42: Chapter 42 Between Zen and Martial Arts

The snow in the bamboo forest was deep, reaching his knees.

Lu Mingyuan walked through the snow, using neither lightness techniques to leap nor spiritual power to support his feet. With every step, he sank firmly and pulled himself out just as firmly; the lower half of his robe was already soaked through.

He was in no hurry.

During that night spent sitting under the corridor of the Shizhuang Courtyard three days ago, he had learned one thing: a path is meant for walking, not for rushing.

Deep in the bamboo forest were the remnants of a stone path, covered in moss and seemingly abandoned for many years. He followed the path, turning past a cluster of frozen bamboo, and his vision suddenly opened up—

A stone chamber was embedded in the mountain wall.

The door was slightly ajar.

Lu Mingyuan stood before the door for a long time.

He did not push the door open immediately; he just stood there, listening to the rustling of the wind through the bamboo tips, the dull thud of snow falling from the branches, and his own breath condensing into white mist in the cold air.

Twenty years ago, behind this door, Zen Master Chengguan had carved "Letting Go" for twenty years.

Twenty years later, he threw down his knife and emerged from seclusion, laughing loudly as he descended the mountain.

And the door had never been locked.

Lu Mingyuan gently pushed it open.

The stone chamber was not large, about the size of a single square zhang. The four walls were covered in words—not carved, but "written." Not written with a knife, but with the heart. Every stroke was not chiseled out but ground out. For twenty years, day after day, using his finger as a knife, the stone as paper, and obsession as ink.

He saw those instances of "Letting Go" on the walls.

Neat "Letting Go," messy "Letting Go," deep and sharp "Letting Go," faint and light "Letting Go." Some as large as a fist, others as small as a thumb. Some carved with all his strength, others so faint they were barely discernable.

Three thousand seven hundred and twenty-six instances of "Letting Go."

Lu Mingyuan looked at them one by one, counting them one by one.

He didn't know why he wanted to count. Perhaps it was a habit from over twenty years of cultivation: counting when seeing a sword manual, counting when seeing a Talisman, counting when seeing a scripture. It was as if by counting clearly, he would understand; and by understanding, he would attain.

He counted to three thousand seven hundred and twenty-six.

Then he stopped.

The last spot was empty.

There was a mark on the stone wall, very light and shallow, with only one stroke carved—the first stroke of the character "Fang," meaning to let go, a horizontal line.

This horizontal stroke was only half-carved.

The knife had paused here, then was lifted and thrown into the cold mountain stream outside the gate.

Lu Mingyuan reached out, his fingertips touching that unfinished horizontal stroke.

The stone wall was ice-cold, and the nine-hundred-year-old Mount Qingcheng sword pendant in his robes was also cold; the qingni sword at his waist remained silent in its scabbard.

He suddenly understood.

Chengguan had carved three thousand seven hundred and twenty-six "Letting Go"s, each a complete character, a complete obsession. Only for the last one, he had carved but a single stroke and did not continue.

It wasn't that he couldn't finish carving.

It was that there was no need to finish.

Because the moment he realized that "how to let go" was still a form of "holding on," that single stroke was already letting go.

Lu Mingyuan withdrew his hand.

He didn't look at the words again, turning to leave the chamber and leaving the door slightly ajar as before.

Snow fell in the bamboo forest, covering the footprints from his arrival.

When he returned to the Shizhuang Courtyard, the morning bell was tolling.

It was not a Magical Artifact, nor a Divine Ability, but simply an ancient thousand-year-old bronze bell being struck by an old monk with a wooden mallet, its sound like a great tide, rippling out in layers.

Lu Mingyuan followed the sound.

He didn't have a specific destination in mind; he just walked. His footsteps led him through a moon gate, past the Scripture Pavilion, and to an open courtyard.

In the courtyard, over a hundred martial monks were performing their morning lessons.

They weren't practicing routines or sparring. They were simply standing, upright as pines and still as mountains. The morning light fell on their worn monk robes, on their scalps where stubble had begun to grow years after their ordination, and on the slightly recessed knuckles of their fists.

No one spoke.

There was only breathing. As over a hundred people inhaled simultaneously, it was as if a wind rose in the courtyard; as they exhaled together, the morning mist was swept away.

Then they moved.

It wasn't that they "began" practicing martial arts, but rather that they "continued"—as if this movement had never stopped since last night, yesterday, ten years ago, or the day of their ordination.

Lu Mingyuan stood by the courtyard gate, watching silently.

He had seen the Wudang sword formation, where a hundred people danced together like a hundred rivers returning to the sea, Sword Qi piercing the sky without harming a soul; he had seen the Mount Qingcheng sword trial, where Jiang Yichen used a single sword of thirty years' clumsy persistence to force him into a situation where he couldn't advance an inch in a hundred moves.

