The Forbidden City held its breath. It was an unspoken, collective holding, a palpable tension that settled over the red walls and golden tiles like a shroud. The day the holy men arrived, the very air seemed to change. The usual cacophony of a thousand lives being lived in close quarters, the shouts of eunuchs, the chatter of palace maids, the distant clang of the guard's shift change was muted, replaced by a reverent, fearful silence.
First came the Buddhists. A procession of saffron-robed monks, their heads shaved, their faces serene and detached from the worldly chaos around them. At their head was the Abbot of the White Horse Temple, an old man named Xuanzang, though he shared no blood with the legendary pilgrim. His presence was one of profound peace, an aura of compassion and wisdom that seemed to soothe the very stones he walked upon. He carried nothing but a simple wooden staff and a string of prayer beads, his every movement a fluid meditation.
