The Unexpected Shaolin Monk Do Jin
Do Jin, the Shaolin monk. His eyes sparkled with sharp intelligence, his lips curved cleverly. He wore neat gray monastic robes, his closely shaven head gleaming with a bluish tint.
Among the later-generation disciples from the Nine Great Sects and Eight Great Clans competing this time, he was on the younger side—visually about the same age as Yi Jinpyeong of Yi Gajang. He too had advanced easily in his first match with a single swing of his fist.
The crowd watching the two boys face off couldn't help but buzz with excitement. Yi Gajang's meteoric newcomer and the disciple of the millennium-old Shaolin facing him off. The later-generation disciple tournament was growing more thrilling by the minute.
"That kid's met his match. They say that Shaolin monk's got real skill."
"He's from Shaolin—of course he does. Word is he's even a favorite to win."
"Not Nam Sogyun of Cheongseong?"
"Nam Sogyun's got all the hype, but what he showed earlier didn't live up to it. Seemed kinda lacking in confidence for some reason..."
"You fool, don't jinx it. What do you know?!"
The murmurs swelled. Eyes gleamed with anticipation.
Yi Jinpyeong, standing on the arena stage, tapped his pipe against his opposite palm. A faint golden glow enveloped the pipe. Do Jin's gaze never left it.
Yi Jinpyeong soon recognized him.
"We meet again."
Before entering the Dongbeonhoe, he'd clashed hands with this Shaolin monk during that scuffle with the Cheongseong punk and his entourage. Less an exchange and more Yi Jinpyeong slamming down his pipe, with Do Jin barely blocking it.
Yi Jinpyeong had put real force into that strike, knowing the Cheongseong kid wasn't half bad. But considering the footwork that slipped between them in an instant and the inner energy that parried the pipe, this Shaolin monk's skill was shockingly advanced for his age.
Do Jin politely cupped his hands in greeting.
"Allow me to greet you properly once more. I am Do Jin of Shaolin."
A clear, spirited voice. Yi Jinpyeong eyed him and asked,
"You holding up okay?"
Do Jin noticed Yi Jinpyeong's gaze drifting to his arm.
He gave an awkward smile. "I'm fine."
"Doubt it."
"It won't affect the match."
Do Jin replied stubbornly. Yi Jinpyeong shrugged.
"Fine, if you say so. Don't come crying later."
Do Jin fell silent.
The Shaolin monk exhaled deeply, straightened his posture, and placed one foot's instep atop the opposite knee. One tightly clenched fist guarded his front, the other curled high above his head toward Yi Jinpyeong—like a crane poised to strike.
The crowd erupted in awe at the sight.
Geumganggwon!
Shaolin's thousand-year history housed countless martial arts. The famed Shaolin's Seventy-Two Supreme Arts. Their diversity was matched only by their profundity—most demanded a lifetime for even the gifted to grasp.
Do Jin boldly assumed the signature stance of Geumganggwon, the most renowned yet hardest-to-master fist-and-leg technique. It spoke volumes of his caliber—and how highly he rated Yi Jinpyeong.
Yi Jinpyeong laughed heartily at the display.
Geumganggwon, huh...
Yi Gyeol had lived arrogantly, bowing to no one. Yet even he held a few in deep admiration deep down. The first time he'd clashed with that young Shaolin monk, it had been with Geumganggwon. For this kid to pull it out against him now? Amusingly fateful.
The match hadn't even begun, but he knew. This boy would unleash the true essence of Shaolin arts—something he hadn't tasted in ages.
Yi Jinpyeong tucked his pipe into his sash. Do Jin's brow twitched.
"Young hero, if you're holding back out of concern for my arm—"
"What nonsense. Just wanna beat you proper now that we're here."
He stepped forward with his left foot, bent his rear knee to lower his stance. His extended hand palm-down toward the ground, the other lightly fisted behind his ear.
Yi Gajang's signature fist-and-leg art: Gu Hwan Nan Gyeok.
The very technique he'd taught Gang Ryong to turn him into a fist master. Facing Geumganggwon with fists and feet after so long? Sounded fun.
"Kid. I ain't holdin' back. Don't cry when you get thrashed."
A kid calling another kid "kid." Do Jin didn't seem offended. Light flickered in his clear eyes before he nodded, lips pressing tight.
"Very well. I've been eager for a real fight."
As the two youths settled into their stances, the training ground filled with silent tension. Necks craned, eyes widened—no one wanted to miss a move.
The standoff didn't last.
In a flash, the one-legged Do Jin wobbled—or seemed to—before exploding forward, fist thrusting like lightning.
The duel began.
"Ooooh!"
Exclamations burst everywhere.
