Chapter 18: Striking Without Mercy (Third Update—Please Recommend)

Monks do not engage in production, yet they must eat all the same. Thus, every temple possesses its own lands and properties, some even becoming as wealthy as the average landlord. With assets come the need for guardians, especially in times of chaos and war; hence, any monastery of reasonable size maintains a cadre of martial monks.

The most renowned of these are, of course, the monks of Shaolin, whose tale of the Thirteen Staff Monks aiding the future emperor has been widely told.

The Bodhi Temple was neither as grand as Shaolin nor did it possess such formidable martial monks. Here, “martial monks” were simply a selection of young, robust, and agile brethren trained to maintain order during ceremonies and sermons, and to handle unexpected incidents. To put it plainly, they served as the temple’s part-time security guards.

Such men could hardly be called true experts; only their leader, Zhi Gao, possessed real martial skill.

Zhi Gao was a man of about forty, solidly built, with rough features, a face covered in a wild beard, eyebrows thick as brooms, and a prominent belly. Though his head was shaved, he looked nothing like a monk and more like a bandit who’d simply shaved his head.

The so-called training ground was not the sort one might imagine. Temples had various “grounds”—places for lectures were called Dharma grounds, and vegetable gardens were called garden grounds. The Bodhi Temple’s martial ground was merely an open space in the garden, where over a dozen sturdy young monks practiced under Zhi Gao’s command.

Li Zaixing arrived at the edge of the ground, hands clasped behind his back. He watched for a moment, then curled his lip in disdain and let out a mocking laugh. He strode to a nearby pavilion, seated himself at leisure, crossed his legs, and casually kicked the teapot off the stone table.

With a sharp crack, the teapot shattered, sending tea splashing everywhere.

The atmosphere on the ground instantly froze. Zhi Gao, who had been instructing the monks, darkened his expression and glared angrily at Li Zaixing.

Zhi Gao had noticed Li Zaixing as soon as he appeared. Seeing his tall, imposing frame and steady stride, he felt a pang of unease. He’d thought of driving him off, but noticing the young monk Zhiyuan following behind, he realized this was no ordinary visitor, and so forced himself to feign ignorance. Yet, his forbearance brought him no peace; Li Zaixing provoked him nonetheless.

He could not ignore it any longer, or he would never maintain his standing at Bodhi Temple.

Zhi Gao’s eyes swept the crowd. A young monk of about twenty leapt forward, shouting, “Who is this ruffian that dares behave so in Bodhi Temple—”

Before he could finish, and as he hefted a wooden staff and charged at Li Zaixing, the latter, who had been sitting with legs crossed and leaning against a column, suddenly sprang up, landing with rooted feet in a bow stance. His left arm swept in an arc, deftly seizing the staff, and his right fist shot forward with a whoosh, striking the young monk square in the chest.

With a muffled thud, the monk’s curses were cut short. His charging body flew like a severed kite, landing more than three meters away with a heavy crash. Clutching his chest, blood trickled from his lips.

The crowd was stunned. Even Zhi Gao’s brows shot up in surprise. He signaled with his eyes to two monks beside him, took a deep breath, and his bulging belly suddenly contracted. The two monks, quick and practiced, grabbed his trousers and cinched up his belt, pulling it tight around his waist. With his belt fastened, the once portly Zhi Gao now appeared alert and robust, every bit a formidable man.

He took a staff in hand, glared at the approaching Li Zaixing, and demanded in a deep voice, “Zhiyuan, who is this distinguished guest, and what is his intent?”

Zhiyuan stepped forward, hands clasped in greeting, smiling, “Senior brother, this is the personal disciple of Master Shucao.”

“A disciple of Master Shucao?” Zhi Gao forced a smile. “So, a junior of Master Juehui. Why the layman’s attire?”

“My attire is none of your concern,” Li Zaixing replied bluntly, uninterested in pleasantries. Waving his hand, he continued directly, “You train these men to protect the temple in times of trouble, to deal with troublemakers and ruffians. Consider me such a one now—try everything you can to drive me out.”

“This… is hardly appropriate, is it?” Zhi Gao’s lips curled with sarcasm. “You are no mere ruffian. Should you be injured, how could I explain to Master Juehui?”

Li Zaixing sneered inwardly. Zhi Gao, nominally Juehui’s subordinate, showed not a trace of respect, addressing him directly by name—their grudges clearly ran deep. Since that was so, there was no need for mercy. He had come today to wrest control of the martial monks from Zhi Gao.

“That’s not your concern,” Li Zaixing said, grasping a staff behind his back and gesturing at the monks, “Will you face me alone, or all together?”

Zhi Gao let out a cold laugh, “You claim to be a ruffian, but I cannot treat you as one. Let me test your skill myself.”

“So be it,” Li Zaixing replied, tossing his staff aside and clapping his hands. “Then I shall instruct you barehanded.”

