Chapter Thirty-Nine: The First Encounter with a Master

The old monk glanced at him but paid him no heed, continuing to chant scriptures and recite the Buddha’s name. He Zhixing probed him with his inner energy to see if he would react, but the monk remained motionless on his meditation mat. He then gave the monk a pat, yet still, the monk was indifferent, his chanting undisturbed. He Zhixing wondered, “How can this monk remain so composed?”

Unwilling to give up, He Zhixing tried tickling the monk with twigs and other things he found nearby, but the monk remained unmoved, his lips only forming the sounds of his chants. He Zhixing thought of every method short of drawing blood or causing harm, yet the monk sat as serenely as ever on his mat. At this, He Zhixing could not help but admire him, though his pride would not let him yield. If the monk had patience, so did he. Thus, the two sat as motionless as statues, side by side on their mats. When thirsty, two young monks would bring them water, but neither ate.

The old monk drank little, only enough to moisten his throat. He Zhixing followed his example. Observing the monk, he saw how he dealt with bodily needs: when the urge arose, the old monk would force the water out as sweat, evaporating it without ever leaving his seat, maintaining his meditative state while regulating his breath and contemplating.

To become a Buddha, one must first cultivate emptiness—body and mind as light as air, harmonizing with nature. In doing so, one could draw upon the forces of the world. The human body, with its organs and meridians, was already in tune with the elements; within the five viscera and six bowels, the energies of nature mingled, and the ultimate goal in life was to strengthen oneself and transcend the limits of heaven and earth.

The old monk remained in meditation for two months, unchanged. He Zhixing did the same. On the day he decided to leave the monk and seek another place, to his surprise, the old monk also rose, no longer sitting to regulate his breath.

As soon as the monk stood, he walked outside. He Zhixing, deeply impressed, hurried to catch up. “Master, where are you going?” he asked.

The monk ignored him and walked on. He Zhixing followed.

The monk wandered through mountains and forests, accompanied only by the landscape, showing no intention of returning to the temple. He Zhixing stayed by his side. The monk was peculiar; whenever they reached a particularly beautiful spot, he would involuntarily move his arms and legs in a kind of dance.

He Zhixing was so aggravated that every time he watched the monk’s odd behavior, he wanted to hit him. After all this probing, he still could not tell whether the monk was a true master or merely a fool—perhaps all his behavior was just an act.

Determined to find out, he suddenly assumed a fighting stance and threw a hook punch at the monk, shouting, “Monk, take this!”

The monk was still admiring the scenery. He stood on a large stone slab halfway up the mountain. As He Zhixing’s punch, carrying a gust of wind, approached, the monk didn’t even look back. His skill in discerning direction from the wind was already profound; with a gentle sidestep, he brought both palms around in a smooth motion, tapping He Zhixing lightly on the back.

It was a technique much like the Taiji Eight Trigrams Fist—using an opponent’s force against them. He Zhixing’s back took the brunt of the energy, and as the impact landed, he quickly shifted his breath and twisted his body, dodging like a strand of twisted hemp. Even so, a wave of energy struck him, and he stumbled, nearly tumbling down the mountainside below the slab.

The monk neither moved nor spoke, nor did he intend to save him. As He Zhixing’s body fell, he swiftly grabbed the edge of the stone slab with both hands, pushed himself up, and landed safely atop the rock, escaping danger by a hair’s breadth.

Unwilling to concede, He Zhixing gathered his energy, spreading his stance wide. The Thirty-Six Forms of Hanyang’s Eight Methods unfolded, and in an instant, his figure seemed to fill the air. The force of his attacks shredded the surrounding grass and leaves—he was truly enraged now.

The monk responded calmly; though he did not smile, there was no sign of defeat. He Zhixing’s technique relied on speed and arcs, darting left and right like a meteor’s curve—one careless move and an opponent would fall for it. Fortunately, he was not wielding his carving file today; had he used it in combination, every strike would have been lethal.

Today, He Zhixing used only his palms. Though the force was less than with the file, each palm strike still carried a fierce wind—enough to badly injure or even kill an ordinary person.

The monk deftly countered many of his attacks. The two exchanged hundreds of moves before the monk finally feigned an opening, rolled down the mountain slope, and without looking back, strode swiftly away, calling out, “Amitabha. Benefactor, your martial arts are impressive, but this old monk will play no longer…”

He Zhixing was furious and would not let him go so easily. “Monk, we’re not done yet! Don’t think you can leave so freely!” With that, he leapt from the stone slab and sped down the mountain in pursuit of the old monk.