Monks Want to Live as Monks - 1
Only after dispatching a messenger pigeon straight to Jin did it hit me. In this Dochalwon, everyone except the two Do-eosa and the Left Assistant Do-eosa was under my command.
I didn't need to go to Shaolin myself—I could just send someone.
Habits are a scary thing.
I gave a wry smile as I watched the pigeon already speeding toward Song Mountain. The old habit of rolling around like a dog hadn't left me yet. Whenever a problem cropped up, I'd check it out in person and handle it myself.
That was a virtue for field operatives, not for a central administrator who synthesized reports from all over.
Even the inspector in charge of Shaolin hadn't come crying for help with a "What do I do?" It was just a routine report that it might take time.
Just this once, I'll move.
Still, Song Mountain wasn't far from Kaepyeong. It was a neighbor in the same Zhili province, so I could pop over like it was a stroll. Never mind that Zhili was the size of a small kingdom.
If I worried about that, no one could survive bureaucracy in this vast Daesong.
Warriors of the Penitence Cave, huh.
Besides, the warriors holed up in the Penitence Cave had piqued my curiosity intensely. Some things were better investigated personally than delegating. Being on-site let me resolve doubts on the spot and chase down new questions sparked by the local vibe.
Ordering a proxy to poke around with endless instructions was a hassle for both of us.
Anyway, that settled it.
I'll go in about three days.
Of course, I wasn't skipping out on the first day of duty for a trip. Even I had some sense of propriety.
So, handle routine work tomorrow and the day after, then slip away on the third day. Three days should give Jin enough time to prepare for his big brother.
Shaolin Temple had a history stretching back some nine hundred years. And since it was founded by a monk who crossed over from India, the birthplace of Buddhism, it would have been one of the Central Plains' premier sacred sites even without its martial prowess. Much like in my previous life.
The Shaolin of my past life shone brightly even in a world without true martial arts, its name resounding far and wide. Sure, it had some fame for martial arts, but compared to real inner arts, it was as good as nothing.
But this world had martial arts. Combine Shaolin's history and traditions with mighty techniques, and its stature here dwarfed anything from my past life.
"Welcome, benefactor. Shaolin extends its warm greetings to you."
"My thanks for Shaolin's hospitality."
That was why, when Shaolin monks came down from the mountain to greet me, I returned their clasped hands with a proper bow of my own.
North Shaolin, South Wudang. Words from the era when murim's prestige pierced the heavens, an untouchable golden age. Even among those arrogant sects and clans, those two stood head and shoulders above the rest.
And Shaolin and Wudang had endured steadfastly while countless murim forces crumbled, earning the court's favor and respect. Even as the grandson of Giwang and a high official, I felt the weight of treating them lightly.
"I apologize for the sudden visit. I hope I haven't inconvenienced Shaolin."
"How could there be any inconvenience? Shaolin and Song Mountain stand open to all, at all times. If your heart calls you here, it is only natural that you come."
The monk smiled gently and shook his head at my perfunctory apology. He was right. Even treated as murim's leader and a founding merit sect of Daesong, at its core, Shaolin was a temple. Temples didn't bar their gates based on person or time.
"Besides, Han Jin benefactor prepared diligently upon hearing you were coming. He's usually so laid-back, buried in his studies, but blood ties move even him."
"Preparation? Family's family—he could've just shown his true self. I feel bad for bothering my little brother."
"He probably just wants to show his respected brother the best side of himself."
My lips curved up at that. Respected brother. If Jin respected this big brother of his, it meant he was resolved to serve the realm and its people as a true official.
The longer that resolve fermented on Song Mountain, the more monstrous an elite he'd become upon entering the world. Just imagining it filled me with anticipation and pride.
How fine an official would Jin become, after preparing longer than Ryeong or me? He might even climb higher than his civil-official brother who'd started first.
"Come, let's head up. The abbot himself emerged from the Penitence Cave earlier than usual upon hearing of your arrival."
"Haha, then we should hurry...?"
I trailed off mid-sentence, my mouth snapping shut. A word I couldn't just laugh off had slipped in.
"The Penitence Cave?"
My brain refused to process it, so I double-checked. The abbot had been where? Coming out of the Penitence Cave? Shaolin's leader... from the place where sinners were locked away?
Why?
It was baffling. If it was just checking if the cave was secure or if the prisoners were still alive, that made sense. But they wouldn't phrase it as "coming out."
