Chapter Thirty-Three: Ascending Shaolin

Led by the Shaolin monk, the four of them walked slowly toward the monastery. The monk seemed intent on stalling, frequently pausing to introduce various scenic spots and historical anecdotes along the way.

Origami understood his intentions but did not expose him, instead listening with interest to his explanations.

As the monk’s chatter continued endlessly, Xiong Wu’s face gradually showed signs of impatience. His eyes, round as brass bells, swept back and forth, startling the short, plump monk into a cold sweat of fear.

Over the past half year, after challenging several sects and encountering only second-rate fighters, Xiong Ba remained unsatisfied. He had looked forward to arriving at Shaolin, hoping for a real fight at last. Yet now, the monk was leading them in circles within the monastery, making no move to take them further up, no wonder Xiong Ba was growing restless.

Just last month at Mount Emei, Abbess Miejue had relied on her precious sword, brimming with pride at first. Yet within a hundred moves, Origami had wrested the blade from her barehanded. Apart from the abbess herself, the Emei Sect boasted few worthy opponents. Origami, knowing her temper, anticipated she would grudgingly accept defeat if bested by him. But if Xiong Ba were to defeat her, she would likely fight him to the death with the Heaven Sword, so Origami forbade him from challenging the abbess. The abbess’s strongest disciples were barely second-rate, no match for the two brothers.

Unable to seriously injure or kill anyone, Xiong Ba and his brother felt stifled in their fights. That frustration was what made Xiong Ba so eager to climb Shaoshi Mountain as soon as they entered Henan.

Boom... boom...!

Suddenly, a deep, sonorous bell tolled from the mountaintop. The short, plump monk’s face relaxed, and he quietly exhaled in relief.

That bearded giant was simply too terrifying. The short, plump monk resolved that tonight, he would descend the mountain to find a young lady and recite her some Buddhist scriptures, to soothe his rattled heart.

Once the bell fell silent, the monk hurriedly said, “Honored heroes, please follow me up the mountain. The abbot and the eminent monks are already awaiting your arrival.”

“Thank you, Master,” Origami replied.

Following the Shaolin monk, the group wound their way up the stone steps. Before long, they entered the temple’s central courtyard. After another two or three miles, they reached the end of the mountain path. Stepping onto the final step, Origami looked up and saw a vast plaza ahead, on which over a hundred monks stood in a dense crowd.

At the front were a dozen or so elder monks. Some appeared withered, as if they might pass on to paradise at any moment. Others glared fiercely, like vajra guardians. Some were pale and prosperous-looking, and Origami couldn’t help but marvel at the excellent fare Shaolin provided—no wonder it was renowned as the “School of Food.”

Though these elder monks varied greatly in appearance, on closer inspection, all exuded deep reserves of power, each at least the equal of the finest martial experts.

Behind these elders stood dozens of middle-aged monks, all imposing, though their internal cultivation was not as refined as the elders’.

As the party approached, many monks glared at them as though they could defeat them with a single piercing glance.

Lined up at the back were the younger monks, mostly in their teens or twenties.

Most of these young monks, like the two greeters at the mountain gate, had pronounced, raised temples—a clear sign of rigorous external martial training, though their internal energy was yet unrefined.

“Buddha twirls a flower, Kasyapa smiles; with the mind as seal, transmission beyond words—Shaolin indeed is the most flourishing place of martial arts in the world,” Origami thought to himself, quietly impressed by the dozen top-tier fighters on open display.

The abbot of Shaolin, Master Kongwen, had long, drooping white brows that nearly covered his eyes, giving him the air of a Longbrow Arhat. His face was kindly, yet as he gazed down the mountain path, a shadow of worry flickered in his eyes.

His gaze passed over the disciple from the Hall of Arhats leading the way and settled on the young man at the head of the party: dressed in white, with black hair, a face as handsome as carved jade, and an ethereal bearing. Most striking were his silver eyes, which, far from seeming strange, lent him an air of mysterious authority.

“How odd! How can such a transcendent figure be the infamous killer?” Abbot Kongwen wondered, his heart filled with suspicion as he looked at Origami.

Behind the young man in white were two imposing giants, one with a square face, the other bearded, both towering nine feet tall, flanking him like twin iron towers.

“These must be the Twin Generals of Heaven and Earth from the Black Banner Army! Truly awe-inspiring!” Kongwen thought. “But wait, isn’t there supposed to be four of them? Why do I see only three?” Looking more closely, his face changed.

