Power Doubles, Entering the Scripture Repository

As he reached the table, Zhu Yingxiong took out a firestarter.

"Hiss—"

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

A dim yellow halo slowly spread outward, driving away the darkness in the corners and drawing the rough wooden table, old clay teapot, and the character for "Zen" on the wall from the shadows one by one.

Once the light had steadied, he took a stick of incense from beside the table and lit it from the lamp flame.

He carefully inserted it into the brass incense burner. Wisps of blue smoke curled upward, carrying the calming fragrance unique to sandalwood.

Only after finishing this did he walk to the bed, take the mutton-fat white jade bottle from his robes, pull out the stopper, and pour out a pill the size of a longan. Its color was warm and lustrous, while a crisp medicinal fragrance carried a faint breath of grass and wood.

A Little Rejuvenation Pill.

Looking at the pill in his palm, his thoughts were clear: only resources absorbed into one's own body could become true foundations.

Without hesitation, he tilted back his head and swallowed it, then immediately sat down cross-legged.

As the pill entered his stomach, a gentle warmth spread through him. Zhu Yingxiong silently circulated the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture, and that wisp of newly formed innate qi rose from his dantian, using the medicine's power to travel through the major and minor heavenly circuits.

Thus, his true qi carried the medicinal power along the pathways prescribed by the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture, cycling endlessly through the twelve primary meridians.

With every circulation, his meridians grew a measure tougher, his blood and qi a measure more vigorous, and that wisp of innate qi expanded another round, its radiance contained within and its warmth growing ever richer.

The movement of his blood and qi became increasingly vast and surging, faintly producing the sound of tides. His muscles and bones softly rang in response to this near-rebirth transformation.

The oil lamp burned quietly, and blue incense smoke curled through the room. Outside the window, the sky shifted from dusk to darkness, then from darkness back to light.

An entire night passed.

When the morning bell rang, Zhu Yingxiong stepped out of his room, feeling light and vigorous, his internal energy brimming.

The wonders of the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture and the effects of the Little Rejuvenation Pill complemented each other. In a single night, his cultivation had doubled.

Not far from the meditation courtyard, he spotted a plump, fair-skinned monk waiting beneath the bamboo. It was Yuan Cheng.

When Yuan Cheng's gaze fell upon Yuan Zhen, a trace of surprise clearly flashed through his eyes.

In the faint morning light, Yuan Zhen walked along the bluestone path. His plain monk's robes could not conceal his upright figure. His features were clear as distant mountains after rain, while his skin shone with the luster of polished jade beneath the rising sun.

In just one night, the air about him had undergone another subtle change. His eyes in particular were clear and pure, their divine light hidden within. Whenever he looked about, he carried an unexpectedly solemn, treasured bearing.

He was a handsome youth of natural clarity and grace, bright as the moon. Looking at him, one could not help but feel a momentary touch of self-conscious inferiority.

The smile on Yuan Cheng's round face faded somewhat, replaced by a serious appraisal. At last, he sighed. "In only one night... Junior Brother, the bearing around you has changed greatly again. Is the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture truly so profound?"

Zhu Yingxiong returned the greeting with palms pressed together, his tone modest. "Senior Brother flatters me. The Little Rejuvenation Pill merely helped stabilize some of my foundation."

But Yuan Cheng shook his head and said solemnly, "Though I have never practiced the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture, I can still tell that this is far more than the work of medicine alone. Junior Brother, you have already glimpsed the threshold of the higher path."

He paused, then smiled again. "It seems that at the year-end 'Four Halls Martial Meet,' our Dharma Hall truly has hope."

At the mention of the martial meet, Yuan Cheng's expression turned serious. He lowered his voice. "I came here precisely to tell you about the champions selected by the other three halls yesterday."

"You met Yuan Tong of the Arhat Hall yesterday. He has trained his body to possess bronze skin and iron bones, and his fist techniques are incomparably fierce and tyrannical. The champion of the Prajna Hall is Yuan Hui, said to be a martial arts genius seen only once in a century, with peerless palm techniques. As for the champion of the Discipline Hall, it is Yuan Jie..."

His expression grew slightly solemn. "You should know of him. He is the oldest, already thirty, and his cultivation is the deepest. His grappling claw techniques are extraordinary, and having enforced the rules for many years, his practical combat experience far surpasses that of his peers. Any one of these three would be a troublesome opponent."

He glanced at Yuan Zhen and added, "But in this senior brother's view, now that your Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture has taken initial form, the purity and depth of your internal energy no longer fall short of theirs. What you lack is merely a supreme technique capable of bringing such internal energy into play, along with some experience in actual combat."

After Yuan Cheng finished, he had expected Zhu Yingxiong to inquire closely about the cultivation methods and abilities of the other three.

Instead, Zhu Yingxiong asked, "Senior Brother Yuan Cheng, you are well informed. Could you tell me about recent affairs in the martial world?"

Yuan Cheng was startled upon hearing this, clearly not expecting him to suddenly ask about the martial world. But then the distinctive spark of someone eager to share fresh news appeared on his round face. His eyes brightened, and his voice unconsciously took on an excited tone.

"There has indeed been a major event in the martial world recently, one that shook the entire realm. Junior Brother, do you know of the Black List?"

"I have heard of it," Zhu Yingxiong replied evenly.

"The Black List rankings have undergone an enormous change," Yuan Cheng said, speaking faster with excitement. "Do you know who now ranks first?"

"I do not."

