If You Wanted Mercy, You Should Have Become the Tripitaka Monk
A woman once entered the murim, drawn by nothing more than her longing for it.
Like every wanderer before her, she dreamed of becoming one of those who carved their own chivalry into the world through martial might. She had a gift for the martial arts, and before long her name was ringing through the ranks of the murim.
And once she had climbed to a certain height, her gaze began, somewhere along the way, to drift toward a man called Li Baimo — a name that meant "he who admired Li Bai."
An absolute master hailed as chivalry itself, Li Baimo was a swordsman who concealed his face behind an iron mask. His chivalry admitted not a single flaw, and he was beloved not only within the murim but by every soul under heaven.
The woman sought him out, hoping to learn from him what chivalry truly was.
But Li Baimo never once acknowledged her. Without sleep, without food, without rest, he simply gave himself over wholly to his training — and whenever someone appeared to interfere, he trampled them beneath a martial art that inspired nothing but awe.
Watching this, respect and curiosity kindled in the woman's heart all at once, and she made a quiet resolve: she would see for herself just how long he could keep training. Anyone who threatened to break his practice, she would subdue in his stead, so that his training would never be interrupted.
So the days passed — until the night of the hundredth day, when the woman noticed that Li Baimo had abruptly stopped.
He glanced around him, and then, at last, removed the iron mask he had never once taken off.
In that instant, the woman froze where she stood. For inside the iron mask, there was no face at all.
Nor was the face the end of it. Once the iron shell came away, he began stripping off his clothing piece by piece — and where each layer fell, there was no flesh, no bone, nothing one could call a human body. Only empty air.
“…And that was the tale, as it was told to me.”
Having finished, I looked between Eun Ae-hyang and Yeong Yeong. Eun Ae-hyang spoke first.
“So what became of the woman?”
“Hm? Good question. He never did tell me that part.”
“I see…”
Eun Ae-hyang gave a slow, thoughtful nod. What now? What exactly had she figured out?
And she didn't seem to be the only one. Yeong Yeong had her chin propped in her hands, nodding along as she murmured, “I see, I see.”
“Yeong Yeong, you getting something out of it?”
“Oh? Senior Brother, isn't the point of the story plain as day?”
“No idea. Strange tales like that aren't my department.”
Was there some version of the story only women could decipher? Hoping for a read from a different angle, I turned to Bunhyang. …Hold on. Why was he plugging his ears with his eyes screwed shut?
Perhaps my gaze registered, because Bunhyang cracked an eye open, looked at me, then cleared his throat and straightened his posture.
“Ahem. Plainly, then — as befits the Demon Cult, the fiend spun a tale of wickedness so as to strike terror into the hearts of the people.”
…Yeah. He's beyond saving.
Yeong Yeong, apparently of exactly the same mind, regarded him with withering contempt and said,
“A bogus monk through and through. The answer is sitting right in front of him, yet there he prowls about like a beast, spewing drivel.”
“What was that?”
“What? Defying me, are you? I am graciously extending my mercy — holding back from dashing straight to Shaolin this very instant and laying bare every last trace of your conduct.”
At Yeong Yeong's words, Bunhyang said nothing more. He simply hung his head, his expression crumpled.
Eun Ae-hyang, who had been watching the whole exchange, said,
“…Your guess is probably right. The Baekseo Gold King most likely has nothing to do with the Heavenly Demon.”
“Thought so.”
“We'd have to ask her directly for the finer details, but she probably fills the symbolic role of a 'fellow countryman' — the same as the Demon Cult.”
“Well, that much I can believe…”
Then Eun Ae-hyang raised a hand, cutting me off, and went on.
“That said, it also appears true that this woman wants the Demon Cult's revival more than anyone.”
“Even though she has nothing to do with the Heavenly Demon? For all we know, Bishop Bokmyeong propped her up as a scarecrow.”
Eun Ae-hyang shook her head at my objection.
“I doubt that. There was genuine, aching conviction in the Baekseo Gold King's speech.”
“And the odds it's all an act?”
Yeong Yeong cut into the conversation without warning.
“Not impossible — but I spent the past few days playing the blind woman and listening to her speeches, and never once did they feel forced.”
“And you trust those instincts of yours, junior sister?”
“Of course.”
Come to think of it, Yeong Yeong had every right to that confidence. This was the woman who had deduced I was meeting someone else every dawn from nothing more than a single strand of Eun Ae-hyang's hair. And it hadn't even been a sword duel, where we'd normally announce ourselves with our qi as a matter of course — during our fishing contest, she had hunted me down on my scent alone.
Having answered with perfect confidence, Yeong Yeong shot Eun Ae-hyang a sidelong glance and added,
“So until the engagement is set in stone, I'll be staying glued to Senior Brother's side — to keep any other thieving women from coming slinking around him.”
And how, exactly, did the conversation end up flowing in that direction?
I let out a sigh and said,
“Then let's get this straight. The Baekseo Gold King has no connection to the Heavenly Demon, yet follows the Demon Cult with fierce devotion. And Bokmyeong can wield demonic arts potent enough to overwhelm arhats.”
Which meant.
“First things first — we separate the two of them.”
And to pull that off, the roles would have to be divided. One of us had to talk the Baekseo Gold King around inside her chamber, while the other subdued Bokmyeong and proved that the Demon Cult's doctrine was nothing more than an illusion.
If we succeeded in persuading her, her speeches would become a means of spreading Shaolin's Buddhist teachings.
I looked to Bunhyang. Still seething with resentment, apparently, he hadn't let his expression soften — he simply glared at the floor, grinding his teeth.
“Monk Bunhyang.”
“…What is it you require?”
“Just asking, on the off chance.”
“And that would be?”
