An Attack Without Warning

After arriving at an inn in the small town at the foot of the mountain, Song Qingshu said to Jiumozhi and Ren Woxing, "Thank you both for stepping in to help this time."

Ren Woxing chuckled. "Heh, I've long been sick of those bald donkeys from Shaolin. Today, borrowing True Master Zhang's prestige, we gave them a lesson and caused trouble for Wudang. I hope True Master Zhang will forgive us."

Zhang Sanfeng said, "Mr. Ren, you are too polite. Shaolin nowadays places far too much importance on sectarian distinctions and often seems utterly lacking in human feeling. Had this poor Taoist come alone, I fear I would only have met with a few polite rebuffs and returned empty-handed. Come to think of it, I should thank you two for muddying the waters."

Jiumozhi, standing nearby, could not help but rejoice. "All the way down the mountain, this little monk had been deeply uneasy, fearing that True Master would blame me for being too arrogant. Now that I have heard you say this, my heart can finally rest."

Zhang Sanfeng smiled. "Ming Wang alone has mastered the Shaolin Seventy-two Ultimate Skills. Such astonishing talent is worthy of this old Taoist's admiration." He had always believed that all martial arts under heaven shared the same roots, learning from one another's strengths and compensating for one another's weaknesses over countless centuries, until their true origins could no longer be distinguished. Thus, unlike ordinary sect leaders, he was never constrained by sectarian prejudice. He felt nothing in particular about Jiumozhi secretly learning other sects' martial arts, and instead admired his intelligence. Though he had borrowed the ingenious principles of the Minor Formless Skill, it was no easy feat to master the many transformations of the Seventy-two Ultimate Skills to such perfection.

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