Why Must It Come to This?

The restaurant was a complete mess, tables and chairs overturned, bloodstains splattered everywhere.

The diners had long since scattered like birds and beasts. The proprietor cowered behind the counter, trembling, while the waiter hid in the kitchen, too afraid to show his face.

Zhu Yingxiong swept his gaze over the four men sprawled across the floor. One had blood blooming from his brow and had long since stopped breathing. The other three were gravely wounded and unconscious, no longer a threat.

He took several pieces of broken silver from his sleeve and gently placed them on the counter.

"My apologies for the disturbance."

Zhu Yingxiong pressed his palms together in salute, then turned and stepped out of the restaurant into the afternoon sunlight.

Behind him, he faintly heard the proprietor chanting the Buddha's name. He did not look back, merely setting off toward Yique Pass.

Sunlight fell over him, warm and gentle.

The sharp spring wind blew in from the Yi River, gradually carrying away the smell of blood from his monk's robes. He followed the long street toward Yique Pass, his pace neither hurried nor slow.

Before long, the clamor gradually faded behind him.

The foot of the mountain came into view. Stone steps wound upward through thickets of wild trees, mottled with moss and marked by the passage of time. He raised his foot and climbed, step by step.

Passing through a stone gatehouse, the view suddenly opened up before him—

Guyang Cave.

The cave had been carved into the mountainside, deep and vast. Its interior was dim, with only a few slanting rays of sunlight entering through the mouth like golden swords, piercing a millennium of silence and falling upon the Buddhist statues.

Zhu Yingxiong stepped inside.

His gaze settled on the inscriptions beside the carvings along the cave walls. Some strokes were forceful, some flowing, some ancient and simple, some lively and agile. Within every brushstroke, he seemed to hear the echoes of craftsmen's chisels striking stone a thousand years ago, to hear the breaths of those nameless hands as they carved their faith into the rock.

These were the renowned Twenty Calligraphies of Longmen.

He walked farther in. From top to bottom, the northern and southern walls were densely carved with fifteen thousand Buddhist statues. The largest were barely over a foot tall, the smallest no bigger than a fist, yet every one had a different form and distinct features. Some sat quietly with lowered eyes, some smiled while holding flowers, some looked down upon all living things, while others gazed up into the void.

Sunlight slanted in through the cave entrance. Amid the shifting light and shadow, those fifteen thousand Buddhist statues seemed to open their eyes all at once and lower their gazes upon the mortal standing within the cave.

Standing amid countless Buddha shadows, Zhu Yingxiong pressed his palms together and bowed deeply.

After paying his respects, he turned and left, heading for Fengxian Temple.

Fengxian Temple was a great monastery of Longmen. Its halls were built against the mountain, with layered eaves, and the sounds of bells and chimes often rang through the grounds. He entered the temple to seek lodging. Seeing that his ordination certificate came from Shaolin, the guest monk respectfully pressed his palms together and arranged a quiet room for him.

The room was small, containing only a bed and a table, its window facing the green mountains. The sun was sinking beyond the peaks, and its fading light spilled through the lattice window onto the floor in a warm golden wash.

Zhu Yingxiong sat cross-legged in the room and circulated his inner energy. Though today's battle had left him uninjured, the true qi within him had inevitably been unsettled. As he quietly meditated and regulated his breath, the mental method of the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture began to circulate naturally, several times more active than usual.

True qi rose from his dantian and circulated through the major and minor heavenly cycles. When it surged through the Hand Shaoyang Triple Burner Meridian among the three hand yang meridians—

The collateral of Hand Shaoyang was called Waiguan. It lay two cun from the wrist, wound around the outer arm, entered the chest, and joined the Pericardium.

As true qi passed through Waiguan, it was like a stream flowing into a channel, smooth and unobstructed. It then rose through Tianjing and Sidu to Jianliao, breaking through each pass along the way, far faster than during his usual cultivation.

Zhu Yingxiong's heart stirred, but he did not deliberately guide it, allowing it to flow naturally.

The main channel of Hand Shaoyang reached the heavens, branched at the crown, entered the supraclavicular fossa, descended through the Triple Burner, and dispersed in the chest.

When the true qi reached Jianliao, it suddenly divided into two streams. One rose through Tianyou and Yifeng, straight to Jiaosun, like a clear spring flowing over stone. The acupoints behind his ears and along the sides of his head opened one after another. The other descended into the supraclavicular fossa and dispersed through his chest.

At the instant that stream of true qi spread into his chest—

The Shanzhong acupoint suddenly grew faintly warm. That was where the Purple Blood Art was rooted.