Only then did he notice a slender man in a purple robe behind the young man in white. Pale and beardless, he moved without a sound, like a ghost. Had Kongwen not seen him with his own eyes, he might well have overlooked his presence entirely.

“What formidable skill—thank goodness this man’s internal power isn’t yet sufficient to conceal his breathing. Otherwise, how many in the world could defend against his stealth?” Even as his expression shifted, Kongwen’s heart was shaken.

As Origami and his companions drew near, the central elder monk pressed his palms together, intoning the Buddha’s name and praising, “Amitabha, Young Master Wuhen, your bearing is truly exceptional.”

He did not address Origami as the leader of the Black Banner Army, for this was the way of those who lived by the code of the martial world.

Origami returned the gesture. “Origami of Wudang pays his respects to Master Kongjian.”

Since Kongwen preferred to speak as a fellow martial artist, Origami responded in kind.

Kongwen, however, turned slightly aside, indicating he dared not accept such a salute—testament to the reputation Origami had forged over recent years.

In Jiangnan, the Sea Sand Gang, the Giant Whale Gang, the Divine Fist Gate, the Thirty-six Brigands of Lingnan, the Four Demons of Jiangxi—evil-doing sects and bandit lords, all had been left with heads rolling by his hand.

The Huashan Sect in Shaanxi, Kongtong Sect in Gansu, Jade Truth Monastery in Qinghai, Kunlun Sect in the Western Regions, Tang Clan and Qingcheng Sect in Sichuan, Emei Sect on Mount Shu, and the Dian Cang Sect in Yunnan—all had been bested by him in turn.

And of course, there was his Black Banner Army, whose exploits had struck terror into the hearts of the Mongol Tatars.

Now Shaolin was Origami’s final destination. Once he subdued Shaolin, no one in the martial world would dare oppose him.

That was why, from the moment news arrived that he was traveling east from Sichuan, Shaolin had been on high alert.

Though a hundred Shaolin monks and a dozen elders of the “Kong” generation stood behind Abbot Kongwen, he still felt a tingle at his scalp and deep unease. The honor of Shaolin’s centuries now rested in his hands. As much as he wished to avoid this battle, he understood that the arrow was on the string and could not be held back.

In today’s martial world, none had a greater reputation than Young Master Wuhen. Wherever he and his entourage appeared, a storm followed.

When they sent a challenge to Huashan, the sect leader Xianyu Tong refused, claiming Origami was just a second-generation Wudang disciple and unqualified to challenge him. Origami, in response, assembled the martial heroes of Shaanxi and Gansu atop Mount Hua. Before the eyes of all, he exposed Xianyu Tong’s crimes—murdering the previous sect leader and killing the woman who bore his child.

Though Xianyu Tong protested, faced with Origami’s witnesses and evidence, he could not refute the charges. In a fit of humiliation and rage, he attempted a sneak attack, only for Origami to cripple his martial arts with a single move. Even the two elders who tried to intervene were gravely injured by the Xiong brothers’ swords.

Thus, the Huashan Sect not only lost its standing in martial arts but suffered a crushing blow to its reputation. Now, the sect remained closed to the world, its disciples fleeing in droves. Those who did still venture out met with nothing but scorn and hardship.

From then on, no sect dared refuse Origami’s challenges. Gradually, word spread that to be challenged by Young Master Wuhen was the mark of a true sect. It even became a matter of pride, as if being chosen proved a sect’s worth—such are the ways of the world, in every age.

If resistance is useless, one might as well enjoy the ride.

Yet for Shaolin, the situation was mortifying. As the pillar of the martial world, victory was expected. But if they lost, Shaolin would repeat the humiliations of a century past, and who knew how long it would take to recover.

Though his mind raced, Abbot Kongwen tried to deflect the conversation, never mentioning the matter of the challenge. But Origami feigned ignorance, speaking directly: “Master Kongwen, since childhood I have heard that all martial arts under heaven began at Shaolin. Tonight, my brothers and I, having learned only a smattering of skills, humbly wish to experience Shaolin’s famed martial arts. I hope the Abbot will grant us this favor.”

“So it has come to this—today’s battle is inevitable,” Abbot Kongwen sighed bitterly to himself.

As for refusing, he dared not utter the words. Though Shaolin was a famed orthodox sect, it, too, had its share of dark secrets—who knew what Origami might have discovered? If he refused the challenge today, who could say that the next day this god of slaughter wouldn’t issue a hero’s invitation, summoning all the martial world to Shaoshi Mountain? If, before the eyes of all, Shaolin were to lose, it would have no dignity left to preserve.