Relentless flurries exchanged. The two youngest entrants stabbed, slashed, thrust, and seized at each other ferociously, endlessly.
It was a clash of restraint versus chaos.
Were they even breathing? Shaolin's refined inner energy flowed straight from Do Jin's elbow to his fist-tip. Each punch carried the weight of a moving mountain, splitting the air.
From such a young frame poured Shaolin's millennial legacy, heavy and profound.
Yi Jinpyeong's Gu Hwan Nan Gyeok countered with endless variations. Phantom fists layered afterimages to bewilder the eye; chaotic kicks rained from toe, shin, knee—direction and height be damned.
Illusionary captures, chain strikes, body-breaking shifts to topple balance. Every conceivable body technique unleashed.
Compared to Geumganggwon's solid, linear orthodoxy, Yi Jinpyeong's moves seemed chaotic, flashy, raw instinct unrefined.
But that didn't mean inferior. Weaponizing head to toe, every motion menaced.
Still, that was it—or so they thought. Weren't the Nine Great Sects and Eight Great Clans Murim's pinnacle, Shaolin its apex? Eventually, Geumganggwon would pierce the chaos and claim victory.
But as time wore on, the crowd realized their error.
Mysteriously, Yi Jinpyeong's hands and feet—tracers in unpredictable arcs—overwhelmed Do Jin's. Soon, they merrily pummeled the monk.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Dust rose on this clear day. Moments later, Yi Jinpyeong pulled back from the battered Do Jin—swollen everywhere, barely standing.
Yi Jinpyeong bore not a mark. Just a bead of sweat from exertion trickling down his forehead.
He wiped it with his sleeve and grinned—refreshed, satisfied, liberated.
"Ahh, damn, good skill and tough hide—fun to pound!"
Praise or insult? Do Jin barely raised hands to salute.
"I... yield."
Do Jin crumpled with a thud. The training ground flipped into uproar.
The crowd was stunned.
"Yi Gajang... beat Shaolin?!"
"Dongjeong Lake's victory!"
"Dream or reality?"
"No bluff!"
"See those moves? That's beyond later-generation level..."
Yi Jinpyeong had only swung his pipe fiercely till now. Rumors swirled it was some treasure weapon—steal it, snatch it.
But pipe-less, he was still mighty. Dissecting Geumganggwon body-to-body transcended expectations.
Amazed by Yi Jinun's second-son prowess, awed by Yi Jingang's sword dance, now the runt Yi Jinpyeong crushed Shaolin with fists and feet. Shock piled on shock.
It was a declaration: Yi Gajang had revived. The legendary house from tales they'd never witnessed.
The Nine Great Sects and Eight Great Clans elders, stunned by Yi Jingang's blade art, were speechless at Yi Jinpyeong dusting a Shaolin disciple.
Most had half-jokingly dismissed including Dongjeong Lake factions in the tournament.
But this flow? Unforeseen.
Agitated elders whispered, eyes darting.
Seok Un Daesa—one of Shaolin's Eight Great Protectors here representing them—wore an indescribable expression.
When Do Jin, barely recovered, bowed from the guest seats, Seok Un's response was icy.
"What a disgrace. Law Yeon praised you endlessly, so I had high hopes."
He lambasted heedless of other sects' stares. Elders feigned distant gazes but ears perked.
Nothing beat watching another's house burn—especially Shaolin's.
Do Jin stiffened at the mention of his master but bowed politely.
"I merely lost to a superior foe. Master won't take it hard."
"Your master's always been like that. What of my face? Shaolin's honor? Beaten by Yi Gajang, of all— you've made us a laughingstock to these sects and elders."
"..."
Do Jin had no reply.
A nearby Wudang elder chuckled dryly.
"Seok Un Daesa, don't scold the boy too harshly. I watched closely—his right arm moved stiffly. If injured beforehand, a momentary lapse isn't worth such reprimand."
Seok Un turned to Do Jin. "True?"
"Yes, but—"
"No excuses. Did you have an injury?"
Seok Un grilled the injury's origin. Do Jin reluctantly detailed the pre-banquet clash with Yi Jinpyeong.
"My arm was lightly injured, true. But it didn't affect the match, and it happened during our exchange, so—"
"Enough."
Seok Un cut him off.
"So Yi Gajang's brat cunningly wounded your arm beforehand. And exploited it in a duel meant to be fair. Right?"
Do Jin panicked at Seok Un repackaging his loss to vilify Yi Gajang. Worse, the other elders nodded agreement.
As Do Jin opened his mouth to protest—
"Aaah!"
Screams erupted everywhere.
The distracted elders jolted, peering at the arena.
Several bodies tangled atop the stage—including Yi Jinpyeong, who'd just fought Do Jin.
And on the floor, red blood pooled, spreading wide.