But he had never seen "martial arts" like this.

There was no spiritual power, no Sword Qi, not even specific techniques. Those martial monks were only performing the most basic Arhat Fist—the opening stance, the punch, the palm strike, the hook hand. He recognized every movement; an old Martial Master in his village had taught them to him when he was seven.

Yet looking at it now, it was as if he had never seen it before.

They were moving so slowly.

So slowly that he could see every inch of the arc traced by their knuckles in the air, so slowly that he could hear the sound of their sleeves vibrating in the wind like autumn leaves leaving a branch. But such a slow punch gave him an irresistible illusion—

It wasn't a matter of speed.

It was that when the punch was thrown, the entire being of the striker was within that punch.

Lu Mingyuan was enthralled until a voice spoke beside him:

"Does the benefactor also practice martial arts?"

He turned his head and saw an old monk standing beside him at some unknown time.

This old monk was extremely unremarkable. His robes were washed to a faded white, with dense patches on his cuffs similar to Jingchen's, and his frame was as thin as a withered branch in winter. He held a broom, but he wasn't Jingchen—this man's features were more peaceful, his wrinkles deeper, and he appeared to be over eighty years old.

Lu Mingyuan pressed his palms together: "This Disciple once studied under a village Martial Master for a few years."

"How many years?"

"Seven years."

The old monk nodded, not asking which seven years, with whom he studied, or what he learned. He simply lifted his broom and began sweeping the thin layer of snow that had accumulated at the courtyard gate overnight.

After a few sweeps, he suddenly said, "This poor monk knows no spiritual power."

Lu Mingyuan was startled.

"Seventy-two years since my ordination, I have not practiced a single day of Divine Ability, nor have I read a single volume of the scriptures." The sound of the broom was steady and unhurried. "I only practice martial arts, and I only sweep the floor."

He paused.

"The Abbot says this is also a form of cultivation."

Lu Mingyuan looked at him.

This old monk had mediocre bones and withered blood and Qi; even an ordinary strong man could easily push him over. Yet, holding that bamboo broom and standing at the edge of the punch-wind of over a hundred martial monks, he was like a reef in the tide, immovable.

That was not a Realm of cultivation.

It was the "presence" ground out over seventy-two years, day after day, punch after punch, sweep after sweep.

"How may I address you, Master?" Lu Mingyuan asked.

"This poor monk is Hui Ke," the old monk said. "Zen Master Huijue's Senior Brother."

Lu Mingyuan's heart jolted.

Huijue.

The one who had pointed out to him under the moonlight last night that "the snow is just falling," the friend from another world whom Daoist Songyun had not forgotten for nine hundred years, whose cultivation was unfathomably deep and whose identity was as elusive as a Dragon in the clouds.

And this Hui Ke was actually his Senior Brother.

One who didn't cultivate spiritual power, didn't read scriptures, but only swept the floor and practiced martial arts.

Lu Mingyuan was silent for a moment. "Master, may this Disciple request to learn a move?"

Hui Ke put down his broom.

He didn't ask what was being requested, why, or what would happen after. He simply stood firm, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, hips slightly lowered, assuming an opening stance of the Arhat Fist.

The most basic, common, and unremarkable opening stance.

Lu Mingyuan solemnly pressed his palms together, stepped back, and assumed the same opening stance.

He had practiced martial arts since he was seven; he had performed this set of punches no less than ten thousand times. Where the center of gravity should be during the opening, how the fists should protect the ribs, and where his gaze should be fixed were already etched into his very marrow.

But now, facing an eighty-year-old monk who did not cultivate spiritual power, he found himself not knowing how to strike.

It wasn't for fear of hurting the other.

It was that he could find no openings.

Hui Ke stood there, his guard wide open, his aged body like a candle in the wind. But Lu Mingyuan had a strange feeling—if he threw this punch, it wouldn't hit the opponent, but only himself.

He withdrew his stance.

"This Disciple cannot strike."

Hui Ke also withdrew his stance, picked up his broom, and continued sweeping snow.

"It's not that you cannot strike," the old monk said. "It's that you are still looking."

"Looking for what?"

"Looking for whether you should strike, where to strike, and how to strike." The broom didn't stop. "Once you look, you become slow."

Lu Mingyuan froze.

He remembered the Sword Gall Pass on Wudang Mountain; when receiving the rotating swords of ten people, with every strike he thought: Is this sword for defense or offense? Is it a probe or full strength? Is it for victory or for the Dao?

He remembered the Sword Testing Platform of Mount Qingcheng; after a hundred-move draw with Jiang Yichen, the opponent's final sword hadn't even been drawn, yet in that moment, he had thought of countless ways to counter it.

