Chapter 53
Chapter 53
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 53
Chapter Title: Shaolin Temple
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The next day, Hong Geolgae came looking for Yi Chung and Dang Mujin, his large wound wrapped sloppily in dirty cloth.
When they asked about the vivid stitch marks on his forearm, Hong Geolgae spilled everything that had happened the night before. Right up to his decision to follow Big Wind Beggar.
"You seem to have pulled yourself together a bit now?"
He was talking about the late Ma Jeon-gae. Hong Geolgae shook his head.
"Not yet. But my master wouldn't have wanted me to stay put."
"Got it. I expect great things from you."
"Thank you, Elder."
Unlike Yi Chung, Dang Mujin didn't offer lengthy words of advice. Instead, he smacked Hong Geolgae on the back, his reluctance getting the better of him.
"See you later."
"Yeah."
Hong Geolgae grinned, his face full of regret.
Hong Geolgae was a special friend to Dang Mujin as well, but in Hong Geolgae's life, Dang Mujin was the only one who truly qualified as a real friend. Zhuul Village was that small a place.
Watching Hong Geolgae's retreating figure made Dang Mujin's chest tighten. To lighten the mood, he cracked a joke.
"It's not like you went looking for a new master because the old man taught you so poorly, right?"
"You can't open your mouth without nonsense spilling out."
Yi Chung reflexively denied it out of habit, but it wasn't entirely wrong. His teachings just didn't suit Hong Geolgae well.
However, this wasn't a problem with the teacher. It was with the student.
Unlike Dang Mujin, who had a slender, well-balanced build, Hong Geolgae had thick bones and a sturdy frame. Gentle, light fist techniques like Flying Snake Palm didn't fit him.
The same went for Xuanwu Divine Skill. It was an internal art Yi Chung had modified from an existing one to suit himself.
The biggest issue with Xuanwu Divine Skill was that it hadn't been designed with teaching it to others in mind.
Anyone without medical knowledge would struggle to learn it. Dang Mujin, who grasped and mastered it quickly, was the exception.
Did that mean Heart-Piercing Sword suited Hong Geolgae? Not really. Hong Geolgae didn't even use a sword. In spars, he wielded a wooden one, but his Heart-Piercing Sword resembled swinging a staff or metal club more than swordplay.
He had made some progress with footwork, but its limits loomed right ahead. Mastering footwork while cultivating an ill-suited internal art was impossible.
'Still, Big Wind Beggar's famous enough. He'll do fine.'
Yi Chung gathered his thoughts and asked Dang Mujin,
"By the way, how's the waterwheel shaft repair going?"
"Smoothly."
"How many wooden shafts have you made?"
"Plenty left to do, but for now, I'm focusing on linking the waterwheel and the shaft."
"Why?"
"Why do you think? It's gotta get done eventually. Not something that wraps up in a day or two."
"Eh, not my problem anyway. Do your best."
Dang Mujin secretly hoped for help, but Yi Chung didn't offer any.
*
Dang Mujin had thought making the wooden shafts would be the hardest, most time-consuming part of repairing the waterwheel shaft.
But after swinging a pickaxe for a few days, he changed his mind.
'This isn't a one-man job.'
To transmit the waterwheel's power to the shaft, he had to bury thick wooden beams from the waterwheel all the way to the shaft.
Even if Dan Seol-yeong handled from the waterwheel to Shaolin's west wall, Dang Mujin had to do the stretch from the west wall to the shaft.
The problem was how grueling it was to dig trenches and bury those thick beams—far beyond what he'd imagined.
Dan Seol-yeong swung her pickaxe sweating buckets too, but that area was soft mountain soil.
Shaolin's grounds were different. Trodden by countless feet for centuries, the earth inside felt like solid bedrock.
And it wasn't just digging holes and burying beams. To prevent issues from rain, snow, or people walking over, he had to frame the beams with wood.
The silver lining: no advanced skills required. Just endless manpower.
At Patrol Division Head's orders, a few sweeper monks helped out in their spare time, but it wasn't nearly enough. They were always busy.
'I need a new approach.'
Dang Mujin set down his pickaxe and returned to the Guest Reception Hall, deep in thought.
*
Since arriving at Shaolin, Dang Mujin's routine had always been similar.
Up early to hole up at the shaft carving shafts or head to Dan Seol-yeong to make sample ones.
But today, he left the Guest Reception Hall late and wandered Shaolin's grounds aimlessly.
Dang Mujin didn't realize it, but his eyes mirrored Yi Chung's—shifty, scheming.
The sun dipped low, nearing dinnertime.
Shaolin's monks finished their duties and practices, scattering about. Dang Mujin quickened his pace toward the training ground in front of Dharma Hall.
Shaolin monks found their places through various paths.
Dharma Hall was where novice martial monks honed basics.
Dang Mujin hid behind the building, scanning the monks. Soon, a suitable target caught his eye.
A martial monk around seventeen or eighteen. If Dang Mujin had a little brother, he'd be about that age.
'Perfect.'
Dang Mujin casually shifted to intercept the target's path. He didn't even consider the odds of passing unnoticed.
Among everyone in Shaolin right now, only he and Yi Chung had hair. He had the curious young monks' full attention.
The target approached with peers, all slowing as they neared Dang Mujin, itching to talk.
Dang Mujin stared at the ground while walking, then looked up. He glanced sideways and clasped hands in mock surprise.
"Whoa. I blocked your way. Sorry... Huh?"
Dang Mujin approached his preselected monk.
"Monk, any discomfort in your body?"
"Pardon? Nothing in particular."
"Well, a broken bone or crippled limb isn't the only discomfort. From spitting blood or aching joints down to frequent coughs—they're all issues. Like that itch on your elbow crease, for instance."
