Killing Monks

It's not like this now, sitting in the lobby, listening to others call you "Sir," watching others bow their heads and bend their backs in front of you, not even daring to breathe loudly.

You sit there and feel very big.

But you know, you're not really big. You only grew big because you were sitting in that chair. Take the chair away, and you'll shrink. Just as small as before. Maybe even smaller than before.

He hesitated for a moment. Just a moment. Then he nodded.

"Do you have any other conditions?" he asked.

"there is none left."

Nan San was taken aback. "That's all?"

He thought Guangyuan would make demands. He would ask for this and that, demanding that the Twelve Earthly Fiends relinquish their power, demanding a redistribution of territory, and demanding a return for everything he had sacrificed over the years.

But Guangyuan said, "No, that's all." It wasn't just politeness, nor was it a test; it was genuinely true that there was nothing left.

He doesn't want anything. What he wants is not something others can give him. And he doesn't want anything others can give him.

"That's it?" Nan San asked again. He couldn't believe it.

It's not that I don't believe in Guangyuan, it's that I don't believe this matter can be so simple.

He traveled so far, thought of so many things, and prepared so many reasons, but in the end, Guangyuan only asked, "Is there still an 'Old Man'?", then said, "I'll go back and restart the 'Old Man'," and then said, "No, there isn't."

And so it went. He felt like someone who had gathered all his strength to move a stone, but when he got to the stone and bent down, he found that it was made of paper, so light that he could be punctured with a single finger.

"That's it," Guangyuan said.

"What about the power after unifying the world?" Nan San asked the question he most wanted to ask.

He had been holding this question in his mind the whole way. He wanted to ask it as soon as he left home, while riding his horse, while dismounting, while walking into the school, and even while squatting in front of Guangyuan.

But he dared not ask. He was afraid that if he asked, Guangyuan would say, "I want it."

Guangyuan wants it, will he give it to him or not? If he doesn't, what's the point of him coming here? If he does, what will he tell the others when he gets back?

Guangyuan didn't want it, and he felt that his trip had been pointless. Pointless, meaning he had come all this way for nothing. He couldn't get over that hurdle in his heart.

"Here you go," Guangyuan said.

Nan San's eyes widened instantly. "Really?" His voice changed; it wasn't hoarse anymore, it brightened. Like a lamp that was about to go out, suddenly having its wick adjusted and lit up again.

"Really?" Guangyuan looked at him, her eyes flat, as calm as a lake, without wind, without waves, without a ripple. "When have you ever seen me lie?"

Nan San opened his mouth, wanting to say "no," but he didn't. It wasn't that he didn't want to say it, but that he didn't need to. Guang Yuan didn't lie.

This is something that hundreds, thousands, even tens of thousands of brothers in the Heaven and Earth Society all know. They follow him not because he is good at fighting, not because he is smart, and not because he can lead them to victory.

It's because he doesn't lie. What he says is what he means.

If he says something can be accomplished, it will be accomplished; if he says something can be done, it can be done; if he says something can be done, you will know what it means to stand up.

"Then I can agree right now!" Nan San said.

He stood there, in front of Guangyuan, in the moonlight, standing straight.

Guangyuan didn't stand up. He remained seated on the threshold, his hands resting on his knees, his fingers slightly curled, like two fallen leaves.

"Yes," he said, "come and see me."

Nan San nodded. He didn't ask "when", "where", or "what to bring".

Guangyuan said, "Come to see me," which means "Come to see me."

Guangyuan didn't say anything about the location, time, what to bring, or what not to bring, which means it wasn't necessary to say.

He's here when you come. He's always been here. He's here whenever you come. He's still here when you leave. He's still here even if you don't come. He doesn't care whether you come or not. The things he cares about are different from yours.

"Okay," Nan San said.

Then he turned and left. This time he walked very fast, much faster than when he came. He walked fast when he came because he was in a hurry; he walked fast when he left because he was determined.

Once it's decided, there's no rush. No rush, but the pace is quick. The quick pace is because he wants to return to the capital as soon as possible, to quickly tell the others the news, and to finalize things quickly.

Once it's settled, there's no need to think about it anymore. Once you stop thinking about it, you can sleep. He hadn't had a good night's sleep in a long time.

When Nan San returned to Shangjing, it was still dark.

As soon as the city gate opened, the soldiers guarding the city yawned, saw his horse, rubbed their eyes, recognized him, and immediately knelt down.

He didn't look at them, and rode his horse through the city gate. The horse's hooves clattered on the bluestone slabs, the sound carrying far through the empty street.

He had something on his mind; he was eager to bring Guangyuan's words back and to let others know that the Living Buddha was coming back.

The Living Buddha wants to reinstate "Old Man". The Living Buddha wants nothing; power is yours, and the world he conquers is yours too. Come see me.

He didn't sleep. Not because he didn't want to sleep, but because he couldn't fall asleep.

But he didn't wait until dawn. As dawn approached, someone arrived. They didn't come walking; they were carried in.

Ma Wu stood at the entrance of the main room, carrying something in his hand.

The thing was round and wrapped in cloth, which was soaked with blood. Drops of blood dripped down, creating small, dark red craters on the bluestone slab.

Ma Wu's face was white, not the kind of white that comes from not being exposed to the sun, but the kind of white that comes from having cold blood.

His eyes were red, as red as charcoal, as red as fire, as red as a demon that had just crawled out of purgatory.

Standing behind him was a man named Tae-gu. Tae-gu's sword was not yet sheathed, and the blood on the blade had already congealed, turning a dark reddish-black color, like a layer of rust.

He held the knife horizontally in front of him, tip pointing downwards, blood flowing down from the tip, one drop, two drops, three drops, slowly and steadily.

Ma Wu threw what he was holding on the ground.

The cloth was scattered, and the thing rolled out, rolling to Nan San's feet. Nan San looked down and saw it was a human head.

It was Su Er's head. Su Er's eyes were still open, and his mouth was agape, as if he were trying to say something. But he couldn't speak.

His mouth was cut open from behind, from the left corner of his mouth all the way to the right corner, creating a gaping, bloody maw.

That wasn't a knife wound; it was pried open with something, and it stayed open for too long, so it wouldn't close. He died with his eyes open. Not that he didn't want to die in peace, but that he couldn't.