Chapter 32 Ascending Shaolin

Led by the Shaolin monk, the four companions followed at a slow pace toward the temple. The monk seemed intent on stalling for time, frequently pausing along the way to introduce various scenic spots and recount stories of old.

Yuan Ye understood his intentions but made no effort to expose him, instead listening with genuine interest to his explanations.

As the monk rambled on endlessly, Xiong Wu’s impatience began to show in his expression. His eyes, large and round as bronze bells, swept over the monk from time to time, so intimidating that the short, stout monk broke out in a cold, clammy sweat, his heart pounding with dread.

Over the past six months, they had challenged several sects, encountering only second-rate fighters. Xiong Ba, eager for a real contest, had found little satisfaction. Now that they had finally arrived at Shaolin, he anticipated a true battle at last. Yet, the monk kept leading them in circles within the monastery, never taking them higher up, and it was little wonder Xiong Ba was growing restless.

Last month, on Mount Emei, Abbess Miejue had relied on her treasured sword and her lofty pride, but she was defeated in less than a hundred moves when Yuan Ye, unarmed, wrenched the blade from her hands. Apart from her, Emei had no one of real renown. Yuan Ye knew the abbess’s temperament; she could grudgingly accept being defeated by him. But if Xiong Ba were to best her, she might draw the Heaven Reliant Sword and fight to the death. For that reason, Yuan Ye had not allowed him to challenge her.

The strongest of Miejue’s disciples were only of second-rate ability, no match for the two brothers. Yet, since they could neither injure nor kill, the fights left Xiong Ba and Xiong Wu pent up and frustrated. That was why, upon reaching Henan, Xiong Ba had been so eager to ascend Shaoshi Mountain.

Suddenly, the deep, sonorous clang of a bell echoed from the mountain above. The short, stout monk relaxed at once, letting out a silent sigh of relief. That burly, bearded warrior had truly unnerved him. The monk resolved that tonight, he would descend the mountain to find a young lady and recite some Buddhist sutras to her, to soothe his trembling heart.

When the bell’s resonance faded, he hurriedly said, “Honored heroes, please follow me up the mountain. The abbot and the revered monks of our temple await you.”

“You are too kind, Master,” replied Yuan Ye.

Following the Shaolin guide, the group wound their way up the stone steps and soon arrived at the monastery’s main courtyard. After another mile or so, they finally reached the end of the mountain path. Ascending the final step, Yuan Ye looked up to see an expansive plaza ahead, where over a hundred monks stood in dense formation.

At the front, a dozen elder monks stood out—some gaunt and skeletal, as if they might pass into Nirvana at any moment; some glared fiercely, like wrathful Vajras; others were plump and fair-faced, prompting Yuan Ye to marvel at the quality of Shaolin’s fare, truly worthy of its “God of Food” reputation.

Despite their diversity, these old monks all radiated a calm and formidable aura, their martial prowess unmistakably deep, easily on par with the top tier of the martial world.

Behind them stood several dozen middle-aged monks, also impressive, but lacking the cultivated serenity of the elders.

As soon as the group arrived, many monks glared at them with open hostility, as though they could defeat them by the sheer force of their gaze.

At the back stood the youngest monks, mostly in their teens or early twenties. Like the two who had greeted them at the temple’s gate, most had pronounced temples, evidence of rigorous external training, though their internal energy was not yet fully developed.

“Buddha twirled a flower, and Kasyapa smiled. The heart is the seal, the teaching is transmitted beyond the scriptures. Indeed, Shaolin is the most illustrious center of martial arts under heaven,” Yuan Ye thought in admiration, noting that even Shaolin’s visible first-rate experts numbered over a dozen.

Abbot Kongwen, the venerable master of Shaolin, had white brows that drooped over his eyes, giving him the appearance of a Long-browed Arhat, his face radiant with compassion. Yet as he gazed down the mountain path, a flicker of worry passed through his eyes.

His gaze moved past the disciple from the Hall of Arhats and settled on the youth leading the party up the mountain—a young man in white, with jet-black hair, a face as refined as jade, and an ethereal bearing. Most striking of all were his silver eyes—far from seeming strange, they lent him an imposing and mysterious air.

“How odd. How can such an otherworldly figure be that slaughterer?” the abbot thought, deeply puzzled.

Behind the white-robed youth stood two imposing men, one with a square face, the other bearded; both stood nearly nine feet tall, flanking the youth like twin iron towers.

“So these are the two Divine Generals of the Black Banner Army—truly formidable!”

“But wait, wasn’t there supposed to be four? Where is the last?” Looking more closely, the abbot’s expression changed.