"Pardon? How did you know?"
Untainted by worldly dust, his reaction was big and honest. Like a shill for a street hustler.
Shaolin martial monks rarely sought physicians unless gravely ill, so reactions were bound to be strong.
But anyone could tell he had the itch. His elbow crease was red and swollen from scratching.
Even now, chatting with Dang Mujin, he scratched it habitually.
"I handle iron and wood now, but my real trade's physician. Back in distant Sichuan Province, the Dang family is fairly renowned for it."
"Sichuan Province!"
Just as Henan felt impossibly far to Dang Mujin last year at this time, Sichuan seemed endlessly distant to Shaolin's young monks.
And folks from afar always seemed impressive. Dang Mujin gave a meaningful smile.
"Fate must've brought me all the way from Henan to meet you. Since we're here, may I examine your condition?"
Already eager to chat, and now offered a checkup for his ailment? No reason to refuse. The young monk nodded vigorously.
"Please do."
Dang Mujin calmly assessed the symptoms.
Skin red and swollen, scratch marks seeping faint blood.
Hard scabs covered old wounds. Their dark red hue suggested no pus underneath.
"Looks like you've dealt with this itch for a while. Sleep well at night?"
"I wake up restless around dawn often."
"Arms burning, palms hot like they're full of fire—yeah, that'd wake you."
Just a light question, but the monk's eyes went wide.
"How did you know?"
"A skilled physician spots this much. Mouth dries constantly, thirst lingers even after water?"
"Exactly!"
The patient wasn't the only one; surrounding young monks' faces shifted dramatically. They gawked like he was a fortune-teller, not a doctor.
No doubt: Hua Tuo diagnosing in a market would draw less awe than a middling physician in Shaolin. Dang Mujin was getting pumped.
"Bet you coughed a lot as a kid. Skin rough like bark somewhere?"
"Spot on! Scratching my side too much did that."
"And every winter, reliable diarrhea..."
The reaction was subtle this time.
No physician nails every symptom perfectly, no matter how skilled. Just link common, likely ones. Dang Mujin backpedaled smoothly.
"...would be dangerous. Drink warm water often in winter."
"Got it!"
Dodged that. Dang Mujin sighed inwardly and continued.
"Alright. Now that I know the issue, let's ease it. Arm out."
The young monk extended his arm readily. But when Dang Mujin pulled out needles casually, fear flickered.
"It'll sting."
Dang Mujin needled Hyeopbaek, Gongchoe, and Yeolgok. Then Eardoor by the ear and Gye Mae k. Onlookers looked puzzled.
"Arm itches, why ears?"
"Acupoints connect organically, influencing each other. Needle the ear to treat the arm, palm to soothe the gut."
Dang Mujin waited, then slowly withdrew the needles.
"Better now?"
The young monk eyed his elbow skeptically, then scratched tentatively. Itches usually worsened with scratching.
Shock lit his face.
"It's really gone!"
"What? Already cured?"
Murmurs swelled. Dang Mujin cut in before hype peaked.
"Just suppressed the itch with needles for now—needs proper treatment. Skin issues don't heal overnight."
"Ooh."
Admit limits, step back—and trust grows. No doubt in their eyes now.
"Wind-Dispelling Powder won't do. Better White Tiger with Cinnamon Twig Decoction. Come to Guest Reception Hall tomorrow morning for the brew."
Treatment done, Dang Mujin scanned around. Young monks shot up hands competitively.
"Sprained my ankle once—hurts every time I sit or stand now!"
"Feels like something's stuck in my throat. Can you fix it?"
"Head squeezes sometimes. What's that?"
Dang Mujin feigned calm, lining them up.
"Alright, one by one. Take turns."
Dang Mujin treated the young monks' minor ailments for free. He wove in tales of Sichuan and his journey to hold their attention.
*
After four straight days treating monks' trifles, Dang Mujin picked up his pickaxe again.
Tending patients was a physician's duty, but Dang Mujin's real aim came after.
Not long after resuming digging, faint footsteps approached from behind. Turning, he saw a familiar face—the one he'd lanced for boils recently.
Face known, no hesitation. The young monk approached naturally.
"Busy today?"
Dang Mujin replied politely.
"Would love to see more patients, but duty calls."
Back in Chengdu days, his father Dang Jesun often treated without charge.
People might forget fees easily, but debts of gratitude weighed heavy.
Even unmentioned, they'd bring payment when able—a coin or two, handfuls of grain.
But some truly couldn't afford it.
They paid in labor instead: kitchen help, hauling pine branches from nearby hills.
The youthful monk ventured cautiously,
"...Can I help?"
"No need. You're tired from training. Go rest."
Such refusals only made it harder to leave.
The monk glanced around, spotting eight sturdy pickaxes by the shaft. No idea why so many.
He grabbed one, positioning a bit away from Dang Mujin.
"Dig here?"
"No, really, no need. But if you insist for peace of mind, bit to the left. Yeah. Right there—perfect."
*
Days later, Dang Mujin barely touched a pickaxe anymore. He'd escaped labor, becoming overseer.
He sat in shade, checking monks' minor issues while they swung pickaxes in his stead.
Used to physical work, their pace satisfied greatly.
Yi Chung approached, watching.
"Won't using monks freely cause trouble? Picky ones like Fierce Dog Division successors or Precepts Master."
"Precepts Master stopped by the other day—said it's fine after training ends."
"Why?"
"Said helping with Buddha's work is merit in itself. Even encouraged it."
Yi Chung's eyes narrowed.
"That guy's lost his edge."
"Let's call it mutual aid."
Dang Mujin sat in the shade, watching the monks swing their pickaxes.