Chapter 16
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 16
Chapter Title: Little Forest Vegetable Field 2
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The man's questioning tone was rough.
Judging from his plain attire without so much as a sword, and the sorry state of his scrawny, swaybacked horse, he didn't look like he belonged to any prestigious righteous sect or great clan.
Even so, this was unacceptable.
"Who, you say...? Well, anyway, I've come to catch up with him after all these years, so if you know where he lives, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me."
"That guy? Catch up? Hah... Kid, your mouth sure is unpleasant to listen to."
The men washing themselves climbed out of the stream one by one onto the roadside, surrounding the yellow horse.
"Get off that horse first."
Unfazed by their menacing words and glares, the young man dismounted.
"You told me to get off, and I did, but I'd like someone to explain why it was necessary. I've never heard of any rule requiring riders to dismount on this road."
"You're just some clueless punk who doesn't even know where he is. A good beating ought to fix that slippery tongue of yours."
The workers at this vegetable field had originally been the toughest bruisers in the area.
On top of that, they'd learned a few basic martial arts techniques from Baek Musang, making them unmatched around there—aside from the Shaolin warrior monks.
Whoosh!
Out of nowhere, the lead worker's hamlike fist hurtled toward the young man's face. And with that, the brawl began.
It didn't take long, though, for the smirks to fade from the faces of the men who'd been watching with casual amusement.
Any time one of them reached for the young man, that attacker's hand sent its owner shrieking in agony as he tumbled to the dirt.
The young man didn't resort to any fancy techniques or brute force. He simply deflected incoming punches and kicks, seized limbs, twisted, flung, and struck.
He started with a handful nearby, but soon the onlookers all piled in.
"Looks like the punk's got some actual training."
"This ain't the time for gawking! Brothers, rush him—all together!"
Before long, the entire group—some hundred men strong—surged toward the lone youth.
Shaolin martial arts centered on external strength, and these men had diligently—if not profoundly—mastered those hard techniques.
Their forms and footwork were nothing special, but the muscles and power forged from hauling heavy loads up and down mountains during their labors were genuine.
Dozens of pairs of bronzed, iron-hard limbs now crashed down on him at once.
Atop the vegetable field's hill stood a cluster of some dozen thatched huts, large and small.
The biggest was the workers' mess hall, complete with a kitchen off to one side.
And smack in the middle of that kitchen hung a massive cauldron.
Big enough to boil a whole pig with ease—if not an ox—it bubbled furiously. Three or four men ringed it, sniffing the air and swallowing hard.
"Boys, don't it smell like it's short on tangerine peel and star anise?"
One of them—an old man whose majestic, hefty build evoked the looming Songshan peaks behind them—spoke up.
Clad in coarse hempen garb, his hair snow-white and tied atop his head, a flowing white beard and muttonchops shrouded more than half his wrinkled face.
A dark-iron rosary of 108 walnut-sized beads encircled his neck, while each wrist bore a bracelet of a dozen plum-sized dark-iron beads. This was the field’s master, the Wide-Eyed Layman Baek Musang.
"It's running a bit late, but I'll toss some in."
Heaving open the enormous iron lid unleashed a rich, meaty aroma.
The men around grinned ear to ear at the heavenly scent.
One scooped handfuls of dried tangerine peel and star anise from nearby crocks and dropped them in.
"Looks just about done. A little steaming, and..."
"Right. Ease off the fire now. You know overcooking kills that fresh meaty savor, don't you?"
A whole hog roasted plump and whole inside the vast iron cauldron.
The spice man sealed the lid once more.
Baek Musang smacked his lips and turned away.
"Hah... Why are those boys taking so damn long today..."
Nearing a century in age, his frame still devoured several catties of meat and liquor daily.
His attention fixed solely on the cauldron, he raised his head and peered down the hill from the mess hall door.
"Huh? What in blazes? What's going on down there...?"
An impossible scene unfolded by the stream at the hill's base.
A youth in flowing white silk had laid out dozens of near-naked brawny laborers, with scores more charging him.
No elaborate techniques—just grabs, tosses, punches, and kicks—yet it was plain as day the field hands were outclassed.
Baek Musang took it in at a glance, his bushy white brows shooting skyward.
A sure sign of towering fury.
His form blurred, then rocketed downslope.
"You bastard! Cease your hands at once!"
The melee froze at his earth-shaking bellow.
The unclothed men stumbled back from the youth, bowing low. The fallen ones staggered up amid groans.