"Ah, you didn't know, benefactor."
I couldn't hide my shock, but the monk opened his mouth with unflappable calm. Impressive. Was this the composure of Shaolin monks?
Awesome—and a little intimidating.
"Ever since driving out the Mongols, the abbot enters and exits the Penitence Cave daily. We desperately dissuaded him from living there outright."
Weird. I'd heard the explanation, but it only confused me more.
"It's bizarre, isn't it? We think so too."
Reading my face, the monk's serene smile turned wry, unlike before.
"But the trials and pains the abbot endured are beyond reason. So he—and they—act in ways incomprehensible to us."
"They?"
"All those senior to the abbot have entered the Penitence Cave. They haven't emerged in decades."
I closed my eyes involuntarily at his words. I'd come with a light heart, only to confront a heavy truth.
The Founding War was no easy victory. The Mongols were crumbling, sure, but they remained a Central Plains-dominating superpower. Their pillars were rock-solid.
Chakan Temur, Koke Temur, Toktoa—the Three Great Experts of the Realm. Unlike their inept emperor, these Mongol royals threw themselves into defense without fear of death. Armies swarming from across the plains at a finger's snap. Even Grandfather rallying the Central Plains' all-stars barely scraped a win.
No—knowing the future, he'd scraped together every last star to make it possible.
The Mongols were that formidable, the war that brutal. And its aftermath didn't spare Shaolin or Song Mountain.
"Not as bad as Hang Mountain, near the Mongol heartland, but Song Mountain burned too, steeped in grief. Many Shaolin sons lay down here and never rose."
"Truly tragic."
"Thankfully, the abbot foresaw the tragedy and built South Shaolin in advance, averting the worst. We rebuilt the charred mountain and temple, but fallen comrades... we can never see again."
I nodded silently. Except for outliers like Hang Mountain, burned peaks could green again. Ruined temples could be rebuilt. But dead brothers? That was final.
Even with South Shaolin preserving the name through the war, and merit-sect status rebuilding North Shaolin afterward—lost comrades never returned.
"Especially Senior Brother Cheongseung's passing hit the abbot hard. He'd resolved to die himself and secretly eyed Cheongseung as successor."
I glanced at the monk upon hearing "Cheongseung Senior Brother." Cheongseung was martial brother to current abbot Hyun-seung. Calling him senior meant...
"Myeong-seung, right?"
"Ah, I forgot to introduce myself. How embarrassing."
Myeong-seung, sole survivor among Hyun-seung's brothers. The youngest, who'd buried countless seniors alone—a monk of misfortune.
"Anyway, yes. Song Mountain and Shaolin's tragedy, the deaths of Cheongseung Senior Brother and countless comrades, the guilt of staining Buddhist fists with blood. All these trials drove the abbot into self-imposed Penitence Cave."
Now I understood the abbot's eccentricity. Not that I endorsed it—Shaolin's leader squatting in the sinners' cave was inconsiderate, even if just commuting.
Imagine that commute time spent on temple duties instead.
But I'm not the one who lived it, so who am I to judge?
Guilt over nine centuries of Shaolin burning in his tenure, despair at his hoped-for successor's death, crossing the irreversible river with comrades. Anyone rational might snap under that barrage.
So, no blaming the abbot. Even fellow Shaolin monk Myeong-seung seemed to understand Hyun-seung.
Or so I'd thought.
"Welcome, benefactor. As expected of Prince Giwang's grandson—tall and striking. For a moment, I felt like I'd gone back and seen His Highness in his prime."
Guided by Myeong-seung to the abbot's quarters, Hyun-seung greeted me there. Right up until I spotted the massive wine jar boldly planted beside him.
What the hell is this?
My mind reeled. Monks and Taoists sneaking or brazenly boozing was cliché by now. But even the bold ones offered the lame excuse of "This isn't booze, it's grain tea."
They showed a shred of conscience, toting tiny flasks of "grain tea."
But that jar? No hiding, no flask pretense—what was it?
Hwagyeong means he won't get drunk anyway.
Hyun-seung was one of murim's two Hwa-gyeong masters, alongside Wudang's Taegyeok Geomgong. He could guzzle endlessly without a buzz... but still, that was...
"Care for a cup, benefactor?"
Reading my stare somehow, Hyun-seung scooped booze from the jar—dipper bobbing on the surface—and offered it over.
A cup? That was three full bottles.