He finally noticed a lean man in a violet robe, pale and beardless, moving soundlessly behind the white-robed youth. He was so ghostlike in his movements that, had the abbot not seen him with his own eyes, he might have overlooked his presence entirely.

“What extraordinary skill! Fortunately, this man’s internal power is not yet profound enough to conceal his breath; otherwise, who in the world could guard against such an assassin?” The abbot’s heart was shaken even as his expression shifted.

As Yuan Ye and his companions approached, the elder monk in the center pressed his palms together and intoned a Buddhist blessing, then praised, “Amitabha. Young Master Wuhen, your bearing is truly remarkable.”

He did not call Yuan Ye the commander of the Black Banner Army, for such titles were reserved for the affairs of the martial world.

Yuan Ye returned the gesture, saying, “Yuan Ye of Wudang pays his respects to Master Kongjian.” Since the abbot had chosen to address him as a fellow martial artist, Yuan Ye responded in kind.

The abbot inclined his body slightly, indicating he dared not accept such a courtesy—a sign of the fearsome reputation Yuan Ye had earned through bloodshed these past years.

The Jiangnan Sea Sand Gang, the Giant Whale Sect, the Divine Fist Gate, the thirty-six bandit lords of Lingnan, the Four Devils of Jiangxi—so many wicked factions and marauding chiefs had fallen to their blades. The piles of corpses left in their wake were countless.

The Huashan Sect of Shaanxi, Kongtong Sect of Gansu, Jade Truth Temple of Qinghai, Kunlun Sect of the Western Regions, the Tang Clan of Sichuan, Qingcheng Sect, Emei Sect of Mount Shu, Dian Cang Sect of Yunnan—all had been subdued, one after another.

And of course, the Black Banner Army he commanded, whose campaigns had struck terror into the hearts of the Mongol Tartars across the land.

Now, Shaolin was Yuan Ye’s final destination. Once he had conquered Shaolin, no one in the martial world would dare defy him again.

This explained why, as soon as Shaolin received word of his journey east from Sichuan, they had prepared as if for war.

Though a hundred of Shaolin’s finest martial monks and more than ten elders of the “Kong” generation now stood behind him, Abbot Kongwen still felt a chill run down his spine, deeply uneasy. The centuries-old honor of Shaolin was in his hands. Though he had no desire to accept this challenge, he knew the die was cast and he had no choice but to see it through.

In the martial world today, no name rang louder than Young Master Wuhen. Wherever this party went, they stirred up a storm.

When they had issued a challenge on Huashan, the sect leader Xianyu Tong had refused to accept, even declaring that Yuan Ye, as a mere second-generation disciple of Wudang, was unworthy to challenge him.

In response, Yuan Ye had invited all the martial heroes of Shaanxi and Gansu to ascend Mount Hua, and, before all eyes, exposed Xianyu Tong’s crimes: the murder of the previous sect leader and the cruel betrayal of a woman carrying his child. Xianyu Tong protested, but when Yuan Ye produced irrefutable evidence and witnesses, he was left speechless.

Enraged and humiliated, Xianyu Tong attempted a sneak attack, but Yuan Ye crippled him with a single move. Even the two elders of Huashan who tried to intervene were beaten bloodied by the Xiong brothers.

Since then, Huashan had lost not only its martial reputation but also its standing in the world. The sect had shut its doors, its disciples fleeing in droves, and those who ventured out were met with scorn and contempt.

After this, no matter which sect Yuan Ye and his companions challenged, none dared refuse.

Gradually, it became a point of pride in the martial world to be challenged by Young Master Wuhen—a new standard by which the strength of a great sect was measured. Legends even arose that it was an honor to be defeated by him, proving that in any world, people will always find ways to make the best of what they cannot change.

But for Shaolin, this was a deeply awkward situation. As the North Star of the martial world, their victory was assumed. But if they lost, history might repeat itself, and who knew how long it would take for Shaolin to recover.

With these thoughts swirling, Abbot Kongwen attempted one last diversion, steering the conversation away from the impending challenge, never mentioning it directly.

Yet Yuan Ye feigned ignorance, speaking plainly: “Master Kongwen, ever since I was a child, I have heard that all martial arts under heaven originate from Shaolin. My brothers and I, though we have only studied a few humble techniques, long to experience the true skill of Shaolin. I hope the abbot will grant us this opportunity.”

“So it is as I feared—today’s contest cannot be avoided,” the abbot thought with a heavy heart.

He dared not refuse outright; for all Shaolin’s upright reputation, it harbored its own unsavory secrets, and who knew what evidence Yuan Ye might possess? Should he voice his refusal today, tomorrow this fearsome man might issue an open challenge, drawing all the heroes of the realm to Shaoshi Mountain, and, if Shaolin were to lose then, not even the last shred of their dignity would remain.