Chapter Thirty-Four: Shaolin's Descent

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“Amitabha. With Young Master Yuan gracing Shaolin with your presence today, our humble monastery is truly honored. As for exchanging martial arts, this old monk has no objection. However, since you have all traveled far, might I suggest you partake in a vegetarian meal first? We may continue our exchange in the afternoon.” Seeing that matters had reached this point, Abbot Kongwen could only agree as requested.

During the meal, Yuan Ye deliberately observed the kitchen monks of the Fragrant Hearth, curious to see if there were any prodigies akin to the self-taught Fireworker Monk of a century ago. Unfortunately, after careful scrutiny, he was disappointed. The kitchen was staffed only by ordinary monks who knew nothing of martial arts.

He mused to himself, “It seems that ever since then, Shaolin’s regulation over common monks learning martial arts has grown extremely strict.”

That afternoon, everyone returned to the square. By then, a dozen tables and chairs had been arranged at the head of the square, and all around, Shaolin monks of all ages stood in dense crowds. Clearly, Shaolin was prepared to give its all.

“Which of you wishes to go first?” Abbot Kongwen turned and asked.

Before his words had faded, Xiong Wu’s booming voice resounded, “Young Master, allow me to take the lead!”

Yuan Ye nodded slightly. Instantly, Xiong Wu’s face lit up with delight, and he let out a hearty laugh, his voice echoing like thunder through the mountains. Then, stamping both feet upon the ground with a tremendous crash that shattered the flagstones, he vaulted four or five zhang into the arena.

Roused by his laughter, those amongst the onlooking monks with shallow internal strength grew dizzy and nauseous, nearly to the point of retching. The older Shaolin experts reacted quickly, circulating their qi to resist the force, but their faces still flushed red.

The most senior monks, possessed of deep cultivation, immediately suppressed the surging qi with a single breath, yet looked at each other in astonishment.

“I have long heard that the Black Banner Army under Young Master Yuan’s command is led by two divine generals of unparalleled martial prowess. I did not expect such mastery,” praised a burly, imposing old monk seated to Abbot Kongwen’s left.

Yuan Ye recognized him. This was the venerable Kongxing, who had represented Shaolin at the Wudang Mountain discipleship ceremony seven years prior.

Kongxing was one of Shaolin’s four great monks, famed for their wisdom and virtue. He was a master of the Shaolin Dragon Claw, and spent most of his days refining his martial skills within the monastery, rarely descending the mountain.

Kongxing was forthright and heroic, with extraordinary martial ability, yet unlike other elders in the martial world, he did not rely on seniority. Yuan Ye held him in high regard, especially for his unrivaled mastery of Dragon Claw among his Shaolin peers—even the eminent Kongjian could not quite match him. Yuan Ye counted him among the few Shaolin monks he truly respected.

“Venerable sir, your praise is too generous. This is my brother-in-arms Xiong Wu. He has only learned a few basic techniques—he is nothing special. It has been seven years since we last met, and you seem ever more vigorous,” Yuan Ye replied.

“Haha! Young Master Yuan, no need for courtesy. In recent years, you have traveled the martial world, punishing evil and upholding justice. Under your command, the Black Banner Army has rid the land of countless Mongol butchers. Old as I am, I would have gladly joined your cause,” Kongxing replied.

He continued, “Especially that battle in the capital a year ago, when you and the two Xiong brothers slew dozens of the Yuan court’s most formidable retainers. The Xiong brothers, swords in hand, slaughtered Mongol troops until corpses lay everywhere, not allowing a single step toward the palace gates. It was truly inspiring.”

While Yuan Ye and Kongxing spoke, a Shaolin monk with a swarthy complexion and a slightly rotund frame stepped into the arena.

Seeing Yuan Ye’s gaze shift toward the newcomer, Kongxing introduced him, “This is my junior brother Kongxiang, head of the Arhat Hall. He has devoted himself to the Shaolin Mighty Vajra Palm and possesses deep cultivation—few can match him.”

“So this is Kongxiang? The Prince of Ruyang’s schemes are indeed far-reaching, to have planted an agent who rose to the head of the Arhat Hall.” At the mention of Kongxiang’s name, Yuan Ye was instantly reminded of the monk in the original tale who, seeking aid on Wudang Mountain, instead betrayed his master and was killed by a single palm strike.

He knew Kongxiang was originally a disciple of the Western Vajra Sect. Unexpectedly, he now hid within Shaolin, and had even become head of the Arhat Hall.

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Yuan Ye thought, “Indeed, without an inside agent of such rank, even with Zhao Min’s many experts and the Ten Fragrant Soft Tendon Powder, it would have been impossible to subdue the entire Shaolin Monastery.”

Kongxiang had by now reached a spot opposite Xiong Wu.

“Amitabha. Greetings, Hero Xiong Wu. Shaolin’s Kongxiang humbly requests your instruction.” Kongxiang clasped his hands in salute.

“Old monk, what weapon do you wield? Why not draw it now?” Xiong Wu called out loudly, seeing his opponent arrive empty-handed.

Kongxiang replied, “No need for concern, benefactor. This humble monk has practiced only with my bare hands throughout my life—I do not use weapons.”