The ball of blood-colored true qi that had originally rested quietly there abruptly spun at high speed, as though about to erupt.

Zhu Yingxiong's heart tightened.

Buddha and demon were fundamentally different. If the two types of true qi clashed within his body, the least consequence would be damaged meridians; the worst, deviation into madness. Though he had used his golden finger to analyze their meaning and confirmed that they belonged to different dantians and theoretically would not interfere with each other, theory was still only theory.

Now that the true qi of the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture had dispersed into his chest, so close to the true qi of the Purple Blood Art, how could he not be nervous?

During today's fighting, the purple blood qi within his Shanzhong acupoint had reacted several times, like a hidden dragon raising its head, nearly bursting from his body. Each time, he had forcibly suppressed it.

But now, as the true qi of the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture spread through his chest and came into contact with the rapidly spinning blood-colored qi, the agitated true qi gradually settled—and grew increasingly dense.

For the moment, he could not comprehend why, but it once again confirmed his earlier speculation. The Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture could indeed help the Purple Blood Art break through the barrier of "entering the Dao from demonic cultivation."

Now, he cultivated both at once. One stream of true qi resided in his dantian, the other in his Shanzhong acupoint. Each occupied its own place without interfering, yet they faintly echoed one another.

Perhaps he was walking a martial path that no one before him had ever traveled.

Zhu Yingxiong slowly withdrew his power, but did not immediately open his eyes.

Instead, he reflected on today's battle. Only after this fight could he truly be said to have stepped into the martial world.

This was not his first time killing. Yet neither Lan Die'er nor that undercover agent had posed the same danger as today's foes.

When he killed Lan Die'er, he had seized the initiative and caught her off guard. When he killed the undercover agent, his opponent likewise lacked much practical combat experience. Both battles had been won with ease.

Today's battle had been different. Those four men had far more seasoned and ruthless combat experience. The moment they acted, they had surrounded him. Every strike had been aimed at his vital points.

It had been a true fight to the death. One moment of carelessness would have meant irreversible ruin.

Though he had cultivated innate true qi and learned Shaolin's supreme arts, his experience in life-and-death combat was still far from sufficient.

He had to face that fact. He could not afford to let down his guard.

After all, when people were killed, they died.

He would not place his hopes on Heaven giving him another chance to start over.

Zhu Yingxiong opened his eyes. Outside the window lay a deep night, with only the distant bell of Fengxian Temple carrying through the mountain shadows, long and tranquil. Accompanied by its tolling, he fell asleep and dreamed nothing that night.

Early the next morning, he left Fengxian Temple and descended the mountain over ground covered in frost.

Leaving Longmen Post Station, he turned north. The official road wound alongside the Yi River. The withered willow branches by the roadside had yet to sprout, trembling in the chilly morning wind.

Passing Shili Post Station and Guanlin, he continued north as the road grew broader and smoother. This was the great imperial road leading to Luoyang, its surface flat as a whetstone and filled with an endless stream of carriages and horses.

By the time he reached the southern bank of the Luo River, the sun was already high.

Tianjin Bridge spanned the Luo River like a long rainbow resting upon the waves. Pedestrians thronged across it—porters carrying loads, drivers urging carts, riders on horseback, and travelers on foot—all shoulder to shoulder, merging into a noisy torrent.

Zhu Yingxiong stood on the bridge and looked north.

Luoyang's southern gate lay two li away.

That majestic city stretched between heaven and earth, its walls towering high and its gate towers soaring.

Zhu Yingxiong strolled along the bridge with the crowd.

When he reached its middle, he suddenly saw the flow of people ahead parting to either side.

A tall, imposing man in brocade robes stood with his hands behind his back in the middle of the bridge. The passersby unconsciously avoided him, parting like a tide.

Zhu Yingxiong halted and stopped three zhang away.

The brocade-robed man's gaze settled upon him, heavy as winter clouds pressing down from above.

Their eyes met. Though people continued coming and going across the bridge, it seemed that only the two of them remained, confronting each other from afar.

Zhu Yingxiong already understood that this man had been waiting for him.

"Young monk of the Shaolin Sect." The brocade-robed man slowly spoke. His voice was not loud, yet it overwhelmed the sounds of carts and horses on the bridge, entering Zhu Yingxiong's ears with perfect clarity. "You killed my sect's man and ruined my plans. You truly have grown tired of living."

Zhu Yingxiong pressed his palms together before his chest and merely proclaimed a Buddhist invocation. "Amitabha."

"Why must it come to this?" The brocade-robed man sighed, as though lamenting his fate. "In the prime of your life, and you are already about to meet the Buddha."

At that moment, killing intent had emerged.