It was late spring, the third month, and the Jiangnan scenery was at its finest—flowers of every hue crowning the trees, orioles darting everywhere.
Outside Golden Light Temple on Yanyun Mountain, a grey-robed monk stood washing clothes at the river's edge below the mountain. A great, coarse-featured fellow a full nine chi tall, he was in a foul mood, and he glared and cursed: “Damn it all! Back in the eastern hills I robbed to my heart's content—gold and silver piled like mountains, beauties by the cartload, all the wine and meat a man could want. What a fine life that was! Then I had to go and run into that cursed bald donkey. He said I had some 'affinity with Buddha,' subdued me in a couple of moves, and no matter how I thrashed with every trick I knew, I couldn't break free. He dragged me off to this Golden Light Temple to suffer. And now I'm expected to wash clothes like some woman? Back in the day, when my clothes wore out, I'd just go rob new ones. Since when was there all this bother...?”
The monk wasn't very old, but ferocity poured from his brow and eyes—the sort of face that could stop a crying child dead in the night. His hands were as big as bear paws, and the few monk's robes beneath them had been mauled beyond recognition, yet not a whit cleaner for it.
From across the river a breeze carried faint singing. The voice was ethereal and shifting, now seeming to come from the south, now from the north, its tune winding and strange, woven through with the tones of flute, zither, lute, and fiddle—no mortal throat could produce it.
The burly monk only gave a cold snort and pretended not to hear. Seeing he would not respond, the singer tried a few new flourishes, the voice turning soft and sorrowful, as if pouring out endless grief. It lingered a long while, then at last drifted away.
With his ears a little clearer, the burly monk angrily scrubbed at the clothes a few times, decided that counted as done, and was about to get up and leave—when the red sun suddenly leapt above the eastern horizon, scattering ten thousand shafts of golden light. Wind swept the last clouds away and the mist dispersed. From far upriver drifted a bamboo basket, rising and falling on the waves.
The monk stretched out both palms, and a suction force surged from thin air, splitting the river's surface. He drew the basket close and looked: inside lay a newborn infant, swaddled in a blanket, a pacifier in its mouth, its face downy-soft, its little lips red, its small ears tender, its lashes long and curling. Quite adorable, sleeping soundly with its eyes squeezed shut.
“Well, damn it—a demon infant. Let me just perform the rites and send its soul on its way...”
The burly monk was about to slap the baby into the river with a single palm when a voice drifted down from Golden Light Temple: “Xuanye! You're entertaining evil thoughts again. Bring that child up the mountain at once, and do not harm its life!”
Knowing well that this cursed bald master of his had a heart of compassion but the methods of a thunderbolt, the big monk dared not disobey. He grabbed the basket, cursing without pause, and headed straight up the mountain. Entering Golden Light Temple, he took the back way to a secluded little courtyard, and without knocking or calling out, walked right in.
His given name was Chen Ba—a bandit lord of the underworld who had terrorized seven provinces, his martial arts unmatched in power. In all his life he had never met a foe who could stand against him.
One day he robbed a retired court official and was about to kill him when a traveling monk happened by and stopped Chen Ba. That monk's martial arts were profound beyond measure; for all Chen Ba prided himself on his skill and counted few in the world as his match, he was still carried back to the temple like a kitten and forcibly tonsured, made into a monk.
A monk in a moon-white robe, his features refined and handsome, reached out a hand, and the basket in Xuan Gang's grasp floated through the air into his arms. He glanced at it and sighed: “Your parents loved each other, but the world would not allow it. Luckily, our Buddhist gate is broad enough—taking you in does no harm!”
Watching his master snatch things from the air with a wave of his hand, without the slightest show of strain, Xuan Gang thought to himself: “Buddhist powers really are something. I cultivated bitterly for over ten years just to raise my true qi from the acquired to the innate, and even then I can only draw swords and the like from within three or five chi. This cursed bald monk can pluck a basket of ten-odd jin from twenty or thirty paces away as easily as reaching out an arm...”
“One of these days I ought to learn some Buddhist divine arts myself—would make robbing and plundering a lot more convenient.”
While the burly monk was lost in such thoughts, his “cursed bald master” spoke: “This child's parents are unfit to raise him, so I'll take him into our school. He is your junior brother; I name him Xuanye!”
“Golden Light Temple is a seat of orthodox Buddhism, and there are more eminent monks of deep attainment within than one can count. But we master and disciple have been here only half a year—just guest-monks on temporary stay, not proper members of this temple. Eating and lodging are no trouble, but if you want to adopt a child and hire a wet nurse, you'll have to pay from your own purse. I recall that when you came up the mountain you brought a bundle with some gold, silver, and jewels hidden in it. Take it down the mountain and find this child a sturdy wet nurse!”
