Chapter Five: The Art of the Ruffian
After the old monk finished speaking, he turned and headed toward the inner courtyard. Though Liang Yan was full of questions and wanted to inquire further, he saw that the monk had no intention of answering and had no choice but to let it go, following after him in silence.
Within the inner courtyard, the two stood facing each other.
“Amitabha. The one who killed your father has already been brought to justice. As for the other, he’s but a blind man who never even laid a hand on you. Can you not let go of your grievances and devote yourself to cultivation?”
“So that’s it. The old monk is here to play the mediator. If that’s the case, there’s no more to say. The hatred of a father’s murder cannot be shared under the same sky—I will never let it go unavenged!”
In his heart, the old monk already regarded Liang Yan as half a disciple. He was still hoping to guide him a little, but upon hearing these words, he couldn’t help but grow secretly angry, cursing inwardly, “What a stubborn boy.”
The two stood in silence, facing each other in the quiet courtyard. Suddenly, the old monk raised his right hand, and with his index finger, lightly tapped Liang Yan on the forehead. Liang Yan instantly felt a sharp pain, and by instinct, tried to block the touch.
But in the next moment, a mysterious incantation surfaced in his mind, profound and obscure, seemingly a method for channeling and cultivating internal energy. Liang Yan understood at once: the old monk was passing on a cultivation technique. He immediately stilled himself, lowering his hands, and made no further resistance.
After a moment, the old monk withdrew his hand. The complete incantation had settled into Liang Yan’s mind. Liang Yan took a deep breath, sank to his knees, preparing to perform the formal rites of apprenticeship.
But the old monk reached out and, with an invisible force, lifted his legs so he could not kneel.
“There is no need for such ceremony. What I have given you is but the barest foundation, a mere entryway. Remember my words: I am not your master, and you are not my disciple. When you travel the world, do not refer to us as master and disciple. Do you understand?”
Liang Yan was momentarily stunned but could only nod blankly.
“Go and bid farewell to the others. We’re leaving soon.”
“Where are we going?”
“To find an old acquaintance.”
...
Liang Yan’s mind was a swirl of confusion—why had the old monk taught him a cultivation technique yet refused to acknowledge a master-disciple bond? He mulled it over, but the answer eluded him. Lost in thought, he found himself back inside the main hall.
Suddenly, a sweet fragrance wafted by, and a little girl with twin braids, charming and gentle, came running up to him—it was Wan’er.
She grabbed his hand, pleading, “Brother Liang, come with me to the capital for a visit. There’s so much fun to be had there.”
“I can’t. I have other matters to attend to right now.”
Wan’er looked crestfallen, her little face full of disappointment, though she quickly forced herself to smile. “Then promise me you’ll come to the capital to see me one day.”
Distracted, Liang Yan replied with a half-hearted “Mm.”
Only then did Wan’er’s face brighten, and she burst out laughing. She hooked her pinky with his, saying, “Then it’s settled—we’ve made a promise! Pinky swear, a hundred years without change!”
Liang Yan, realizing what was happening, stared at her, blushing for no reason, and this time gave a serious “Mm.”
Wan’er seemed to have heard the happiest thing in the world. Her pretty face glowed with delight, making her all the more adorable. Just then, Lin Ziqing’s voice came from outside the courtyard, and Wan’er reluctantly let go, heading out but looking back at him again and again.
“You must come to the capital!”
Liang Yan nodded silently and glanced outside. The lady in red had finished preparing with the others, lifted Wan’er into the carriage, and made ready to depart. Noticing Liang Yan watching, she nodded at him before mounting her horse and leading the group away at a gentle pace.
Liang Yan stood in place for a moment, then turned and returned to the inner courtyard, calling to the withered figure ahead, “Old monk, let’s go.”
...
Winter gave way to spring, and a year passed in the blink of an eye.
On a clear day beneath a boundless sky, a caravan had stopped along a lush forest path.
Within the caravan, a young scholar dressed in the garb of a literatus brandished an ink-painted folding fan, reciting poetry with great flourish, as if fully enraptured by his own verse.
At the rear of the caravan, a middle-aged steward with a severe expression looked on with a frown, clearly annoyed. Someone beside him remarked, “Steward Lu, the young master grows more unruly by the day. His poetry is utter nonsense.”
“Hmph. The young master is frivolous and playful, disdaining study for the pursuit of wandering heroes and immortal sages. Who knows how many remote mountains he’s visited or how much he’s donated to temples over the years?”