Zhi Gao was both angered and pleased. If Juehui had sent Li Zaixing to stir up trouble, then Li must have some martial skill; and judging by how he had just sent one of his own men flying with a single blow, it was no small matter. His first instinct was to call on his men and win by numbers, but to do so would mean losing all face. So, though not confident, he had no choice but to accept the duel. Now, seeing Li Zaixing’s arrogance in fighting barehanded, he sensed an opportunity—if he could defeat Li, the man would never be able to stay in the temple, and Juehui’s scheming would come to naught.

Zhi Gao stepped back, gripped his staff in both hands, and inclined his head, “Very well, please!”

Li Zaixing sized him up, took half a step forward, turned his body slightly, and beckoned with his left hand, “Come, then!”

Before the words had faded, Zhi Gao suddenly attacked. With a fierce shout, his staff thrust at Li Zaixing’s chest—not with the sweeping strokes of staff technique, but with the piercing directness of a spear or pike, a military art rarely taught outside the army. Yet, moments before, he had been instructing his monks in staff, not spear.

The spear’s line is straight and direct; the staff sweeps wide. Spear and staff are entirely different arts, their power unequal. Zhi Gao’s true skill was clearly far greater than his appearance suggested—he was not only capable, but also cunning, his earlier facade a clever deception.

Had he faced an ordinary swordsman or wanderer fooled by his act, they’d not last a round. But his opponent was Li Zaixing, a man with two lifetimes’ worth of experience.

Li Zaixing never underestimated an adversary. For Zhi Gao to hold such a post, to leave Juehui helpless against him, must mean he was more than just trusted—he was truly capable, irreplaceable. Moreover, he had just displayed his skill by drawing in his belly, proving that his bulk was not all fat—his core strength was formidable, the paunch a mere disguise. That he now exhibited a soldier’s spear technique was no surprise.

Rather than retreat before Zhi Gao’s assault, Li Zaixing advanced, not like Li Bai who, lacking confidence, would withdraw before a stronger foe. Li Zaixing always seized the initiative.

He raised his right leg, stepped forward to Zhi Gao’s left, and Zhi Gao’s staff brushed past his neck. Li Zaixing’s left hand shot up, lightning-fast, catching Zhi Gao’s left wrist; his right fist, without flourish, drove straight for Zhi Gao’s face. Zhi Gao’s stab missed, and Li Zaixing had breached his guard. Knowing he was in danger, Zhi Gao tried to retreat, but Li Zaixing held his left wrist fast. With no time to think, Zhi Gao twisted left, released the staff, and formed a fist, swinging at Li Zaixing’s punch.

Their fists collided with a resounding crash.

Though both struck with their fists, Li Zaixing had prepared, while Zhi Gao reacted in haste, his left hand pinned and unable to put his full strength into the blow. He could not fully absorb Li Zaixing’s force.

Li Zaixing’s fist, through Zhi Gao’s own, smashed into his face. His vision went black as his head snapped back, stars bursting before his eyes. Before he could recover, Li Zaixing slid his left foot half a step forward, wedging it between Zhi Gao’s legs, and drove his knee up, slamming it into Zhi Gao’s inner thigh.

With a crisp crack, Zhi Gao staggered back a step, his right thigh bone broken. Unable to support his weight, he was wracked with searing agony, a scream of pain tearing from his throat.

“Aaah!” Zhi Gao collapsed, clutching his leg, sweat pouring from his brow, rolling in the dust, his once-pristine robes now filthy and tattered.

The onlookers were dumbfounded.

No one had expected Zhi Gao to fall so quickly, not even lasting a single round. None imagined he would be so thoroughly defeated, his leg broken in an instant, left wailing on the ground.

“You lot…” Li Zaixing didn’t spare Zhi Gao a glance, instead pointing at the martial monks, “Come at me together!”

The monks exchanged uncertain glances, none daring to advance. Though they did not know the full extent of Zhi Gao’s skill, they knew he was vastly superior to themselves. If he was beaten so easily, what chance did they have? Besides, Li Zaixing was Juehui’s junior; his challenge to Zhi Gao was a conflict among the temple’s leadership—what business was it of theirs? Why risk themselves for Zhi Gao?

Even Zhi Gao’s own confidants, weighing their abilities, dared not step forward.

Li Zaixing had expected as much. One look had told him all he needed to know. His harsh treatment of Zhi Gao served two purposes: to end the fight decisively and to intimidate the rest into submission.

“With such poor skill and cowardly spirit, how can you be entrusted with the temple’s defense?” He glanced at Zhi Gao, now wallowing in the dirt. “Zhi Gao, your teaching has done the temple—and these men—a grave disservice.”

—

*Note: In the Tang dynasty, monks did not refer to themselves as “this humble monk” as in later times, but, like Daoists, used the term “this humble Daoist.” Interested readers can find many such references in Tang-era note-form novels.