Old Ma's chest heaved, his mind plainly in turmoil. "I cut off my own arm," he said coldly, "and sent it to the Great Thunderclap Monastery to return its divine arts. Why, then, did you still hunt me down and tear my family apart? Since you insist on my death, why shouldn't I pass those arts on?"
The old monk shook his head. "Junior Brother, one arm is not all of our arts."
Old Ma laughed low. "Nor is everything I carry from the Great Thunderclap Monastery. Would you cripple my other arts too? Yes, I was born of the Great Thunderclap Monastery, but that year I fought my way out with my own two hands, and none of you dared stop me. Only when I had wed and sired a child did you come knocking. For the sake of my wife and son I willingly cut off an arm and gave your arts back!"
His face darkened. "And then? You still hunted me down, left me with my family shattered and my home destroyed!"
The old monk's white brows twitched. "Rules are rules. Changed, they are no longer rules. This dusty, mortal world only disturbs one's cultivation. Junior Brother, we never meant to kill you—we meant to save you from the bitter sea of the mortal realm, to bring you back to the Great Thunderclap Monastery to cultivate and win your true fruit. If, that year, you had not let your mortal heart stir and had stayed instead of fighting your way out, you would have inherited the seat of the Tathagata by now. Come back to the temple with me, and the old Tathagata will be greatly comforted. The seat will still be yours." (The author notes: among common folk, "Tathagata" is often taken to mean Shakyamuni, but in strict Buddhist usage it refers to any Buddha—whoever attains Buddhahood is a Tathagata. As the sutras say, "he comes truly as the truth is," and so it names the state of enlightenment itself.)
"Go back?"
Old Ma said woodenly, "That year I fought my way out. If I return, I shall fight my way back in!"
The old monk's face sank. He sighed. "The Tathagata will be disappointed. This boy on the stage—he is your disciple, is he not? You taught him the Eight Thunder Moves, but you never taught him the heart-method of our Great Thunderclap Monastery, the Tathagata Mahayana Sutra."
He looked toward Qin Mu, who was wrestling with a young man on the stage. "The Tathagata Mahayana Sutra is the art of subduing demons. Without cultivating it, the Eight Thunder Moves—however powerfully trained—remain but an empty shell. Today I have brought my disciple. Mingxin, come meet your martial uncle."
From behind him a tall, gaunt young monk stepped forward, a string of prayer beads in one hand. He pressed his palms together and bowed. "Martial Uncle."
The old monk's white brows rose. "Mingxin is also a martial artist of the Spirit Womb realm. My staff lies wager here. Will you bet against me, Junior Brother?"
Grandma Si raised an eyebrow and was about to speak, but Old Ma's face was blank as he said, "Precepts and prohibitions—all of it is crap. I'll bet against you. My head: how does its weight compare to your Khakkhara staff?"
The old monk inclined his head. "Roughly the same."
The Blind One, Grandma Si, the Herbalist and the others frowned deeply and moved to counsel against it, but Old Ma cut them off decisively: "If Mu'er loses, take my head back to the Great Thunderclap Monastery and present it to the Tathagata. If Mu'er wins, leave your staff and get the hell out of here."
"Wonderful."
The old monk said to young Mingxin, "Today your master is here to reclaim the arts of the Great Thunderclap Monastery from a renegade's body. Win, and it is your merit."
Mingxin answered and strode toward the stage.
On the stage, the young man locked in combat with Qin Mu was a master of the sword, following the path of Senior Brother Qu among the Five Elders of the Li River. His blade never strayed more than three feet from his body—save that, unlike Senior Brother Qu, his sword was small, more like a dagger, eight inches long. Small, yet all the more deadly!
From time to time it stabbed out from absurd places—under the armpit, between the legs—and would slip inside his own robes, then dart out from his sleeve just as Qin Mu clashed palms with him!
Driving the sword with qi, sword-control arts honed to such a pitch—this man was barely inferior to Qianqiu of the Li River Sect, and far above Senior Brother Qu.
What was more, he was no mean hand at battle technique. His palm-work was deep, his aura like a towering mountain; the instant his palm's force shot out, mountain ridges flashed into being within his palm.
