Midnight Appointment, Summons from the Yingui Sect

Outside the window, the sun's shadow shifted silently, climbing from the eastern window toward the zenith before slowly slanting westward.

Within the pavilion, only the steady rustle of turning pages could be heard—swish, swish—like silkworms feeding on leaves, quiet and unending.

Zhu Yingxiong carefully closed the manual of the Hundred-Step Divine Fist, which he had already recorded and analyzed, and properly returned it to its place. He gently rolled his neck, which had grown slightly stiff and numb from standing and reading for so long, then looked out the window. Only then did he realize that the sun had already passed its zenith. It was afternoon.

A faint emptiness rose from his stomach. After a moment's thought, he decided to take a break, have some vegetarian lunch, and return afterward to continue.

He had intended to call out to Senior Brother Yuan Hui. His gaze naturally swept toward where Yuan Hui had been earlier, only to find the meditation cushion beneath the western window empty.

Looking around the quiet, spacious second floor, he saw only rows upon rows of bookshelves and dappled light and shadows. There was no sign of anyone.

Just as he was wondering where Yuan Hui had gone, he caught sight of what seemed to be the corner of a grayish-brown monk's robe hanging still behind a nearby row of shelves.

Zhu Yingxiong pondered briefly, then lightened his steps and walked over.

Rounding the bookshelf, he found Yuan Hui standing sideways with his back turned, engrossed in a secret manual held in his hands.

As if sensing someone approaching, Yuan Hui's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly before he quickly turned around.

Their eyes met.

A trace of undisguised surprise flashed through Yuan Hui's eyes. He had clearly never expected Zhu Yingxiong to find him here. That surprise swiftly transformed into a faint embarrassment and panic, so subtle it was almost impossible to catch.

The book in Yuan Hui's hand seemed scalding hot. Flustered, he put it back, then hurriedly pushed it farther inward. Yet in the next instant, he seemed to realize that this only made his attempt at concealment more obvious. His fingers halted in midair, and a trace of annoyance flashed across his face.

All of this happened in the span of a flash.

Zhu Yingxiong had taken in every subtle movement and shift in expression. Naturally, he had also seen the name of the manual Yuan Hui had hastily "hidden"—Great Compassion Thousand-Leaf Hand. Understanding dawned on him, but his face remained calm, as if he had noticed nothing at all.

Yuan Hui's hand froze on the book spine. Withdrawing it felt wrong; leaving it there felt wrong as well. The embarrassment on his refined face became more obvious, and even the roots of his ears flushed faintly red. He swiftly pulled back his hand and smoothed his sleeve, forcing himself to calm down. After a light cough, his gaze drifted slightly, though he tried to keep his voice as steady as ever.

"Cough... I had nothing to do and happened upon this manual. I recalled that Master once mentioned how some of its principles for exerting force may share similarities with the Eight Strikes of the Divine Palm, so I came to look through it... merely to draw some inspiration." He spoke a little faster than usual, his attempt at explanation rather obvious.

A faint smile flickered in Zhu Yingxiong's eyes, but he did not expose him. He merely brought his palms together warmly and casually invited, "I see. Senior Brother is truly diligent. Yuan Zhen admires you. The day has passed noon—would Senior Brother care to join me at the dining hall for some vegetarian fare?"

As if he had grasped a lifeline to change the subject, Yuan Hui immediately nodded. Most of his natural composure had returned. "Junior Brother may go ahead. This monk... still has several difficult points to ponder in silence. I will go shortly."

"Very well. Then this junior brother will take his leave first." Zhu Yingxiong said no more. With a slight smile, he turned and followed the way he had come, his steps steady as he headed toward the stairs.

Only after the moon-white figure vanished around the stairway corner did Yuan Hui let out an almost inaudible sigh of relief. Turning back, he looked at the Great Compassion Thousand-Leaf Hand resting in the shelf compartment, his expression complicated—a mixture of chagrin, self-mockery, and relief. In the end, he reached out and took the manual down once more.

When Zhu Yingxiong returned to the Scripture Repository, Yuan Hui was still there.

The sparse afternoon light filtered through the high windows, casting the shadows of shelves and men at long angles. Each occupied a corner, silently reading the scriptures they wanted, neither disturbing the other.

