Shaolin Temple, the Mount Tai and Northern Dipper of the Murim.1
Whenever turmoil descended on the Central Plains, Shaolin had been at the forefront of the fighting. It had been so a thousand years ago, a hundred years ago, and during the Great Faction War several decades earlier.
They had shed more blood than any other sect in the Murim for it, but no one at Shaolin Temple regretted a drop.
It was what they ought to have done. They had fought for a brighter future, for a greater cause.
The monks making their way along a well-paved road held that same conviction in their hearts.
Whoosh!
Their yellow kasayas2 whipped in the wind.
Not a breath of wind stirred on that clear spring day, but the monks’ swift movement techniques raised a wind of their own.
“Xixia is in sight.”
There were twenty Shaolin monks. At the words of the martial monk leading them, a middle-aged monk nodded.
“Good. We won’t be late.”
“Yes. The appointed time is around shenshi.3 We still have nearly one shichen.4”
Xixia covered a broad area, but these martial monks had reached a considerable realm. Even at an ordinary walking pace, one shichen4 was more than enough time to reach its ferry landing.
Having made the calculation, the middle-aged monk shook the Zen staff in his hand.
Clatter.
The martial monks understood the signal and stopped short.
Halting a movement technique at such speed in an instant spoke to the depth of their martial-arts mastery.
The middle-aged monk regarded them with satisfaction, then slowly turned.
Behind them stood someone with a conical hat pulled low over their face.
“We’re about to enter the main road. The commoners may be alarmed. May we slow down from here?”
The middle-aged monk spoke with utmost respect. Beneath the hat, tightly pressed lips parted.
“Please do.”
The voice was so hoarse that there was no guessing the speaker’s age. Grief and pity flickered across every face, including the middle-aged monk’s.
“Thank you for granting permission, Martial… Uncle.”5
That form of address still felt unfamiliar. The middle-aged monk turned, and the others resumed walking toward Xixia.
Then—
“Aaaaaah!”
“M-murder! Someone’s been killed!”
Faint screams and shouts carried from far away.
Before the middle-aged monk, with his profound internal energy, could alert the other disciples, the person in the conical hat spoke.
“It seems we should hurry.”
“…!”
Whoosh!
Twenty figures came hurtling through the wind.
At the sight of their fluttering yellow kasayas2 and the grim faces drawing rapidly closer, the young martial artist of the Black Dragon Demon Gate frowned.
“Shaolin…”
They were the last people he wanted to meet, especially now, when his simple-minded subordinate had killed someone in the middle of a main road.
“You idiot.”
Thwack!
The eight-foot-tall giant6 groaned as the blow struck his shin.
“Young Sect Leader. This subordinate hurts.”
“That’s why I hit you. I told you to be careful. Why must you act without thinking?”
“He deserved to die.”
“Whew. There’s no getting through to you. Fine. The water’s already spilled. What can we do?”
“We should find a way to put it back.”
At the curt voice, the giant blinked his calf-like eyes.
“Young Sect Leader. Not this subordinate.”
“You don’t have to tell me. I already know.”
The young martial artist turned with a faint smile. Facing the stern middle-aged monk five steps away, he offered a fist-palm salute.7
“An honor to meet Shaolin’s esteemed monks. I didn’t expect to meet Master Jung Ho quite so soon.”
The middle-aged monk, Jung Ho, twitched his thick eyebrows.
“You know me? I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“We haven’t, but I’ve heard plenty about you.”
“This humble monk has no reputation worth speaking of. Nor am I worthy of being called Master.”
“Just as my father said. You really are modest.”
“Your father?”
“He once told me about an exceptionally fiery-tempered monk at Shaolin—ah, a monk of deep Buddhist faith who follows his principles to the letter.”
The young martial artist glanced at the Zen staff in Jung Ho’s hand.
“He also said you wield a Zen staff like a demon. One hung all over with prayer beads.”
“…Amitabha.8 You have a sharp eye.”
“I’m glad you’re the man I thought you were. This would have been rather embarrassing otherwise.”
Jung Ho regarded the young martial artist with a grave gaze, then spoke abruptly.
“That is fortunate. As I listen to you, a few things occur to me as well.”
“I’m listening.”
“Your clothing belongs to the Black Dragon Demon Gate of Gansu. Your aura and bearing are far from ordinary. You must be its Young Sect Leader, whom I’ve heard of only by reputation. Am I right?”
The young martial artist smiled and bowed his head.
“Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Sama Pyo, Young Sect Leader of the Black Dragon Demon Gate.”
“I’ve heard much of the Black Dragon Saber. They say you’re a Morning Star in no way inferior to the Ten Dragons and Phoenixes.”
A murmur passed through the monks behind Jung Ho.
The sobriquet Black Dragon Saber was that widely known. And as the Young Sect Leader of the Black Dragon Demon Gate, a force counted among the three strongest unorthodox factions, Sama Pyo possessed an impressive background as well.
But none of them saw the sneer that brushed across Sama Pyo’s lips as he lowered his head.
When Sama Pyo looked up, he was smiling broadly.
“You praise me too highly. For Master Jung Ho to think so well of an unknown nobody like me—I hardly know what to say.”
“I will say it again: I am not worthy of being called Master. Nor do I mean to overestimate you. I speak only of what has been proven. However…”
Jung Ho looked at the corpse lying facedown in a pool of blood.
“I do not yet know the facts surrounding this unfortunate man’s death.”
Sama Pyo rubbed his stubbled chin.