“What? That's all my own hard-earned wealth! You want me to hand it over—how could that ever feel as good as spending my own silver...?”
“Xuan Gang!”
“Fine, fine, fine! I give up! I'll go find a wet nurse right now!”
Xuan Gang knew this cursed bald master's word was law and that he was not a man to trifle with, so he dared not argue further and made to stride off.
Suddenly the handsome-featured monk spoke again: “Your wild nature is not yet tamed. Once you're down the mountain, you're likely to just run off. So I set you a three-day limit. If you don't return by then—rebellious disciple—you know my methods, and you know our Shaolin brothers are spread across the land. Pray only that I don't find you...” The monk gave his bandit disciple a cool, offhand look, and Xuan Gang at once shuddered. Furious, he stamped his foot and shouted: “Cursed bald monk, you might as well just kill me! How am I supposed to find a wet nurse in three days? Now if you'd told me to snatch a few of the kept women off corrupt officials and fat-cat merchants, I could guarantee eight or ten up the mountain within a single day!”
“Enough of your lip, disciple Xuan Gang. Go down the mountain to some bustling place and find a poor household with a woman who's just given birth and would trade her milk for money to feed her family. Offer her plenty of gold and silver, and hiring one will be easy.”
Reluctant as he was, Xuan Gang knew this master's words could not be defied—this cursed bald master's methods were nothing like Buddhist mercy, being vicious and ruthless through and through. Muttering nonstop, he still obediently went back to his meditation cell, took up a pair of precept sabers and a bundle, and was about to head down the mountain when a thought struck him: “Master gave me three days before I must return. If I hire the wet nurse easily, doesn't that leave me a day and a half to enjoy myself down there? I've been meaning to get some big fish and rich meat—my mouth's been so bland these days a bird could fly right out of it.” At this thought, the burly monk's anger turned to delight, and chuckling, he finished packing and headed down the mountain.
He had roamed several provinces as a lone bandit, and the gold and silver he'd amassed over his life was truly no small sum. Though most of it was buried in the mountains and forests and he carried only a hundredth part or so with him, that was already enough for him to squander gold like dirt and spend as he pleased.
Coming down Yanyun Mountain, the big monk didn't ask directions but simply followed the widest official roads, racing along with his lightness skill for six hours. Sure enough, a rather imposing city lay ahead, standing tall across the land. With its upturned eaves and carved corners, the city was at least seven or eight hundred years old, and above the gate tower three large characters were written in black ink—Pengshan City.
It was said these three characters were written by one of the dynasty's founding generals. That general, fresh from a string of victories, passed through the place, and the Pengshan magistrate of the day, all gushing flattery and fulsome praise, so delighted the blunt fighting man—who knew nothing but war—that he gladly left behind this piece of “treasured calligraphy.” The three big characters, “Pengshan City,” had no master's brushwork and were frankly ugly, yet they were said to have quite the power to ward off evil and drive out ghosts. Legend had it that if anyone was stricken by an evil wind, they need only be brought to the city gate and have that general's name read aloud a dozen times, and they would suddenly recover without any medicine.
Big Monk Xuan Gang had never much believed such tales. To him there were only two things in the world worth trusting: his own fists and feet, and the steel blade in his hand. Though he had received the precepts at Golden Light Temple on Yanyun Mountain and been humiliated several times at the hands of his master, the monk Kong Chan, Big Monk Xuan Gang still firmly believed it was only that his fists and feet weren't fierce enough and his saber technique not yet fast enough.
“Back at Golden Light Temple, I heard the monks big and small talk about it—Pengshan is the wealthiest county town around. I've got plenty of gold and silver on hand, so I ought to enjoy myself to the fullest. Only... I'm a baldhead too, and that makes a lot of things inconvenient...”
Big Monk Xuan Gang had wandered the jianghu for many years and knew a fair bit about the ways of the world. He knew that with his ferocious face and his monk's status—never mind visiting brothels—even eating meat would draw disapproving looks. And as for a wet nurse, that was even more hopeless. Thick-skinned as the big monk was, the mere thought of standing in the middle of a long street and bellowing, “Anyone here got a woman with plenty of milk? There's a little monk at the temple needs feeding!” made him feel it was absurd beyond belief and utterly beneath his dignity.
So, outside Pengshan's city gate, the big monk first stripped off his monk's robe and changed into a set of black fighting clothes, then got himself a headwrap to hide his bald head. With a pair of steel sabers at his waist, he looked every bit the jianghu bravo, and swaggered right into Pengshan.
Xuan Gang casually collared a passerby to ask the way. With his vicious look and the pair of sabers at his waist, the man dared not hold anything back and told him all he knew; in a few words Xuan Gang learned which street the biggest tavern in Pengshan was on.