Xiong Wu’s expression changed. “Very well, monk. If that’s how it is, I won’t take advantage of you.”

With that, he removed the door-panel sword from his back and tossed it to the edge of the arena. In a blink, there was a resounding boom as the massive sword plunged straight into the flagstones, half its length buried in the solid stone.

Kongxiang’s expression shifted dramatically. The sword weighed well over a hundred jin, yet Xiong Wu had flung it ten zhang with one arm and driven it into the stone as easily as slicing tofu. Such divine strength, coupled with his overwhelming internal force, was truly awe-inspiring.

“Come then, Kongxiang!” Xiong Wu’s face turned earnest, his excitement plain to see.

Kongxiang knew Xiong Wu’s internal strength surpassed his own; victory could only be snatched through risk. As soon as Xiong Wu finished speaking, Kongxiang bent his knees, arms thrust forward, and launched the Crouching Tiger, a signature move of the Mighty Vajra Palm.

With a thunderous boom, Kongxiang shot forward, his hands seeming to swell as they drove directly for Xiong Wu’s chest.

Seeing Kongxiang’s fierce advance, Xiong Wu’s dark face flushed with excitement. He stepped back with his right foot and unleashed a powerful punch, lightning-quick. Tall and long-armed, he naturally held the advantage in such a contest.

As the old saying goes, greater reach means greater strength—and his internal power, forged from the Invincible Heart Sutra, had been further enhanced by the Liu family of Xiangyang, who regularly supplied him with the gallbladders of the Bosijue snake to aid his training. Though his qi was at the mid-tier of first-class, it was even more forceful and domineering than many late-stage experts.

His punch, therefore, was far faster than Kongxiang’s. With a deafening crack, Kongxiang’s palms had yet to reach Xiong Wu’s chest before he was struck squarely in the chest by a punch.

The blow sent agony lancing through Kongxiang’s chest, and in an instant he was hurled backward even faster than he had come. Skidding four or five zhang before coming to a halt, he managed to steady himself. Thankfully, his deep cultivation and protective qi saved him from serious harm, leaving only a stifling ache in his chest.

What he did not know was that Xiong Wu had held back, merely wishing to spar a bit longer. Had he struck in earnest, Kongxiang would have been seriously injured already.

“Monk, your skills are impressive. You actually withstood my punch unscathed. Let’s go again!” Xiong Wu’s eyes lit up as he shouted.

Kongxiang nearly snorted in exasperation. The way he spoke, it was as if surviving a single punch was a rare honor! Was he not a senior monk of the Shaolin Kong generation?

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When had he ever been so underestimated? But there was no time for indignation. As soon as Xiong Wu finished speaking, he charged like lightning, his fists generating a howling wind and faint sonic booms—a truly terrifying sight.

The style he used was called the Tyrant Fist, which Yuan Ye had derived from the sword arts of the legendary Invincible. Though not as overpowering as the heavy sword, it was far more agile and adaptable. In the hands of the Xiong brothers, endowed with innate divine strength, every punch and kick carried the force of a thousand catties, sweeping aside all opposition.

Seeing the ferocity of Xiong Wu’s fists, Kongxiang knew he could not withstand him head-on. Employing lightness skill, he retreated several zhang, while Xiong Wu pressed forward relentlessly, making no attempt at defense.

Kongxiang adopted a hit-and-run strategy, darting around Xiong Wu as he unleashed the Mighty Vajra Palm: Thousand-Jin Press, Tiger Pushes Mountain, Phoenix Spreads Wings, and Raking the Sands Beneath the Sea. But no matter what move he tried, Xiong Wu’s fists and feet countered them all.

Each impact sent a tremendous shockwave through his chest, making his qi and blood churn. His all-out assault yielded nothing, and sensing his internal strength waning, Kongxiang grew anxious.

He suddenly retreated, then rooted himself in place, white steam rising from his head as he gathered his full strength. In a flash, he lunged forward, right palm striking for Xiong Wu’s head, left palm aiming at his lower leg—two moves combined: Grasping the Moon and Iron Ox Plows the Field.

Seeing this abrupt change, no longer dodging but striking directly, Xiong Wu’s expression remained unchanged. He twisted his body, right leg evading Kongxiang’s left hand, while his right fist met Kongxiang’s right palm, and his left hand struck at Kongxiang’s exposed midsection.

“Pa! Pa! Pa!”

A series of explosive sounds rang out. Xiong Wu was forced back two steps, but Kongxiang was sent flying by a single palm.

“Pffft!”

Blood spurted from his mouth, and Kongxiang’s face instantly turned haggard.

“Kongxiang, step down! Shaolin has lost this round,” called the abbot.

“Yes, Abbot.” Kongxiang glanced at the unscathed Xiong Wu, then withdrew.

He had gone first to demonstrate in front of the entire monastery his willingness to defend Shaolin to the death. Now that he had achieved his aim, he seized the chance to withdraw, unwilling to continue battling this madman.

“Who’s next?”

Xiong Wu roared, his gaze blazing as he stared at the dozen senior monks at the head, his fighting spirit burning, his aura surging. The very air around him seemed to howl, half man, half god.