“Exactly! Just yesterday, we met that old monk on the road—who knows which temple he belongs to? He even had a little apprentice with him. From the looks of them—skin and bones—they hardly resemble accomplished monks. Yet the young master insisted on paying respects and bringing them along, treating them to the best food and drink all the way. It’s pure nonsense!”
Steward Lu coughed, “Enough. Don’t gossip. You know the young master’s temperament—he’s infatuated with so-called enlightened monks.” He emphasized the last words, glancing mockingly at the old monk who sat cross-legged at the back of the caravan.
He paused, then added, “The young master has always been doted upon by the lady. As servants, we must simply do our duty and refrain from idle talk!” The others nodded hastily in agreement.
At that moment, a swordsman in green at the front of the caravan suddenly shouted, “All hands, prepare for combat!”
Like a stone dropped into water, the atmosphere rippled with alarm. Over a dozen guards, some in the midst of chewing dry rations, simultaneously drew their weapons and formed a defensive circle.
A strange, shrill laugh came from the forest, “Heh heh! The boy’s quick-witted, I’ll give him that.”
From behind a tree stepped a burly man hefting a massive bronze hammer, followed by four bandits—one with a saber, one with an axe, and two with swords.
The swordsman in green blanched at the sight of them, dread gripping his heart. He cupped his fist with a forced smile, “So it’s the Five Tigers from Stormcloud Stronghold—your reputation precedes you.”
“Haha! At least you know who we are. If you’re wise, hand over your gold and valuables. We’re not here to kill indiscriminately—give us your money, and we’ll spare your lives.”
The swordsman’s heart sank. Any one of the Five Tigers would be a tough match for him, let alone all five together. Though he had more men, none could stand against these brigands. If it came to a fight, they’d likely all perish.
But there was an important item on the caravan, entrusted to him by the city lord himself—not to be lost at any cost. If he surrendered it, not only would he be doomed upon his return, but his mother, wife, and children would also suffer.
“There’s no choice but to rally everyone for a desperate fight. In the chaos, I’ll try to escape with the item. If possible, I should also get the city lord’s son out.”
As he considered this, the Five Tigers grew impatient. The bandit with the saber, hot-tempered as ever, shouted, “Big brother, this one’s hesitating—let me take a head or two to teach them a lesson.”
Without waiting for an answer, he charged a guard, swinging his blade down. The guard, unused to such speed, panicked and tried to block with his sword—clang! The blade snapped, and the saber continued toward the guard’s neck.
Just as he was about to be decapitated, the saber halted an inch from his throat, unable to move further.
Everyone looked up to see a boy of about ten, dressed in black with dark hair, standing atop the blade. On his right shoulder he carried a branch skewering half a roasted wild boar, as if he’d just returned from a hunt.
The saber-wielding bandit broke out in cold sweat, straining with all his might to withdraw his weapon, but it wouldn’t budge, as if nailed in place. Panic seized him, and he shouted, “Big brother—this one’s tough! Brothers, all together!”
Someone in the caravan whispered to the green-clad swordsman, “Boss, should we help him?”
The swordsman considered, “No rush. The boy’s been hiding his strength, clearly waiting for the right moment. Let’s watch and see what he can do.”
While they spoke, the Five Tigers attacked. The hammer-wielding bandit charged from the front, the axe-wielder silently circling behind for a killing blow. The two sword-brothers, both taught a unique twin sword technique, attacked from left and right.
The black-clad boy seemed unconcerned. Untying a yellow wood gourd from his waist, he took a swig, then leapt into the air. Freed, the saber-wielding bandit swung at him in delight. But in midair, the boy calmly lashed out with his left leg—smack!—striking the man’s face and sending him flying into a boulder, face bloody, dead on the spot.
Next, the boy twisted, spraying a white mist—apparently the wine he’d just drunk—at the axe-wielder behind him. The bandit’s face fell as he desperately swung his axe to block, but the mist was faster than lightning, striking him instantly. Dozens of blood holes appeared on his body as his life ebbed away—killed by a single mouthful of wine.
As the boy landed on one foot, a transparent ripple radiated out beneath him. The two sword brothers suddenly felt a tremendous force surge up from the ground, snapping their heartstrings. Still in mid-strike, they staggered forward two steps, then collapsed dead at his feet.
