In a mountainous region, there was a concentration of poultry industry, with a total of seven chicken farms in the area.

One year, there was an epidemic of chicken plague, otherwise known as avian influenza. Six of the seven chicken farms were infected. The farmers were reaching out for help.

Dead chickens were piled as high as a mountain. Epidemic prevention and control personnel wore head covers, masks, and epidemic prevention clothing.

Shuttle up and down. 
Inject.
Bury alive.
Disinfect.
Cremate.

It was busy day and night. As soon as infected, chickens that were severely ill, per the orders of supervisory personnel, were caught and killed immediately without sparing any, which could be thousands of chickens. Just like that, thousands of chickens went to the Heaven of Bitter Departure.

A poem:

Chicken farmers are surrounded by mountains and water.
Detesting their density, one unexpected fatality after another.
A mist fills the sky with thick clouds.
Without discrimination, chickens of every household depart hand in hand.
Happy families are nowhere to be seen, and afflicted faces look speechlessly at one another.
Feathers cover the ground and float in the sky.
Nothing from the past remains in the empty pens.

Surprisingly, one of the seven chicken farms was not infected by the plague. The farmer was not a disciple of the True Buddha School, nor had the farmer posted a talisman or recited mantras. Although, from the outset, the farmer hadn’t taken special protective measures, one of the farmer’s daughters happened to have obtained a copy of the True Buddha Sutra from an Earth God temple. After reading it, she had a good feeling, so she placed it in the household shrine while reciting “Om, gu-ru, lian-sheng, sid-dhi, hum” three times.

It turned out that all the chicken farms were infected with avian flu except this one. How had this happened?

Plague god descended.
White light rose only from this chicken farm.
All the farms were infected but not this one.
Of course, only I know the reason!