Hearing the tavern wasn't far, and with the craving-worms stirring in his mouth, Big Monk Xuan Gang was overjoyed. Leaving the passerby behind, he turned this way and that and soon found the place.
“It does look the part. Not as grand as the great taverns of the big cities, but still an old establishment of several decades—the cooks here must know their craft. Eating vegetarian every single day at Golden Light Temple, my face is turning the color of greens. If I don't get a few big meals of fish and meat soon, I'm afraid I'll forget what feeling good even is.”
Striding into the tavern, Xuan Gang found that he'd arrived right at the mealtime rush—there wasn't a single empty table. Looking around, he spotted a beautiful young Daoist nun seated by the window, delicately eating a bowl of vegetarian noodles. No one shared her table, and the seats beside her were empty. He gave a hearty laugh and walked over.
No sooner had he come within three chi of her than Xuan Gang felt a thread of cold air invade his body. He too had cultivated his martial arts to the innate level, and he shivered despite himself, deeply startled. He thought: “This aura is cold beyond compare—could it be the legendary sword-sha yin qi? I've long heard that when your martial arts reach the innate stage you must condense sha qi and gang qi and attain powers beyond mortal men. My cursed bald master has that wondrous method, but he won't teach it to me. Where did this little Daoist nun learn such profound arts?”
Xuan Gang knew the beautiful young Daoist nun had loosed her sword-sha yin qi precisely because she disliked ordinary folk coming near—an ordinary person would feel he'd stepped into ice and snow the moment he drew close. He knew she was an extraordinary person and would naturally have kept his distance, but he was a man of boundless audacity with no patience to wait for a table to open. With a fawning grin he said: “Bodhisattva lady!”
The young Daoist nun corrected him: “Wrong—fellow Daoist. We're both travelers far from home; do a kindness and share my table.”
Big Monk Xuan Gang stood a full nine chi tall, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, as burly as a bear from some deep old forest. With his ferocious face, long used to murder and arson, and though now steeped in the Buddha's teaching, that “keep your distance if you value your life” savagery had not yet worn off—even when he spoke softly, it was like a fierce, white-browed tiger rearing up in broad daylight to bare its fangs. The tavern's patrons all quailed in fear, but the young Daoist nun only laughed softly and said: “Sheyang Tiger! Do you not recognize an old acquaintance?”
Xuan Gang was mildly taken aback. “How do you know the nickname I went by when I was roaming the jianghu?”
The young Daoist nun answered: “I have an elegant name in the jianghu too—Chess-Sword Linglong!”
Xuan Gang started violently and cried: “Chess-Sword Linglong! So you're the heroine Su Luoyan! Why have you come looking for me? And the one making music this morning—that was you as well, wasn't it?”
Su Luoyan replied: “Even the one who sent that infant was me.”
Xuan Gang gave a wry laugh. “No wonder the singing was so uncanny—so it was the handiwork of the Ten-Thousand-Year Fox House.”
Su Luoyan bowed gracefully and said: “I did not mean to disturb you, Master. This young woman has a matter for which I beg Mr. Chen to come out of retirement.”
Xuan Gang's face was full of suspicion. He sat down with an air of swaggering ease, his expression saying, “Go on, say what you like.” He was no jianghu novice—though Chess-Sword Linglong Su Luoyan had an excellent reputation, he would not trust her so rashly.
A flicker of anger crossed Su Luoyan's pretty face. “Lately there is a lecher who calls himself White Chrysanthemum, running rampant across several provinces. He has not only ruined the chastity of more than ten girls of noble houses and of our sisters in the martial world, but has also killed and wounded many innocents. My own younger brother set out to rid the world of this scourge, but fell to the villain's murderous hand—struck in the vital point on his back by a single Ice Soul Finger, he met a violent end.”
“For months since coming down the mountain, two or three times I've heard this villain had shown himself, and hurried there in all haste—but the lecher White Chrysanthemum is secretive in his movements and most skilled in the arts of escape. Each time I failed to corner him, and he slipped away without a trace.”
“I know Mr. Chen's tracking skill is unrivaled under heaven, so I came in person to ask for your help.”
“There's no need to worry about your master's scolding, Mr. Chen. I have already asked the elders of my sect to plead your case with Master Kong Chan, and I've long since arranged for several wet nurses and a dozen or so servants. Everything is in order.”
Xuan Gang stroked his chin and asked thoughtfully: “How much silver is Heroine Su willing to pay?”
...Xuan Gang: I first came into the world ten-odd years ago, and that mangy toad decided I was too old to be a lead and cast me aside like a worn-out sandal...
...Kong Chan: Daoist Guanlong and I are ranked side by side—we are both of the world's pinnacles...
Chapter 2