By now, however, the outcome on the stage was already clear. Qin Mu's strength was vast and his footwork quick; the moment they clashed first palms, the young man ate a heavy loss, for Qin Mu's surging qi crushed his utterly!
Qin Mu was using the Nine Dragons Reining Wind and Thunder. Although only three of its nine layers of force had erupted, they were already enough to wound his lungs and guts; for all his exquisite swordplay, the young man's defeat was sealed.
Qin Mu's feet moved in a tangled rush, like a thousand snakes slithering through tall grass—now east, now west, now forward, now back—until the young man could no longer tell whence his attack would come. The next moment pain stabbed his back, and a palm from Qin Mu sent him flying.
The young man landed and stood stunned for a beat, then bowed to Qin Mu on the stage. "Thank you, young master, for holding back."
That palm of Qin Mu's had stamped on his back with great force, yet the power was not savage—it had not wounded his heart and lungs. With Qin Mu's true strength, he could have ground his five organs and six entrails to pulp!
"Does Junior Brother need to rest?" Mingyue had been standing quietly all along. Only now that Qin Mu had defeated the young man did he open his mouth to ask.
Qin Mu's gaze fell on him. The young monk wore white robes, unstained by a single mote of dust, his shoes white as well, his person fair and clean. Though his head was shaved, he was still strikingly handsome, and one could not help but warm to him.
Qin Mu was about to answer that he needed no rest when Grandma Si's voice rang out: "Rest! He must rest!"
Puzzled, Qin Mu still did as she said, sitting down to compose himself and regulate his breath. His Supreme Body Three-Dan Art was suited to cultivation while in motion; though he had taken on a dozen-odd martial artists, his qi had barely been drained and he was still in peak form—only his flesh was a little weary.
Grandma Si carried a cup of water up onto the stage and pressed it into Qin Mu's hands, murmuring, "Mu'er, by whatever means you must, win this one—you must not lose! Your Grandpa Ma has wagered against that villainous old monk, staked his very life on it!"
Qin Mu's heart lurched. He looked at once toward Old Ma. Old Ma's expression was calm, and his voice carried over: "Mu'er, the peerless Supreme Body cannot lose. I believe in you."
For all his words, Qin Mu's heart still raced. The folk of the village were all his kin, yet none were closer to him than Grandma Si—and next to her, Old Ma. It was Old Ma who, using one arm, had carried the stone idol with Grandma Si out of the village, had plucked him from the riverbank, and saved his life!
If he lost, would he not be dooming Old Ma?
The Herbalist, too, was frowning deeply. Old Ma believed Qin Mu was the peerless Supreme Body and had faith in him—but Qin Mu was no Supreme Body, after all.
He half regretted helping the Village Chief keep that kindly lie. Had he told them the truth sooner, Old Ma would never have staked his life.
It was precisely because Old Ma trusted Qin Mu that he had wagered his head against that old monk!
Suddenly the Herbalist's eyes turned murderous: "If Mu'er loses, we kill the old bald villain and the boy. We don't let Old Ma throw away his life!"
On the stage, Qin Mu desperately tried to steady his heart, but with the life of one so dear hanging in the balance, how could it settle?
The Mute jabbed his hands in gestures and gave a few guttural calls. The Blind One leaned on his staff and drawled, "No need to remind him. This temple fair is a test. Pass it, and he grows up. Fail it, and he's still a child."
After a moment, Qin Mu rose slowly to his feet. Gazing across at the tall, gaunt young monk, he said slowly, "Monk, is there a Buddha in your heart?"
Mingxin pressed his palms together and said solemnly, "The Buddha is ever in my heart."
Whoosh—
Qin Mu expelled a foul breath. His qi turned savage and violent, and a lawless, heaven-defying bearing burst from his small body.
"I!"
He stepped forward, and the aura surging from his small frame stirred a rousing, heroic feeling—a man of imposing spirit standing bold as a god. His voice rang out like a thunderclap shaking heaven and earth: "In my heart there is no god, no Buddha, no demon! I am the god, the Buddha, the demon!"
At these words, the old monk seated across from Old Ma showed a look of shock and turned to stare at Qin Mu!