The Buddha's Palm Descends
Shaolin's foundation lies in an unwavering mind. According to Buddhist law, one must strive toward a clear and tranquil Nirvana that remains unshaken by any temptation. One does not make a fuss over joyous occasions, nor does one easily fall into anger. Furthermore, one must never draw near to women throughout one's life and must distance oneself from worldly pleasures. Joy, anger, sorrow, and delight are all mere illusions—temptations known as color. This very world, the Saha Realm itself, becomes that illusion. Thus the teaching: form is emptiness, emptiness is form. Temptation does not truly exist; only after emptying oneself does the world of form fill the mind. That is why Shaolin's martial arts are like Mount Tai—a steadfast heart unmoved by any circumstance, an indomitable body that holds its ground with unyielding resolve, the heaviest mountain in the world.
Therefore, Abbot Muhak, the foremost martial monk under heaven, merely remained seated in his heavy, immovable posture. Even when his foolish disciple grew arrogant and displayed pride, he simply muttered Buddhist teachings under his breath and steadied his mind. What could be done about the hot-blooded vigor of one who had only recently set foot in the world? Would a still-young and immature child listen even if scolded? He believed the disciple would eventually come to realize his own shame. Yet as the disciple grew only more foolish and began recklessly scattering his fists, Abbot Muhak's expression gradually hardened.
Of course, since Seomun Su-rin's disciple had already demonstrated her capabilities, the attacks would not reach the level of lethal techniques that endangered life. In truth, Wolbong himself held confidence in Cheong's durability, which was why he unleashed such fierce and powerful techniques. But even if he won this way, what would remain? Even if she took a proper hit without dying, she would still be bedridden for months of recovery. Moreover, the disciple was shamelessly targeting her face. If her nose were broken or her jaw shattered, it would breed lifelong resentment. Still, Abbot Muhak endured. He thought that since the boy had only trained in the mountains and had no equals among his peers, he had never truly experienced such frustration.
But this time, he could not endure it. Abbot Muhak's eyes widened as he shot to his feet and strode swiftly to the railing, gripping it and leaning forward with his neck stretched out. The Shaolin monks in golden kasayas lined up on either side of him in the same posture. Abbot Muhak muttered as if entranced.
"The majestic heavenly voice that pervades all the Dharma realms. No matter how great a giant stands beneath the Brahma Heaven, he remains upon the Buddha's palm..."
It was a record of Shaolin's lost supreme technique. When Muhak had first seen it, he thought it merely described the characteristics of the martial art or recorded some lofty, cloud-like Zen riddle. But now that he witnessed it in person, he realized there could be no clearer or more precise explanation.
Brahma referred to all the heavens of the Three Thousand Great Thousand Worlds—the universe itself. The sound of the temple bell was the Dharma of enlightenment that resounded throughout the entire world in an instant. Thus, no matter how great a person might be, they were ultimately nothing more than one among countless cycles of reincarnation. How could they compare to the vastness of the Buddha who transcended such realms? The palm of the Tathagata was equal to the supreme will of heaven. It was only natural that the will of heaven should resound as the sound of the temple bell.
"How—! Is that not the Yeorae Shinjang!"
At the martial monk's cry, even the premium seats erupted into a clamor as everyone spoke at once.
"The Brahma Tathagata Subduing Demon Divine Palm! That is...!"
"How could a Shaolin ultimate technique be in that child's hands...!"
Yet no matter what anyone said, the most bewildered and dumbfounded were the Shaolin martial monks themselves—the very originators. The genealogical record that had supposedly been burned and lost due to their ancestors' mistake was now shining brilliantly in someone else's hands. The sheer absurdity of it was beyond words.
Wolbong took one step back, then two, then three... Only after retreating five steps could he finally dissipate the true energy from Cheong's palm that had shaken his meridians. In contrast, Cheong simply stood in place with her palm extended. The reactions of everyone who had been watching were sharply divided as they realized the outcome of the clash.
Wolbong had mastered Shaolin's Seventy-Two Ultimate Arts and received all manner of divine techniques, making him akin to a walking Sutra Repository. However, because his learning was broad but shallow, his individual achievements were not particularly high. Even the peerless divine art known as the Hundred Steps Divine Fist had not yet fully matured in his hands. Cheong, on the other hand, had used every trick in the book to reach the twelfth stage of mastery, allowing her to execute all techniques correctly. This was the result.
Wolbong closed his eyes and drew in an endlessly long breath: Hwooooooo. Cheong watched him. If this had been the Internal Energy Explosion Technique, she would have simply blown him up. But since it was a striking technique, he had endured it. Still, the impact had clearly been severe, so she waited for him to regain his composure. This was not a life-or-death duel, after all.
Wolbong finally exhaled a breath as long as the one he had inhaled: Hwooooooo. His body trembled from the majestic Buddhist palm force. His internal organs ached, and there was not a single joint without pain. Yet his mind remained clear and bright, as if washed clean.
"Amitabha. This humble monk has shown an unsightly display. Almswoman, you..."
Wolbong stopped mid-sentence. It was the tragic fate of a man who had come face to face with Cheong's bare, harmful visage after her veil had disappeared. What... Mara? A temptation of Mara...!
After all, Wolbong had entered Shaolin at the age of five and had never once stepped outside its gates. For twenty-two years, he had neither touched nor even seen a woman. Even then, until the Martial Arts Tournament, he had been forbidden by his master's orders from leaving the temple. He had worried because Cheong was a woman, but when her face had been covered, he had felt no particular interest and simply treated her as a fellow martial artist whose body lines differed from his own. But now?
To Wolbong, who had no immunity whatsoever to women, a peerless beauty of heavenly beauty had suddenly appeared. His heart raced, his forcibly calmed mind churned and roiled, and his yang energy surged uncontrollably. It was mortifying and shameful, making it difficult to even stand properly.
