Mind Your Historical Accuracy
“Do you perhaps have urgent business that cannot be delayed?”
Just as Sanwol hesitated, wondering how best to answer, Oh Hwa-jeong posed the gentle question.
Seizing upon the opening without missing a beat, Sanwol replied immediately.
“Yes. My humblest apologies to the Abbot, but this junior received a missive from the Murim Alliance and was just hurrying on my way.”
Though the Alliance had requested discretion, what could possibly be hidden from the Abbot of Shaolin, the revered pillar and de facto leader of the Nine Sects and One Gang? Sanwol judged that rather than inviting suspicion with a clumsy lie, it was far better to state plainly that it was Alliance business and put the matter to rest.
“Haha, what is there to apologize for? Ah, you must be going on account of the Blood Cult.”
“Ah... you already knew?”
“How could this old monk not? Though it has not been publicly proclaimed, much came to light in the process of wiping out the Green Forest bandits who abducted Master Kang. It is truly lamentable, yet fortunate all the same.”
As Oh Hwa-jeong nodded with a quiet sigh, Sanwol pondered how to react before managing an awkward smile and a nod of his own. He already knew from Kang Seokho's testimony and the Murim Alliance's letter that the Blood Cult and the Green Forest were entangled, but no matter how he looked at it, the Abbot's mention of 'much' hinted that there was far more lurking beneath the surface.
“Come now, since we have met like this, let us go together. The Murim Alliance's endeavors are for the peace of the Central Plains and its common folk; should we not lend a hand and lighten their burden?”
In the end, unable to refuse the venerable abbot, Sanwol found himself walking alongside him.
“That wasn't nearly as extraordinary as I expected.”
Having concluded the council with the alliance leadership, Sanwol voiced his honest impression as he strolled through the Murim Alliance's gardens beside Oh Hwa-jeong.
“We merely caught a tail-feather of the Blood Cult by chance while rooting out the Green Forest; there is little we can do at this very moment.”
In truth, rather than addressing any grandiose imminent invasion by the Blood Cult, the meeting had been more of a preventative strategy session. The discussions had revolved around three major topics.
First, why had the Blood Cult joined hands with the Green Forest in the first place? The Blood Cult, which had historically spurned all other factions to carry out its horrific atrocities in solitary isolation, had abruptly begun consorting with outsiders. It could very well herald a storm of warfare unprecedented in scale.
Second, had they forged ties with factions beyond the Green Forest? The Unorthodox factions were men who turned their backs on righteousness and chivalry to chase coin and selfish gain; if the profit margins aligned, they would not hesitate to shake hands even with the Blood Cult. Among them were organizations of formidable scale, such as the Yangtze Waterways Stronghold and the Hao Sect, forcing the Murim Alliance to remain on high alert against them.
“At least we managed to cull the Green Forest through this incident and trample their sprouts before they could fully bloom.”
“You speak truly. The Blood Cult's insidious machinations always unfold beneath the surface. Had this not occurred, the realm might have been plunged into chaos before anyone even realized what was happening.”
The final point was, in a sense, an obvious one: spies of the Blood Cult might already be lurking within the Orthodox Murim Alliance—even inside the Nine Sects, the One Gang, and the Five Great Families. To borrow the phrasing of Sanwol's modern knowledge, they were cancer cells in society; in the parlance of the Central Plains, which had yet to conceive of such diseases, they were vermin gnawing at the foundation.
Ultimately, the meeting concluded with the Murim Alliance taking charge of investigating the decimated Green Forest strongholds across the lands, with the Nine Sects, One Gang, and Five Great Families providing support. Naturally, rooting out any moles who might be nestled within their respective sects was the expected follow-up.
“Then, might I ask what it is the Abbot wished to speak to me about?”
With their business at the Alliance concluded, Sanwol, curious as to why Oh Hwa-jeong had approached him in the first place, broached the subject first. Even the Five Great Families had brought shocking news before; surely whatever word the Abbot of Shaolin carried in person would be equally formidable. Moreover, since it concerned Nangahyeopjeon, Sanwol could not help feeling a prickle of nervous tension.
Upon hearing Sanwol's question, Oh Hwa-jeong offered a smile as benevolent as the Buddha's before speaking.
“The One Hundred Steps Divine Fist is merely a realm of achievement pursued in Shaolin martial studies, not a standalone technique of Shaolin. In the realm of swordsmanship, it would be akin to treating Sword Kinesis as an individual martial art. Furthermore, would it be fitting for monks striving to emulate the Buddha to practice a 'divine fist'—which is to say, a discipline that invokes gods?”
He came all this way just to point out an error in lore accuracy?!
It was not at all what he had anticipated, but in its own way, it was staggering news nonetheless.
“I do not mean to rebuke you, Young Hero. You are neither a disciple of Shaolin nor a devotee of the Buddhist Dharma. The scenes in Nangahyeopjeon are merely the fruit of doing your utmost with popular lore and what knowledge was available to you.”
At least he had not come to raise hell over someone besmirching his sect's martial arts; Oh Hwa-jeong chuckled softly, easing Sanwol's tension. Seeing that, Sanwol calmed his fluttering heart and let his stiff expression soften.
Then a thought struck him: Wait, why not take this chance to research Shaolin's martial arts?