He thought too much.

Since he began practicing martial arts at seven, he had been accustomed to "learning the principles before the fist." For every move, he would ask its intent; for every form, its origin; for every set of punches, whether it accorded with the Dao. He had turned himself into a walking martial scripture, but he had forgotten—

A punch is, fundamentally, just a punch.

"Master," Lu Mingyuan asked, "what should this Disciple do?"

Hui Ke swept the last pile of snow into the tree roots.

"When you came here, did you think about whether to lead with your left or right leg?"

"...No."

"Did you think about how long, how fast, or how heavy each step should be?"

"...No."

"Then why do you think when you exchange blows with others?"

Lu Mingyuan was speechless.

Hui Ke lifted his broom and walked into the courtyard.

After a few steps, he said without looking back, "If the benefactor has time, you may come here again tomorrow at the hour of mao."

"Can this Disciple come again?"

"There are morning lessons here every day," the old monk said. "For seventy-two years, regardless of wind or rain."

He paused.

"This poor monk also sweeps the floor here every day."

Lu Mingyuan stood at the courtyard gate, watching Hui Ke's small, thin figure disappear at the edge of the martial monks' formation.

The morning bell had ceased, and the sun rose higher. Over a hundred martial monks were still practicing their punches, the sound of their sleeves vibrating like a thousand birds taking flight at once.

He suddenly remembered the old Martial Master in his village.

That was when he was seven; after a flood, a one-armed old man had drifted to Heyin. The villagers didn't know his name and just called him "Old Chen." The old man was taciturn, copying scriptures for porridge by day and practicing a set of punches no one understood in the ancestral hall courtyard at dusk.

He was the first to discover that Lu Mingyuan had the aptitude for martial arts.

"A punch isn't something you throw," the old Martial Master said then. "A punch is something that is alive."

Seven-year-old Lu Mingyuan didn't understand.

At this moment, twenty-three years later, he suddenly understood.

A punch is not a tool used to hit people, protect oneself, prove the Dao, or seek truth. A punch is just a punch; it's a way of living, as natural as breathing, eating, and walking.

Hui Ke sweeping for seventy-two years—that wasn't cultivation, that was living.

The martial monks punching thousands of times—that wasn't training, that was living.

The old Martial Master punching every day despite his missing arm—that wasn't obsession, that was living.

And what about him?

He treated the martial path as the "Martial Arts of the Dao," asking of every punch whether it fit the Talisman laws, whether it merged with Sword Intent, whether it proved the heart's pivot. He had never let a punch just be a punch.

He had never let himself just live.

Lu Mingyuan slowly closed his eyes.

He didn't circulate his power, nor did he regulate his breathing or enter meditation. He just stood by the courtyard gate, listening to the wind from a hundred people's punches, listening to the bamboo broom scraping the bluestone, listening to his own heartbeat as steady as a twilight drum.

Then he reached out his hand.

Not a punch, not a palm, not a sword finger.

He just reached out his hand.

The morning light leaked through his fingers, casting five faint shadows on the ground.

He withdrew his hand.

Opened his eyes.

The martial monks in the courtyard had finished their practice and were dispersing in small groups. Hui Ke was gone as well, his bamboo broom leaning under the eaves of the main hall, its tip still damp.

Lu Mingyuan turned and left the courtyard.

He did not look back.

That night, Shizhuang Courtyard.

Lu Mingyuan sat alone under the corridor; the old plum tree still had no flowers, and the stone pillar remained silent.

Today he had not meditated, read scriptures, or contemplated any Mind-Cultivation Technique formulas. He simply unfastened the qingni sword from his waist as dusk fell and laid it across his knees.

Since the day he descended from Mount Qingcheng, this sword had not yet left its scabbard.

Perfected Master Changkong had said: If you use the sword with a heart of protection, it is the strongest in the world; if you use it with a heart of slaughter, it is merely a piece of dead wood.

Yet today, in front of Hui Ke, he couldn't even draw his sword.

It wasn't that there wasn't enough time; it was that he didn't know how to draw it.

He stroked the natural wood grain on the scabbard, which looked like surging seas of clouds or overlapping mountain peaks.

This sword would not give him the answer.

No sword would.

The answer was never in the sword.

Lu Mingyuan looked up at the stone pillar in the courtyard. Under the moonlight, the snow covered most of the character "Kong" again.

He suddenly gave a soft laugh.

In his three days at Shaolin, he hadn't asked about Zen, sought the Dharma, or realized any profound secrets.

He had simply stood in the snow for a day, sat in the corridor for a night, watched punches for a morning, and visited an empty room.

And then he found he was no longer in such a hurry to ask.

This was very good.

The moon gradually reached the center of the sky, and very light footsteps came from outside the courtyard gate.