Cheong pondered for a moment. What was this? Was he trying to provoke her? What were the ways to make someone angry? But since the match had not yet been decided, Cheong immediately stomped across the arena floor and advanced. Her fist shot forward. Thwack! Wolbong was struck in the side and staggered backward. Cheong's fists continued to fly. Thud! Thwack! Thud! Smack!
The fierce momentum from before had vanished. Wolbong was busy blocking and deflecting as he retreated. Far from counterattacking, his stance was unsteady and precarious. His gaze refused to meet hers, looking instead at distant points above or below. Even when his focus drew closer, it never reached her eyes, stopping at her brow or the tip of her nose.
Cheong's eyes narrowed sharply. This bastard... was he still playing games? Her hand shot high into the air. Smack!!! A crisp sound rang out. It was the sound of her fully opened palm striking Wolbong's bald head. Soon, instead of the Buddha's palm, Cheong's handprint would be deeply etched upon that bald pate.
Wolbong clutched at the point where his forehead and head became indistinguishable and staggered backward. Cheong raised her voice.
"Monk. What are you doing right now? Why are you not fighting properly?"
"Th-that is... Um, this humble monk... this humble monk will forfeit."
The arena, which had been noisy until moments ago, fell silent.
"Mm. Due to the opponent's forfeiture, the winner is—"
"Just a moment."
Cheong stopped the referee who was about to declare the result.
"Wolbong, could you please speak clearly? You did not say you surrendered, nor did you acknowledge defeat. You said you were forfeiting, correct?"
"But, Almswoman. Is this not a situation where victory and defeat cannot be determined?"
"A situation where victory and defeat cannot be determined? Why exactly? Have you perhaps exhausted all your internal energy? If so, should you not declare defeat rather than forfeit?"
"That is not it! It is simply... how could this humble monk..."
"What exactly did I do?"
Cheong's voice was sharp. Then Wolbong cried out with a voice full of injustice.
"Sorcery! It is sorcery! A demon incarnate like Mara, no, Mara itself! How could— Amitabha, Amitabha..."
"...?"
A deep crease formed between Cheong's brows.
"Sorcery? What exactly did I do for you to say such outrageous things?"
"How can this be a fair match in such a situation! Using your outstanding appearance and beauty to cast temptation—is that not sorcery? Moreover, how could this humble monk possibly attack a delicate woman!?"
At this, the spectators collectively lost their words. For a Shaolin monk who had been driving forward with the intent to utterly destroy the arena and unleashing fierce attacks to say such a thing was truly bizarre.
"Your words are quite strange. When this young lady had her face covered to focus on the match, you attacked with techniques close to lethal strikes. And now you say you cannot attack?"
"That time and now are different! What man could possibly attack a peerless beauty like the Almswoman! An ordinary man would not even be able to meet her eyes. How could this be called a fair match!?"
Because the arena was so vast, even with Cheong's veil removed, ordinary civilians could not immediately recognize her beauty. They had expected severe pockmarks or scars, but surprisingly, even from a distance, her skin was translucent and her features distinct despite her small head. Though they could not confirm it up close, she looked like a beauty. But when Wolbong called her a peerless beauty, curiosity exploded. A peerless beauty so extraordinary that even a Shaolin monk who viewed women as stones could not bring himself to touch her and had to forfeit the match.
"What you are saying is truly cruel, Monk. Does that mean you could freely attack a woman with an ugly appearance, striking her chest and face without hesitation, but the same woman, if her appearance is outstanding, suddenly becomes a delicate beauty you cannot bring yourself to touch?"
"Th-that is..."
Abbot Muhak could no longer bear to watch and covered his face. Because Cheong had asked that question, Wolbong had been forced to say that it was acceptable to beat an ugly woman but not a beautiful one. Even a secular man should not say such things openly, let alone a Buddhist disciple. After all, appearance was merely the physical body one used while dwelling in the Saha Realm.
Seomun Su-rin inwardly praised her disciple. My disciple spoke well. She delivered a sharp rebuke!
In reality, that was how the world worked. People would freely beat, push, and curse women who were ugly or overweight, treating them roughly, while treating beautiful women with such care that they would gladly offer up their livers and gallbladders. The spectators sympathized greatly with Wolbong's opinion. After all, they wondered if it was acceptable to beat an ugly woman. But separate from that, the sight of him having beaten her so thoroughly only to now claim sorcery was, frankly, ugly. Very ugly.
Meanwhile, in the arena where everyone else had jokingly shouted "Ugly-Faced Swordswoman," there was one section that had remained completely silent. It was not because they were particularly refined or enlightened people gathered by miraculous coincidence. It was because of a certain group that would radiate killing intent at the mere mention of the word "ugly," fiddling with their weapons and making it abundantly clear that one more word would mean death.
The wanderers nodded with satisfaction. If it was the Seomun Clan's young lady's beauty, it was worthy of being called the greatest under heaven. It was only natural that even a Shaolin monk could not maintain an unwavering mind.
As the arena gradually quieted, the referee finally stepped forward.
"Haaah. Wolbong, how much true energy remains in your dantian? You used so much reinforced qi that it must be nearly depleted. Do you have at least ten percent left?"
"That is... No, I do not."
"And Seomun Clan's young lady?"
"I have not even used half yet."
"You still have that much energy left?"
"Mm. Would you like to check my pulse?"
Cheong politely extended her wrist. The referee shook his head. What more definitive proof could there be than her own words?
"Judging by the consumption of internal energy, even if the match had continued normally, the outcome would have been clear. Therefore, I declare Seomun Cheong of the Goddess Sect the winner."