Killing Monks

The room remained quiet for a long time.

“In the past,” Su Er said, “there was someone coordinating things from behind. He knew when the supplies would arrive, where the troops would go, when to fight, when to stop, when to retreat, and where to go after retreating.”

"We don't need to think, just fight. Just fight."

When they fought against the Tang Kingdom before, it was much more difficult than this battle.

"He's gone now," Nan San added.

He changed his position, resting his sling arm on the table. He winced in pain, but he didn't stop.

"We fought. We fought like this."

"It wasn't like this," said Boss Xu. "It was like this." He repeated "like this" twice, with different tones.

The first reading is a statement, the second is a reflection.

What is stated is the fact, but what is lamented is the unspeakable thing behind the fact.

They thought they were very capable fighters. They had been fighting for so many years, from south to north, from east to west, driving away the Buddha, conquering the Tang Dynasty, and forcing the Northern Zhou to sign a humiliating treaty.

They thought they were very capable. But when that person wasn't around, they couldn't even open a door.

Someone whispered, "How about... we bring Guangyuan back?"

The room grew even quieter. So quiet that you could hear the candle wick burning, crackling and popping, like someone clapping in the distance.

No one responded to that statement, and no one objected.

But everyone knows that this statement was taken to heart.

Words that are heard don't disappear. They swirl in your mind, in your heart, and in your tossing and turning at night. As they swirl, they become a thought.

Too many thoughts will turn into actions. Only by taking action can we know whether something is right or wrong.

But some people don't want to invite them. Not that they don't want to, but that they dare not. They dare not think about it, dare not say it, and even dare not admit it in their hearts. If that person returns, will they still be themselves?

No, they are the kings of the Tang Dynasty, the Twelve Earthly Fiends, the ones who sit at this long table and decide the lives and deaths of millions.

With that person around, what are they? They are pawns, knives, and chess pieces.

The pawn is useful, the knife is useful, the chess piece is useful. But being useful doesn't mean being good.

Whether something is good or not is something others think you are good at; whether you are good or not, you know for sure.

Boss Xu looked at the people present.

Those with scars on their faces, missing ears, blind eyes, or broken arms; those who rolled through piles of corpses, walked on the edge of knives, and escaped the Buddha's pursuit; those who were once loyal to one person and willing to die for him.

They changed. Not suddenly, but slowly, quietly, little by little.

Like autumn leaves, you see them still green, still green, still green, and then one day, you look up and they've turned yellow.

It didn't turn yellow overnight; you just didn't notice. While you weren't paying attention, it was constantly changing. By the time you noticed, it had already completely changed.

People change too.

Loyalty in the past is not necessarily loyalty now.

She used to be willing to die for him, but now she might not be willing to give up the chair she's sitting on.

If you sit on a chair for too long, it will grow. Once it's attached to you, you'll feel like it's yours. And if anyone tries to take it away, you'll fight them to the death.

This isn't bad; it's just human nature. That's how people are. You're human too, and you change.

Xu Laoda said this to himself three times.

The first time was a statement, the second time was a warning, but he didn't know what the third time was.

Maybe it's nothing at all; it's just that after saying it three times, the voice in my heart grew a little quieter. So quiet that it became inaudible.

"Guangyuan won't come back," said Boss Xu. He didn't say "don't invite him," he said "he won't come back."

Active and passive are different. Not inviting them was their decision; not returning was Guangyuan's decision.

He shifted the blame to Guangyuan, and also shifted the blame to Guangyuan for the things he couldn't say in his heart.

Guangyuan didn't care. He never cared about these things. The things he cared about were far away. So far that they couldn't see them, nor did they want to see them.

No one mentioned it anymore. Not that they forgot, but that it remained in their hearts. Things remembered don't need to be talked about every day.

The issues will be raised when they should be raised, and raising them when they shouldn't is pointless. The meeting continues, with one topic after another, like stones in a river, wading through them one by one. Once they're over, looking back, they're not so significant after all.

If you can't wade across and drown, that's because you're incompetent; you can't blame anyone else.

By the time the meeting ended, it was completely dark.

Old Xu was the last to step out of the house. He stood on the porch, looking at the stars in the sky. There were so many stars, too many to count, each one shining brightly, some bright, some dim, some close, some far away.

He suddenly remembered a sentence that Guangyuan had said: "All beings stand up." All beings have stood up, and then what?

Will those who stand up kneel down again? And once they kneel, will they be able to stand up again?

He didn't know. All he knew was that the masses hadn't yet stood up.

He didn't stand up. He sat in that chair for a long time, until the chair seemed to have become part of him. He couldn't stand up.

It's not that I don't want to stand, it's that I can't stand up.

Guangyuan knew the outcome of the war from someone who told him.

That person is Nan San.

When Nan San arrived, it was already dark. The children in the school had long since dispersed. Guang Yuan sat alone on the threshold, holding a bowl of porridge in his hands. The porridge was cold, but he didn't care. He drank it slowly, sip by sip, as if counting how many grains of rice were in the bowl.

Nan San emerged from the shadows in the corner, his steps as light as a cat's. His left arm was still in a sling across his chest; the new, white cloth gleamed in the moonlight.

Guangyuan didn't look up or say anything; he simply moved the bowl to the side, making room for a small section of the threshold.

Nan San did not sit down.

He stood before Guangyuan for a long time. The moonlight fell on his face, illuminating his newly added scar clearly.

The scar ran diagonally down from the eyebrow, across the cheekbone, and down to the corner of the mouth. The stitches looked like a centipede crawling on the face, both grotesque and comical.

He didn't care. He never cared about his own face. He cared about other things. Those things had been bottled up inside him for a long time, keeping him awake at night and unable to eat. They made him pace back and forth in his mansion in the capital, from the east wall to the west wall, and from the west wall to the east wall, wearing the floor tiles thin.

"Sir," he finally spoke. His voice was a little hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken to anyone in a long time.

Guangyuan looked up and glanced at him. That glance was flat, without surprise, without question, without the polite "Why are you here?"

Just watching is like watching someone who has traveled a long way and finally arrived at their destination.

When you arrive, I'll watch you. If you don't speak, I'll wait. If you do speak, I'll listen.

Explore the fantasy novel genre; there's bound to be one that suits you.