It wasn't Hui Ke.

It was Huijue.

He was still in a gray monk's robe, his features as quiet and solitary as an ancient painting under the moonlight. This time He did not stand in the snow but walked to the corridor and sat down three feet away from Lu Mingyuan.

The two sat side by side, looking at the stone pillar in the courtyard, neither speaking.

After a long time, Huijue said, "Have you seen Chengguan's stone chamber?"

"Yes."

"What did you see?"

"Three thousand seven hundred and twenty-six 'Letting Go's," Lu Mingyuan said, "and a character for 'Let' that was only half-carved."

Huijue said nothing.

Lu Mingyuan added, "This Disciple met Master Hui Ke today."

Huijue turned his head slightly.

"For seventy-two years, he has not cultivated spiritual power or read scriptures," Lu Mingyuan said. "He only practices martial arts and sweeps the floor."

Huijue was silent for a moment.

"Senior Brother entered the sect twenty-three years before I did." His voice was very light, like the night wind passing through bamboo. "The year he was ordained, Chengguan was still in seclusion. He swept fallen leaves for five years before Chengguan threw down his knife and emerged."

"In those five years, did he ever waver?"

"Never," Huijue said. "He rose every day at the Hour of the Tiger, swept all thirty-seven courtyards of the temple, and entered the Martial Monks Courtyard at the hour of chen to practice his punches, never once stopping."

"Did he not want to cultivate Divine Abilities?"

"He did," Huijue said. "When he was young, he once knelt outside the Abbot's room for three days and nights, asking to cultivate meditative concentration."

"The Abbot did not grant it?"

"The Abbot asked him: Why do you want to cultivate meditative concentration?"

Lu Mingyuan asked, "How did he answer?"

Huijue looked at the stone pillar; the snow under the moonlight was like frost.

"He said: To attain liberation."

"The Abbot said: Of what use is liberation?"

Lu Mingyuan was stunned.

Huijue continued, "Senior Brother could not answer. He knelt on the stone steps outside the Abbot's room for three days and nights, thinking for three days and nights. At dawn on the fourth day, he stood up and did not ask again."

"Did he find the answer?"

"He didn't answer," Huijue said. "He just stopped asking."

Lu Mingyuan was silent for a long time.

"This Disciple stood opposite Master Hui Ke today but did not exchange blows," he said. "This Disciple could find no openings."

"Senior Brother has no openings," Huijue said. "For seventy-two years, he has only practiced one set of punches and only swept one kind of floor. The punch is him, the floor is him, and the opening is also him—but he has never viewed it as an opening."

He paused.

"The benefactor looks for an opening by pitting punch against punch. Senior Brother has no opening because he is one with the punch."

Lu Mingyuan's heart jolted.

One with the punch.

It wasn't "the punch is the Dao," or "proving Zen through martial arts," or any of the scriptures he had read or the koans he had contemplated.

It was simply being one with the punch.

Like the snow being one with the falling, the broom being one with the sweeping, and him being one with the sitting.

"This Disciple..." he began, then stopped.

Huijue did not press him.

He simply stood up and walked toward the courtyard gate.

After three steps, He stopped.

"Tomorrow at the hour of mao, Senior Brother will still be in the Martial Monks Courtyard."

He did not look back.

"If the benefactor goes, there is no need to bring a sword."

---

Lu Mingyuan sat alone under the corridor; the moon had already tilted westward.

He lowered his head, looking at the qingni sword lying across his knees.

The cloud-sea pattern on the scabbard shimmered with a very faint green light under the moon, like distant mountains in the mist or vast waves of the sea.

He reached out and lightly pressed his hand on the pommel.

He did not draw it.

He just pressed it, feeling the pulse of that clear Sword Intent within the scabbard—like the autumn moon reflected in a cold pond, like morning dew falling on a withered leaf, like the wind passing through ten thousand valleys among the pines.

Perfected Master Changkong said this sword does not slay those without grievance, nor does it stain itself with innocent blood.

Then tomorrow, he would not bring the sword.

It wasn't "not using the sword," but not bringing it.

It wasn't "letting go of the sword," but not picking it up.

He was just going to see a seventy-two-year-old set of punches, sweep with a seventy-two-year-old broom, and stand opposite an old monk who had lived his life as a set of punches and a broom—not to exchange blows, not to find openings, not to seek victory or defeat, and not to realize Zen secrets.

Just to stand there.

The moon set, the frost settled, and the snow in the courtyard grew another three inches thicker.

Lu Mingyuan put away the qingni sword, stood up, and went inside.

He did not meditate, nor did he regulate his breathing.

He just lay down, closed his eyes, and fell asleep like an ordinary Mortal.

Outside the window, the plum branches still had no flowers.

The snow was just falling.