Only when the sun had completely set beyond the windows, and the lingering echoes of the evening bell rolled into the pavilion from afar, did closing time approach. The two men closed their books almost at the same time, returned the manuals they had taken to their places, exchanged nods at the stairway, and walked out of the Scripture Repository one after the other.

Zhu Yingxiong returned to his meditation chamber, eager to sort through the Shaolin techniques he had recorded that day.

"Pssh—" A flame leaped up, lighting the ceramic oil lamp on the table.

The bean-sized flame flickered unsteadily at first, then gradually settled into a dim, warm halo of light that slowly spread outward, driving away the darkness in the room and illuminating the small antique brass incense burner on the table.

Out of habit, he reached for a stick of incense and lit it from the lamp. But just as he was about to insert it into the fine ash within the burner, his arm suddenly froze in midair.

His gaze locked firmly onto the inside of the incense burner.

A thin layer of yesterday's incense ash lay at the bottom, pale gray, fine, and evenly spread. But now, someone had used a fingertip—or some other delicate object—to clearly and deliberately draw a symbol into that pale ash—

A broken half-moon, its curve clean and sharp. Within the arc was a short, forceful slash, forming a strange and secretive combination with the crescent.

His pupils contracted almost imperceptibly as his eyes fell upon the symbol.

The mark stirred a memory buried deep within him.

The Yingui Sect's secret contact sign.

Zhu Yingxiong slowly bent down, drawing close to the dim lamp as he scrutinized the traces in the incense burner with hawk-like eyes.

It had been left recently—while he was away from his meditation chamber at the Scripture Repository today. Someone had entered his room.

He extended his right index finger into the cool ash. His fingertip searched through the fine powder for a few moments before soon touching something slightly hard and curled.

He pinched it and pulled it out.

It was a tightly rolled slip of paper, no thicker than his little finger.

By the dim, flickering lamplight, he gently unrolled it.

There was no salutation and no signature, only four small characters written in fresh ink, the handwriting elegant:

"Tonight at midnight..."

The dim yellow light divided his face into two halves of light and shadow. A clear boundary ran along the bridge of his straight nose—one side caressed by warm light, the other submerged in darkness.

What was meant to come had finally arrived.

So be it. He had planned to make contact with the current demonic sect sooner or later, to test the depth of these waters. He simply had not expected them to come so urgently, so "thoughtfully," even delivering the message straight to his bedside.

Zhu Yingxiong raised the nearly weightless paper slip between two fingers and steadily moved it toward the flame.

The tongue of fire gently licked at the corner of the paper and swiftly spread. Orange-red light illuminated his calm brows and eyes before it turned into a wisp of smoke and ash, drifting down among the dust on the tabletop without leaving a trace.

Only then did he firmly insert the incense stick, which had already burned for a while, into the center of the burner. The glowing tip flickered, and warm incense ash slowly fell, gradually covering the old marks.

After doing all this, his gaze swept across the simple, almost empty meditation chamber once more.

How had the Yingui Sect delivered this thing inside?

It meant that within Shaolin Temple, beneath these layers of halls and strict monastic rules, there were other Yingui Sect agents besides himself.

And though that person's status might not be as high as that of a "direct disciple of the Dharma Hall's chief seat," their hidden network and ability to pass messages could not be underestimated.

Someone in the shadows, someone who might be watching his every move at any time...

A cold, sharp glint flashed deep in Zhu Yingxiong's eyes.

That would not do. He had to find that person. He had no desire to be watched at all times.

He slipped a hand into his robes and took out the handwritten copy of the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture. Recently, he had kept this scripture close to his body at all times.

Burning this precious manual would naturally be the cleanest and safest option. But now, it seemed... keeping it might prove more useful.

He stopped thinking about it and turned toward the oil lamp on the table, which still cast its dim yellow glow. Leaning closer, he gave it a gentle blow.

"Puff—"

The flame went out at once.

The meditation chamber immediately sank into dense darkness.

Only the glowing ember of incense in the burner remained, a tiny red dot in the dark, while blue smoke curled soundlessly through the silence.

He sat upright there, like a stone statue that had long since merged with the meditation chamber and the darkness itself.

He waited for midnight to arrive.

To attend an appointment he could not avoid, one he had to face head-on.