“Well, that’s a long story.”
“There is no need to worry. There is a faster way.”
Clatter.
At Jung Ho’s signal, a lean martial monk stepped forward and examined the body.
Before joining Shaolin, he had traveled as a wandering martial artist and accumulated a wealth of experience. It did not take him long to identify the corpse.
“It’s Blood Cudgel.”
“Blood Cudgel Do Sangho? Are you certain?”
“Yes. His head was crushed, but I am certain.”
“Blood Cudgel. Blood Cudgel…”
Jung Ho ran his fingers over the prayer beads tied to his Zen staff, then turned to Sama Pyo.
“Did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That Blood Cudgel killed five innocent merchants in Shaanxi two days ago and has been on the run since?”
“Did he?”
“He must have thought himself safe because he did it in a remote mountain area. Bold enough to come all the way to Henan, at any rate.”
“…Good heavens. What a monstrous man.”
Sama Pyo made a show of frowning.
Blood Cudgel’s crime wasn’t what troubled him. What troubled him was the intelligence network that had uncovered and relayed the deed of an experienced wandering martial artist in just two days.
Is this the Murim Alliance’s reach, or Shaolin’s strength?
Blood Cudgel Do Sangho was a fairly well-known wandering martial artist, but that was because his methods were cruel and he went around boasting about himself.
The Murim was full of masters far above his level. To know this much about a man like Blood Cudgel suggested an intelligence network woven as tightly as a spiderweb.
Not welcome news… Then again, after everything that’s happened, I suppose it makes sense.
Sama Pyo gave nothing away.
“How fortunate.”
“What is?”
“The water I spilled turns out to have been rotten. You might say I dealt with it before anyone could drink it.”
Jung Ho’s gaze darkened.
“You were not unaware of that fact.”
“The outcome was good. Doesn’t that settle it?”
“How you reach an outcome matters just as much. Whatever you say, killing a man on a busy main road was unwise.”
“It was a dangerous situation. He had to be killed before he killed me. Ah, of course, that was not my intention either.”
Sama Pyo pointed to the eight-foot-tall giant6 beside him.
“This fellow did it.”
The giant blinked his bulging eyes.
“Young Sect Leader. A person?”
“We must make the facts clear. Wipe the blood off that vicious two-section staff before you make excuses.”
“That. True. Blood Cudgel killed. Me.”
“Please be generous with him, Master. He’s skilled in martial arts, but his head is a little…”
Sama Pyo put a finger to his temple and twirled it. Jung Ho watched him in silence before speaking.
“You—or rather, the Black Dragon Demon Gate—will have to explain this properly.”
“Of course. This happened because I failed to control my subordinate. I’ll cooperate in any way I can.”
“As you know, tensions have been high of late. The commoners in particular are afraid.”
The Murim was a powder keg about to explode.
Even an illiterate old villager who had never finished the Thousand Character Classic9 knew the Murim Alliance was no social club for martial artists. During the Great Faction War, the fighting had engulfed more than the martial artists of the Central Plains.
“If someone is openly killed on a main road in broad daylight at a time like this, people will inevitably look on us unfavorably.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Blood Cudgel may have been a criminal on the run, but those above us may still hold you accountable for his death.”
“I’ll gladly explain myself.”
“You must apologize to the commoners nearby as well.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll even compensate them if they wish.”
Jung Ho’s eyebrow twitched.
Though he was a martial monk, he had spent many years at Shaolin following the Buddhist path.
He was displeased that this had happened, and he was not particularly impressed by the attitude of the Black Dragon Demon Gate’s Young Sect Leader, whose reputation he had already heard.
But what could he do? Sama Pyo was nodding along obediently, at least on the surface. Jung Ho could only turn away.
“Then… that will be all.”
“We have met by fate. Why don’t we move somewhere else for a while?”
“Amitabha.8 I’m afraid I must decline. There is a guest I must receive.”
Jung Ho looked anything but regretful. He was about to turn when—
“The sword.”
“Hm?”
“You don’t appear to use a sword.”
The voice was hoarse, like metal scraping against metal. Someone wearing a conical hat pulled low over their face continued.
“That sword doesn’t seem to belong with you. Return it to its owner.”
“Ah, this?”
Sama Pyo smiled faintly as he looked at the sword in his hand.
“It’s mine.”
“Not to my eyes.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, who are you, Monk?”
“That has nothing to do with this.”
The smile at the corner of Sama Pyo’s mouth faded.
Then someone shouted from far away.
“The Jin Family of Taiyuan! It’s the Jin Family of Taiyuan!”
Footnotes
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Mount Tai and the Northern Dipper are prominent landmarks used together as an honorific for a preeminent authority. ↩
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Shenshi is a traditional time period corresponding to approximately 3–5 p.m. ↩
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A shichen is a traditional time unit of approximately two hours. ↩ ↩2
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“Martial Uncle” addresses someone of the generation above one’s teacher within a martial lineage; it does not imply a family relationship. ↩
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The source describes the giant as eight cheok tall. One Korean cheok is approximately 30.3 cm (11.9 in), making eight cheok about 2.42 m (7 ft 11 in). ↩ ↩2
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A fist-palm salute is a traditional martial greeting made by covering one fist with the opposite palm. ↩
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Amitabha is the name of a Buddha, spoken here as a Buddhist invocation. ↩ ↩2
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The Thousand Character Classic is a classical text traditionally used to teach Chinese characters and literacy. ↩
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