Killing Monks

Once inside, they stood still. Once they stood still, no one wanted to resist anymore. And once they stopped resisting, they submitted.

Once they submit, they're one of us. And we don't fight each other.

If we don't fight our own people, the world will be at peace. And if we're at peace, there's no need for war.

No more fighting, no more deaths.

If no one dies, can those who did die finally rest in peace?

Old Master Xu went to find Guangyuan.

Guangyuan sat in the makeshift military tent, with a map spread out in front of him, covered with dense markings.

"Why?" Boss Xu stood at the entrance of the military tent, not going in. His voice was hoarse, as if something was stuck in his throat. "You clearly killed so many people."

Guangyuan looked up at him.

There was no smugness, no pride, no smugness of "look how great I am." Only a calm, stillness, like a lake. No wind, no waves, not a ripple on the surface.

"I killed a lot of people," Guangyuan said, "but even more people are clapping and cheering."

Old Xu was stunned.

He stood at the entrance of the military tent, looking at Guangyuan, at his gaunt face, and at his incredibly bright eyes.

He suddenly remembered those who stood by the roadside, on the ridges of the fields, and on the ruins, guiding the Tang army; he remembered those who knelt by the roadside, holding their official seals and shouting, "This sinful subject respectfully welcomes the royal army"; he remembered those who were pulled out of the darkness, stood in the moonlight, and shed tears on their own when they heard, "We are old men."

They weren't clapping Guangyuan's hands; they were clapping their own. Guangyuan killed those who were defecating on their heads, so they wouldn't have to be ridden anymore.

No longer being ridden, I can stand up. Standing up, I can clap my hands. I clap my hands because I'm happy. Happy because the hard times are over.

The hard times are over, and the good times are coming. When the good times come, who cares about the hand that killed? The hand may be dirty, but once it's washed clean, it's no longer dirty.

It doesn't matter if they can't be washed clean. Without those hands, they would still be soaking in the water during their hard times. Soaking them would cause them to rot. And if they rotted, they would have nothing left.

When everything is gone, no one remembers those who were killed. If no one remembers, they are truly dead. Real death is different from a fake death.

The capital city of the Northern Zhou Dynasty was plunged into chaos.

It wasn't the kind of chaos that deepens slowly, but the kind that comes suddenly, like the sky has fallen.

When the news arrived, the Northern Zhou emperor was sitting on the throne in the Golden Palace, with the newly delivered battle report in front of him. He opened it, glanced at it, and then glanced at it again. The expression on his face changed from doubt to surprise, from surprise to anger, and from anger to something indescribable—like fear, or perhaps disbelief.

He didn't believe it.

He cannot believe it.

How could his Northern Zhou, his army, and his ministers who confidently declared, "Your Majesty, rest assured, the Tang Kingdom cannot defeat us," be so utterly vulnerable?

He slammed the battle report to the ground with a loud thud, the sound echoing through the empty hall and causing the bowed ministers to flinch.

"Useless!" he cursed, his voice forced from his throat, sharp and thin, like a knife scraping against a porcelain plate, "You're all a bunch of useless trash!"

He pointed to the civil officials on his left, and they lowered their heads even further, as if they wanted to bury their heads in their bellies.

"You said that the Tang Dynasty was still embroiled in internal strife and unable to launch a northern expedition; you said that the Northern Zhou Dynasty was peaceful and secure, as solid as a rock; you said that those peasants couldn't overthrow the dynasty, and those treacherous officials couldn't accomplish anything. And now? Where has the Tang army advanced to? Where has it advanced to?"

No one answered. Not because they didn't want to, but because they were afraid to. Those who dared to answer had already run away.

Those who didn't run away won't escape. Those who can't escape can only stand there, head down, and endure the scolding.

Being scolded is better than being stabbed. Being stabbed will kill you, being scolded won't. Since you won't die, you have to endure it.

They could leave once the emperor was tired of cursing and could no longer curse.

Once you're outside, you can run away. Once you're run away, you don't have to endure it anymore.

He then pointed to the military officer on the right.

The military officers stood a little straighter than the civil officials, but their faces were even more grim. The civil officials' faces were white, while the military officers' faces were ashen.

They were as gray as a dead person. A dead person's face doesn't move, and neither did theirs.

It's not that I don't want to move, it's that I dare not move. If I move even slightly, the emperor will see me; if he sees me, he will call my name; if he calls my name, he will ask me, "Why aren't you going to fight?"

Why don't you go and fight?

You can't beat them. If you can't beat them, going there is just suicide.

You're being sent to your death, and if you don't go, the emperor will kill you. Being killed is the same as dying anyway. Since you're going to die either way, you might as well stand and wait.

If you wait and wait, perhaps someone will go in your place. If they go in your place, you will live.

Being alive is better than anything else.

"Tell me," the emperor's voice suddenly lowered, becoming almost a whisper, yet every word pierced the ears of his ministers like needles, "that the Northern Zhou army was utterly vulnerable. And now? Now, who is utterly vulnerable?"

No one answered.

The hall was so quiet you could hear the candle wicks burning. The emperor stood up, walked to the dragon throne, and looked at the people kneeling below, heads bowed, shoulders hunched, as if they wanted to hide themselves.

He suddenly laughed. It was a cold laugh, as cold as the winter wind blowing in through the crack in the door, making one's bones ache.

"My empire, my kingdom, the foundation laid by my ancestors, are about to be destroyed in your hands."

When he said this, his voice was no longer loud, high-pitched, or thin. It was very flat, as flat as a stagnant pool. Stagnant water doesn't move, doesn't flow, and doesn't make any sound.

It just sat there, waiting, waiting for the sun to dry it, for the soil to absorb it, for the underground roots to reach out and drink it dry.

Once it's drunk up, it's gone. Once it's gone, there's nothing left.

It's no use for him to curse anymore.

Insults cannot repel the enemy, defend the city, bring back the soldiers who have already fled, or make the generals who have already surrendered take up their swords again.

Cursing is just cursing. After cursing, your throat is hoarse, your mouth is dry, and your heart is weary. When you're tired, you don't want to curse anymore. When you don't want to curse anymore, you sit down.

He sat down and looked at the map spread out on the dragon table, watching the red arrows representing the Tang army, one by one, being inserted into the territory of Northern Zhou, one by one approaching the capital, one by one piercing his heart.

His heart was bleeding. The blood dripped onto the map, making the red arrows even redder. Red like fire, burning his eyes.

The Tang army advanced with unstoppable momentum.

They didn't walk step by step, but ran mile by mile. Running and running, they arrived at the capital city.

If you could only read one fantasy novel in your lifetime, it would probably be "Killing the Monk".