“How far has the monk's martial training progressed?”
“Though this poor monk cannot measure up to the benefactors who have thundered across the murim as great masters, he can at least preserve his own hide.”
“You're certain?”
When I pressed him again, Bunhyang — prayer beads already out and rolling between his fingers, though I hadn't seen him produce them — pointed at Yeong Yeong with his free hand and declared,
“At the very least, I shall fare better than that creature there.”
…Seriously?
At those words, Yeong Yeong broke into a beaming smile.
“You sound confident. Good. If you defeat me, I'll erase every one of your misdeeds I've caught wind of up to this very day — as though they had never happened.”
Bunhyang, evidently grasping this as his one chance to claw back his standing, let a smile creep across his face as well.
“Who could vouch for the word of one who is not even a man? Then again — with two mouths at your disposal, I daresay speaking two ways comes easily enough.”
Wow. To think a monk's mouth could be that filthy.
The line was so far over the line that Yeong Yeong flared up, her dead eyes snapping wide open, and said,
“You vile, vomit-worthy bogus monk. How dare you hurl that insult at me — the daughter of Gakyeop Dojang, head of the Wudang Sect? If I ever break my word, I'll retire from the murim for good. But you won't live to see it. Today you'll spew bloody filth from all seven orifices, and in your next life you'll come back as a beast.”
“Hmph. You're a green sprout who hasn't yet left Pyoju, so I'll yield you the first move. Come.”
Ah. What do I do now.
What sort of letter should I send to the Shaolin Temple? How does one politely word a notice reading, 'Our Wudang Sect has, on your behalf, executed the wicked monk who disgraced Shaolin's honor'?
Just then, Eun Ae-hyang slipped up beside me and whispered in my ear.
“That girl, Yeong Yeong — how strong is she, exactly?”
“Ah, right — you wouldn't know.”
I had just opened my mouth to tell Eun Ae-hyang who Yeong Yeong's father was and what her specialty happened to be, when a tremendous detonation thundered from Yeong Yeong's side of the room.
Ah. It's over.
Looking toward the sound, I found exactly what I expected: Bunhyang on his knees with both arms reduced to pulp, and Yeong Yeong briskly shaking the blood off her hands as though flicking away water.
The walls on either side of the pillar Bunhyang had been leaning against were cracked in spiderwebs.
Judging by the blood on both her fists, she had unleashed Clouds and Rain Descend from the Heavens, a form of the Taiji Heart Fist, and hammered his guarding arms with a barrage like a cloudburst, pounding them to paste. Those webbed cracks, then, were what remained after the qi that had torn through his ruined arms slammed into the wall behind him.
I dug through my pack, found a piece of silver, and set it on the table.
Before long, the innkeeper came scrambling up at the noise. One look at the carnage, one look at the silver on the table — and, apparently reading the situation just fine, he kept his head bowed and backed cautiously out of the room.
Hm. The obligations of the murim, indeed. Well, I'd paid damages, so we were square.
Then Yeong Yeong leaned her face in close to Bunhyang's and said,
“Bogus monk. Any last words you'd like to leave behind before you become a guest who never returns?”
Bunhyang lifted his head a cautious fraction and looked up at her with terror-stricken eyes. Blood was trickling from his mouth. So he'd taken internal injuries as well, from a strike he never saw coming.
Bunhyang opened his mouth.
“G-Great hero! S-spare me, I beg you!”
So that was how effortlessly the words “Great Hero” could roll off the tongue.
Yeong Yeong eased back a step, pressed a finger to her lips, and tilted her head.
“Hm. Rather shabby, for a last testament.”
“F-forgive my presumption!”
Bunhyang's shoulders jerked and heaved as though trying to press his palms together. But his arms — shattered down to the very bone — would not rise so much as an inch.
Ugh… that has to hurt.
The agony must have been excruciating. But perhaps some instinct told him that the moment he screamed, his head would leave his shoulders on the spot.
Bunhyang begged for his life over and over, bobbing his head up and down in rapid succession like a man performing full prostrations. For all the world a puppet on strings.
…Well, this was about where I ought to step in.
I walked around behind Yeong Yeong and patted her shoulder.
“There, there. Junior sister, calm down.”
Fury was still leaking from Yeong Yeong's eyes, as though she resented not having ended him in a single stroke.
“Senior Brother, am I truly to forgive a bogus monk whose filth could not be scoured away even if I rinsed my ears in the Yeong River — the water where Xu You is said to have cleansed his own after hearing he might be made king — a hundred times over?”
Hm. True enough — that water would hardly be fit for an ox to drink.
But not yet. I shook my head.
“If we kill him right this instant, explaining matters to Shaolin afterward becomes a chore.”
“But…”
“Fine. Then we'll simply shatter his jaw. That mouth is the problem, after all.”
With that, I cast Bunhyang a sidelong glance. He was staring at us with a dazed expression, apparently unable to process what he was hearing.
Yeong Yeong heaved a sigh.
“I'll stop there for today. After the mission is done, I may kill him — yes?”
“That's up to you.”
At those words, Yeong Yeong flashed a sweet smile and seized Bunhyang by the jaw. Clamped shut, unable to utter a word, Bunhyang could only weep — tears of terror and of agony spilling from his eyes together.
“Mmph! Mmph!”
Rolling his pleading eyes, Bunhyang looked desperately from me to Eun Ae-hyang and back.
I, the one who had proposed it, naturally shook my head. Eun Ae-hyang, likewise, showed no more intention of intervening than I did — she simply watched the scene with eyes cold as frost.
He had run his mouth in the murim without ever gauging his opponent's strength — what exactly had he been expecting?
If you wanted merciful treatment, you should have become the Tripitaka monk. You're Shaolin, after all.