skillfully the night before. The soccer-loving monks of Wei promptly nicknamed him the “Soccer Monk.”

It was clear that Master Tianlong’s arrangements for Bai Haonan had been conveyed through Ada. Wherever Bai Haonan went, monks greeted him with smiles and palms pressed together. Given the scarcity of Mandarin-speaking adult monks—most being busy Ajarns like Ada—having two children as translators suited the situation well. Although Ayi’s translations were more like random words popping out, at least there was a bridge for communication.

By noon, nearly the entire monastery knew the “Soccer Monk” and his dog.

With Aban helping as a spokesperson, Bai Haonan chatted smoothly with the young monks. The downside was that Bai Haonan found yet another excuse to slack off learning Wei’s language, much to his own amusement.

As his third long-term refuge in exile, Bai Haonan had already gained considerable survival experience.

Rather than engaging in unreliable schemes like prostitution or pyramid selling, focusing on soccer was the most practical way to establish roots. Originally intending to idle away his days in the temple, Bai Haonan’s conversation with Master Tianlong stirred something within him. Witnessing the Wei people’s passion for soccer the previous night, he resolved to use this as his key to integration. His prior experience managing a staff soccer team in Chengdu and running a professional soccer fitness center had quietly accumulated valuable skills.

Thus, after lunch and discussions with young monks under translation, Bai Haonan sought permission from Ada and, with a light heart, left the temple with Aban to conduct field research.

Ada, having received feedback from his superiors on Bai Haonan’s assignment, sternly reiterated the monastic precept against contact with women before returning Bai Haonan’s phone and wallet. He also handed him car keys to a somewhat battered silver hatchback Civic, which Bai Haonan judged would outlast his remaining soccer career.

Though monks usually went barefoot, Bai Haonan’s plan was not a short stroll inside the city. He intended to visit surrounding villages and tourist sites, covering dozens or even hundreds of kilometers—a journey on foot would take months.

The small novice was visibly excited to leave the gilded temple and stretch his legs, despite daily chanting and offering himself to the Buddha. Children, after all, remained children.

Bai Haonan was far more practiced. Though the steering wheel was on the right, his experience behind the wheel made this a nonissue. The two monks, one large and one small, driving through the temple gates attracted numerous tourists snapping photos. Luckily, the car’s dilapidated state spared him headlines like “Shocking! Monk Drives Luxury Car” back home.

Once on the road, Bai Haonan tossed his phone to Aban. “Want to call home? If so, we can stop for a local SIM card. You know which one to buy, right?”

Aban replied firmly, “Since I’m here to cultivate, I can’t casually call home…”

Bai Haonan admired the young monk’s resolve and started discussing the day’s itinerary. They planned to visit schools and public soccer fields throughout Wei’s largest city in the north to assess match standards. From the young monks, Bai Haonan had learned an astonishing fact: Wei boasted nearly 300,000 registered soccer players.

How many registered players were there in China, with its billions of people?

A former pro player like Bai Haonan knew the number well—just over 600,000.

Wei’s population was only one-twentieth that of China.

At the Guixi Qinniu club, Bai Haonan had experienced the harsh realities outside China’s third-tier leagues. Even with just over twenty teams in China’s third division, survival was tough. Yet Wei’s third league had more than seventy teams, vibrant and competitive. Despite China’s dominance in matches against Wei, why was Wei’s soccer system so well-organized while China’s was in chaos?

Just hearing this made Bai Haonan eager to revisit his old craft. What began as a casual plan to form a temple team to please Master Tianlong now deserved a thorough exploration—a process Bai Haonan had learned while establishing the Jianeng Fitness Center.

This was his self-set research plan. Starting near Tianlong Temple, driving around schools with Aban, Bai Haonan realized the boy still lacked a strong sense of direction. Bai Haonan bought a local SIM card and enlisted the convenience store owner’s help installing a navigation app, along with a physical map. Aban had to learn map-reading skills while Bai Haonan could read maps but not the language. Outside the store, they puzzled over the route together.

Though an ordinary activity, donning their yellow robes made it feel different. Standing by the roadside buying supplies, tourists flocked to photograph them. Some uninformed female tourists even tried to approach Bai Haonan or hug Aban for photos. Bai Haonan felt embarrassed for his fellow Mandarin speakers, repeatedly emphasizing that women were not allowed to touch monks in Wei.

Most received curious smiles at his fluent Mandarin, except one older woman who argued about the unfairness of such customs and accused them of discriminating against women. Bai Haonan nearly rolled his eyes and quickly retreated to the car with Aban.

“Who the hell wants to debate customs? If you hate them so much, why do you wear such heavy makeup when you look ugly anyway?”

He restrained himself and drove off. Aban idolized China and hoped to study there after returning to secular life—a dream shared by his family. Bai Haonan explained, “These Chinese tourists don’t represent all Chinese people…” but felt his words were somewhat futile.

Fortunately, their destination was near. Turning a corner, they spotted the school Aban had attended for two years. Parking by the curb, the two monks walked to the school gate to explain their purpose. Ada remained in the car, calm as long as he wasn’t abandoned on the street.

Though puzzled by the monks’ interest in soccer fields, the school’s gatekeeper warmly welcomed them, promptly removing his shoes and kneeling by the roadside with palms pressed, seeking blessings. Bai Haonan, who couldn’t recite a single sutra, felt awkward. Fortunately, Aban mimicked the gesture, resolving the situation.

As they approached the soccer field, Aban quietly confided this was his first time giving blessings and chanting.

Just this one elementary school held Bai Haonan spellbound, sitting on wooden bleachers watching the entire afternoon.

Amid his turbulent fugitive life, despite his constant joking to distract himself, his restless heart found genuine peace upon seeing the soccer field.

How skilled could elementary school soccer be?

Bai Haonan had never watched such games in China, spending most of his own youth training at a sports school. Teachers and parents often discouraged children from playing soccer frivolously, urging focus on studies.

But here, the entire playground buzzed with joyful children playing soccer. Even as the rainy season had begun, and a sudden downpour lasted over ten minutes, not a single child left the field.

There was an unmistakable happiness visible at a glance—the joy of running in sun and rain, the exhilaration of dribbling past opponents, the regret of a missed shot, the sting of a kicked foot, or the cries from falling on muddy grass—an authentic, unrestrained emotional outburst.

Bai Haonan watched entranced, barely noticing raindrops falling on him or their disappearance. Only when Aban jumped up and softly spoke beside him did Bai Haonan turn his head.

A young woman in a gray business suit and skirt stood holding an umbrella. She generously sheltered the two monks, leaving herself wet—the shirt beneath her jacket slightly damp and semi-transparent. Bai Haonan, the roving monk’s gaze fleeting past, discreetly assessed her figure and attire, smiling with hands pressed together but said nothing.

Aban warmly introduced her: “Teacher Song Na! He’s Chinese! A Chinese person… um, Vietnamese Chinese!”

From Bai Haonan’s brief experience with local women, perhaps due to the strong sunlight, Wei women generally wore heavy makeup. This teacher was no exception—rosy cheeks, powdered nose, heavy eyeshadow and mascara, thick black eyebrows, and glossy, rosy lips—a look more fit for a nightclub than a classroom.

Bai Haonan mentally grumbled, “Damn, why didn’t I have teachers like this in elementary school?”

Then he realized Aban was speaking Mandarin.

Finally, he had met a woman who spoke Chinese.

Though one he could see but not touch.