Senseless flaming was just raw vitriol with nothing to offer, but constructive criticism was something a creator could actually learn from. Besides, Oh Hwa-jeong's words were gentle feedback tinged with fond regret, not toxic hate boiling over with inexplicable rage. In other words, if he could observe a few stances under the banner of canonical research, or at least listen to a short lecture, it would be a massive win.
Sanwol thickened his skin, filtered his speech through the sieve of utmost politeness, and spoke.
“First, I must apologize for failing to properly verify the lore of Shaolin's martial arts.”
“There is no need to take it to heart. Even this old monk would find it difficult to fully portray the arts of other sects and clans. Your drawings are already masterpieces born of extraordinary insight and marvelous talent.”
Nice, the reaction is great.
Unleashing the Divine Art of Flattery that he had honed ever since his encounter with Geuk Cheonrang, Sanwol's peerless silver tongue had Oh Hwa-jeong utterly charmed. With the mood warm and ripe, it was time to bring out the real agenda.
“I have an abiding interest in diverse martial disciplines, yet having never belonged to a sect or possessed a master, I have had few opportunities to witness their deep history and magnificence firsthand.”
“That is truly a pity,” Oh Hwa-jeong sighed, genuine regret coloring his voice.
Yet inward admiration threatened to burst forth. Did those words not mean this youth had blossomed into his genius without a single shred of guidance? Even with illustrious mentors and aristocratic backing, no martial artist had ever reached the Peak Realm at such an age—yet he had carved his name into martial history purely through his own endeavor.
What if I took Young Hero Dokgo as a disciple of Shaolin?
The thought flashed through Oh Hwa-jeong's mind for a brief instant before he swept it away as worldly delusion. And then, at Sanwol's following request, the Abbot sank into deep contemplation once more.
“If it would not be an imposition... might I have the honor of observing Shaolin's martial arts?”
“Shaolin's martial arts, you say? Mmm, hum... to observe them...”
Truth be told, asking to witness their arts was a request Sanwol could only make out of ignorance regarding Shaolin's precepts. The traditional, absolute rules known as Shaolin's Three Great Precepts were so rigid that even the Abbot Great Master could not easily make an exception. Women were forbidden from entering; those expelled or departed of their own accord were barred from re-entering; and those who learned Shaolin's arts without a master were subjected to severe punishment.
The difficulty in granting Sanwol's request lay precisely in that third rule—for the precept's definition of 'severe punishment' meant execution, severing the tendons of all four limbs, or crippling the dantian.
Yet... is that truly righteous?
While the first two rules had been handed down since the founding of Shaolin, the third had been forged mere centuries ago. Not only did its lineage pale before the thousand-year history of the other two, but to Oh Hwa-jeong's eyes, it was Shaolin's own blunder and karmic sin. He hesitated over whether blindly upholding and transmitting such a rule to future generations was truly the correct path.
And so, Oh Hwa-jeong made a decision. He would examine Sanwol's character and judge according to the outcome.
“To be frank, your request is difficult to grant.”
Reflecting the crestfallen youth in the dark, tranquil pools of his eyes, Oh Hwa-jeong began his tale.
“Shaolin's third precept commands that anyone who learns Shaolin's martial arts without a master must be punished. Its origin traces back several centuries to a man named Hwagong Duta...”
How would this youth judge this piece of Shaolin history? Not merely through the eyes of a martial artist, but as a man of letters who had penned Nangahyeopjeon—a work that, while easily dismissed as mere entertainment, possessed a distinct philosophy of its own.
After speaking for the span of an entire cup of tea and then some, Oh Hwa-jeong finished his narrative and looked at Sanwol with a somber, heavy countenance. Whatever others in Shaolin might think, to him at least, the tragedy of Hwagong Duta was Shaolin's greatest disgrace. Since he had laid bare the shameful scar of his own sect, his expression could hardly be bright.
Having listened intently, Sanwol's expression grew equally complicated. He had only hoped to watch a few forms and head home, yet he had unexpectedly been treated to the dark underbelly of Shaolin's history. Yet there was the question Oh Hwa-jeong had posed at the end of his tale: What did he think of this history? Did Hwagong Duta truly deserve to be remembered as an unforgivable sinner to this very day?
Pondering deeply, Sanwol finally parted his lips to deliver his answer.
“Answer me honestly. I swear that my regard for you shall not waver, whatever your answer may be.”
Just as Oh Hwa-jeong had requested—to answer frankly without dressing up his thoughts to please the ear:
“It just sounds like karma to me. In the end, isn't it simply a history where Shaolin was crushed under the weight of a disaster of its own making?”
In other words: Aren't you all just throwing a tantrum because you can't stomach the bitter fruit of your own sins?
To anyone else's ears, it was blasphemy so outrageous they would faint in horror, screaming whether such an utter madman could truly exist. Yet Oh Hwa-jeong burst into hearty laughter, reveling in a sudden, profound lightness of heart. And in that moment, he resolved to impart a lesson to this youth—one who might one day transform the Murim, and perhaps even Shaolin Temple itself.
After all, if he was not an ordained monk who had entered Shaolin as a disciple, what need was there for him to be bound by Shaolin's precepts?
“Follow me. Since I have received such a precious perspective from you, it is only right that I show you something precious in return.”