In the blink of an eye, the black-clad youth had killed four of the Five Tigers—one with a kick, one with a breath, two with a quake. All this took but a few heartbeats.
The hammer-wielding leader, just now arriving, was terrified by the scene. He turned to flee, but the boy closed in and felled him with a single punch.
Having dispatched the Five Tigers, the black-clad youth left the caravan stunned and silent. With such terrifying power, if he bore them any ill will, none would survive.
The green-clad swordsman wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped forward to curry favor, cupping his fists to the boy. Before he could speak, an aged voice came from the rear of the caravan, “These men were after money, not lives. Yet you showed no mercy. Was that not excessive?”
The youth cast him a sidelong glance and replied coolly, “They were born bandits—there must be accomplices nearby. Spare them today, and tomorrow more will come. Wouldn’t that be endless trouble?”
This boy was, of course, Liang Yan, and in the rear sat the same old monk who had taught him the incantation. The two conversed as if no one else existed, and none dared interrupt. The old monk, long familiar with Liang Yan’s temperament, said nothing further. Liang Yan ignored him as well, climbing onto a carriage and tearing into a leg of roast boar.
Outside, the caravan crew exchanged uneasy glances. The green-clad swordsman coughed, “It’s not for us to judge the deeds of such a master. Since they choose to remain with us, let’s leave them be.” He turned to his right and instructed, “Pass the word—no one is to approach the last two carriages!”
“Yes, sir!” The order was relayed at once.
After a brief rest, the caravan set out southward once more. But unknown to them, on the third morning, as they passed beneath a verdant peak, two figures quietly left the caravan.
...
At the foot of Emerald Mountain, an old man and a youth walked slowly together—it was Liang Yan and the old monk.
At sunrise, the old monk calmly made his way to a boulder at the roadside, sat cross-legged, and said to Liang Yan, “Begin. Run through today’s routine.”
Liang Yan rolled his eyes and stepped to the side of the road, balancing on his left foot, right foot hooked behind his ankle, torso leaning back suspended in midair, left hand supporting his head, right arm arched over his back. The posture was absurdly strange, yet Liang Yan, well-practiced, simply closed his eyes and maintained it.
After about an hour, he shifted to another, even odder pose: lying face-down, left hand reaching back to cradle his head, right hand clasping his left knee.
Had anyone passed by, they would surely have pointed and whispered, but Liang Yan was long accustomed to such oddity. In fact, for the past year, he’d trained this way every day.
Ever since the old monk had taken him away from the teahouse a year ago, he’d used great mystical power to guide energy into Liang Yan’s body, helping him enter the first stage of cultivation—a true beginning on the path to immortality.
Yet after that, the old monk didn’t teach him any magical arts or secret techniques. He merely showed him eight bizarre postures—each more unnatural than the last—and demanded that Liang Yan practice them daily until every detail was mastered. Only then did he instruct him to combine these poses with the nameless incantation implanted in his mind.
At first, Liang Yan had his doubts. But after a few days of practicing the strange postures and reciting the formula, he discovered that his bones and flesh felt reborn—he could run and leap with boundless strength. Delighted, he set aside his suspicions.
Still, the old monk’s methods were so peculiar, and he refused to elaborate, only ever urging Liang Yan to train. Irritated, Liang Yan gave the poses ridiculous names of his own invention—“Napping Stance,” “Rolling Stance,” “Cursing Stance,” “One-Punch Stance,” and so on.
While the youth diligently practiced, the old monk sat in silent meditation. They remained thus for half a day. When Liang Yan finally finished, the old monk rose, nodded at him, and headed up the mountain.
Liang Yan sensed that something weighed on the old monk’s mind during this trip to Emerald Mountain, but since the monk seldom spoke and Liang Yan disliked asking, he could only follow in silence.
After a while, Liang Yan suddenly asked, “Old monk, you’ve taught me for a year now—can you finally tell me what this technique is called?”
“Rascal’s Art,” the old monk replied without turning.
Liang Yan was taken aback, then immediately realized the monk was mocking his habit of giving irreverent names to the postures. He burst out laughing.
“Brilliant! Absolutely fitting! This whole set is nothing but rolling and cursing—truly the art of a street rascal. What a perfect name! Hahaha!”
He laughed for a long time, and when there was no response from ahead, he finally couldn’t resist asking, “Old monk, why have we come to Emerald Mountain?”
From the empty mountain path came the monk’s unhurried reply: “To find someone.”