"Who the hell are you, stirring up this chaos here? Got your guts hanging out your belly, eh?"
Baek Musang spared the workers not a glance, eyes locked on the youth.
The face tugged at some vague familiarity, though he couldn't place it.
No weapons. No martial arts traces.
No inner energy aura.
Just some streetside scholar type.
But Baek Musang knew better.
Nearly a hundred field hands in concert couldn't match Shaolin's 108 Arhats Formation, but no ordinary martial master could shrug them off easily.
"So you're that Baek fellow, owner of this vegetable patch? Then why are your workers so damn rude?"
"What? Never seen such a greenhorn. You lecturing me on etiquette?"
"I came looking for you, old timer. Color me disappointed."
"You? Looking for me? Why?"
"Hah... When one warrior seeks another, what reason's needed? Just curious if your strikes live up to the hype."
"Hah hah... The fool's lost his marbles. Daring to face me..."
For the first time in ages, Baek Musang felt vigor flood his limbs.
Decades without a real scrap, yet today his qi stirred first, kindling battle-lust unbidden.
His lifetime's功force sensed the foe's might and readied itself.
Such was the profundity of his Mahayana Prajna Divine Art.
As Baek Musang at last loosed his aura, the youth cracked a faint smile and murmured.
Naturally, that youth was Seonwoyong.
"Fine indeed. Fine. Buddhist Light at its zenith, utterly unswayed..."
Seonwoyong's murmur and Baek Musang's surging presence sent the workers retreating to clear the field.
A glance confirmed it: not a bone broken, not a joint popped. All intact.
Proof too of the foe's peerless mastery.
"You held back against my boys. I'll return the favor—no shattered bones or popped joints for you."
Seonwoyong offered no retort, merely smiling as he raised one hand.
The signal to begin.
"Hah... Arrogant whelp. Daring to face me... Today I'll show you what's beyond the heavens!"
Yet for all his bluster, Baek Musang dropped all underestimate. He maxed his Mahayana Prajna Divine Art and unleashed Prajna Divine Palm upon the youth.
Each palm brimmed with elephant-toppling might, thrumming fiercely at light's speed.
Bypassing the first form—Prajna Bow to Buddha—he opened with the second: Elephant-Lifting Prajna, left-handed.
His right fist meanwhile clenched to unleash Thunderclap Divine Fist's ultimate strike, Thunder Sound Drum Light, straight for the youth's chest.
Ferocity unfit for Buddhist arts.
Wide-Eyed earned through blood.
Skill born of insights from countless clashes since youth.
No quarter given; his fists had pulverized evil masters beyond count.
Seonwoyong's riposte, though, proved starkly plain.
Minimal motion. No signature moves.
Worse, Baek Musang sensed no inner energy at all in the foe's art.
Simply raising both hands to dismantle each onslaught, one by one.
With liquid softness unending, he received, redirected, and reflected the thousand-catty gales of Baek Musang's fists and palms—embodying four ounces deflecting a thousand, softness conquering strength. Like Wudang Taiji Fist or Tenfold Bronze.
Inner arts it required, yet peaked in a realm needing none.
Onlookers might see him teetering, trapped in a maelstrom barely hanging on—but Baek Musang knew.
A transcendent master, depths beyond his plumb.
Dozens of bouts flashed past in heartbeats.
Baek Musang halted his gale assault, peering anew.
The youth's breath: utterly even.
Baek Musang's own qi-blood: faintly roiled.
"Why? Winded already? Unlikely—but if true, pity."
"Your name? Sect? Wudang ties?"
"Why prattle such irrelevancies? Hands are joined—what's it matter?"
Seonwoyong spoke levelly, producing a single fan.
"Fists lack thrill. Let's try weapons. Word is your Crescent Moon Sickle fears no rival in the jianghu. Dying to see how you swing that beast. Show me, won't you?"
"Agreed. Hold a tick. You're no slouch, so I'll commit fully now."
Baek Musang blurred upslope to the huts in pinnacle footwork, returning moments later hefting the Crescent Moon Sickle.
His Crescent Moon Sickle: spear-length, two hundred catties of killing iron.
Long dark-iron pole: one end crescent blade, the other axe-head.
Forged midnight hue; the warriors it'd felled, bleeding out, numbered beyond tally.
Long years since Baek Musang wielded it on foe.
"I saw you spared my lads earlier—thoughtful of you. But no more. See, my Crescent Moon Sickle knows neither eyes nor mercy. Your best, then."
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