"The Rain-Covering Sword, Lang Fanyun," Yuan Cheng said almost word by word, unable to suppress his fervor as he recounted a martial legend. "In the battle at Raging Flood Dragon Island, he first defeated 'Poison Hand' Gan Luo, an expert on the Black List, then defeated 'Bandit Tyrant' Chi Zunxin, who had ranked second on the Black List. In one stroke, he rose to first place!"

After hearing this, waves surged in Zhu Yingxiong's heart, though his expression remained unchanged. He chatted with Yuan Cheng a little longer about rumors from the martial world before pressing his palms together in farewell.

The morning light grew brighter, spilling over the halls and soaring eaves of Shaolin's ancient thousand-year monastery in a blaze of gold.

Beyond the distant towering halls stood an ancient gray tower with sharply rising eaves—the Scripture Repository.

He stepped forward, heading toward the Scripture Repository.

A sense of urgency rose within Zhu Yingxiong. The battle at Raging Flood Dragon Island had already taken place, and Lang Fanyun had already ascended to the top of the Black List. Less than three years remained until the Demon Master, Pang Ban, returned to the martial world. He did not have much time left.

Yet when he looked up at that silent ancient tower, another emotion blazed up from the depths of his heart—a fire he could not suppress.

Shaolin's seventy-two supreme arts, the essence of a thousand years of martial learning, were all stored here.

Whether he could claim a place in the turbulent martial world of the future, or even personally stir its winds and clouds and write a legend of his own...

Everything would begin with this Scripture Repository.

He passed through the bamboo paths behind the Dharma Hall, rounded the rear wall of the Fragrant Accumulation Kitchen, and slowly followed a bluestone road shaded by ancient cypresses.

There was only the roar of wind through pines and birdsong echoing through the empty valley.

After about the time it took to drink a cup of tea, the ancient pavilion that weighed as heavily as Mount Tai in the hearts of Shaolin disciples came fully into view.

The tower had three stories, with upturned eaves and elaborate brackets. Its wood was dark as iron, gleaming with a cold luster beneath the thin midday sunlight.

Ancient bronze wind chimes hung silently from the eaves. Only when a cold wind occasionally passed did they give off a distant, muffled hum, like the low murmur of a Buddha.

The three black characters "Scripture Repository" were written upon the plaque over the main entrance. Their brushwork was powerful and deeply carved, inspiring solemnity at a glance.

Beneath the porch, an old monk in gray sat cross-legged on a meditation cushion with his eyes closed. His beard and brows were white, his face gaunt as an ancient pine. He seemed to have merged with the old tower, the stone steps, and the mountain wind. Without careful observation, one might have mistaken him for a stone statue.

Zhu Yingxiong stepped forward and bowed with palms pressed together. "Disciple Yuan Zhen, under the orders of the Dharma Hall's chief, has come to the Scripture Repository to select and study martial texts." As he spoke, he presented the wooden token.

The old monk slowly opened his eyes.

At that instant, Zhu Yingxiong felt two gentle, peaceful gazes settle upon him—yet they were unfathomably deep, as though they could see through his robes, flesh, and skin and directly observe the flow of his meridians and blood qi.

His heart tightened slightly. The wisp of innate qi within him trembled faintly on its own before quickly returning to stillness.

The old monk's gaze lingered on his face for a moment before he slowly nodded. His voice was hoarse and low. "The chief has already sent word. You may enter and study the scriptures for three days only. The Buddhist texts on the first floor may be read freely. The martial collection on the second floor may only be read, not copied or taken away. You must leave before the repository closes at sunset."

"This disciple understands. Thank you, Elder, for your accommodation." Zhu Yingxiong bowed again.

The old monk said no more. He closed his eyes once more, as still as a meditating monk.

Zhu Yingxiong gently pushed open the heavy ebony doors.

"Creak—"

The sound of turning hinges echoed through the empty repository. A mixed scent of aged paper, ink, and faintly decaying wood washed over him—calm, weighty, as though it could suppress every trace of restlessness in one's heart.

The first floor was extremely spacious. Several rows of towering cypress bookshelves stood in orderly arrangement, their scripture volumes vast as the sea, numbering no fewer than ten thousand.

Strands of daylight slanted in through the high lattice windows, illuminating motes of dust drifting slowly through the air.

Three or four monks sat quietly before long tables, some silently reciting and others copying texts. The soft rustle of brushes and turning pages made the repository seem even more tranquil.

Zhu Yingxiong walked steadily through the aisles between the shelves and headed directly for the wooden staircase at the side.

The steps were old, producing the faintest creak beneath his feet, a sound especially clear in the silence.

A face as young as his was already rare in the Scripture Repository. Yet he did not pause, instead heading straight for the second floor. Naturally, this drew the attention of the monks reading scriptures nearby.

One middle-aged monk, who had been copying the Diamond Sutra, paused slightly with his brush and raised his eyes, his gaze quietly following Zhu Yingxiong's back toward the stairs. Another young novice, silently reciting a scripture, also lifted his eyes from the scroll, a barely perceptible trace of envy flashing through them.

Within the Scripture Repository, the texts on the first floor could be read freely, but the martial collection on the second floor was a sacred ground that ordinary disciples might never enter in their lives.

Without special permission from a hall chief or exceptional merit, none could pass through its doors. Those able to climb those wooden stairs were all outstanding disciples in whom the sect placed great hopes.

As they watched Zhu Yingxiong disappear around the turn of the stairs to the second floor, their gazes met silently for an instant. Each saw similar ripples in the other's eyes.

The second floor was somewhat smaller than the first, and its shelves appeared even older. Instead of scrolls, they held secret manuals stored in blue cloth cases or paulownia wood boxes.

Standing in the tower, Zhu Yingxiong swept his gaze around, his breathing unconsciously quickening. Shaolin was said to possess seventy-two supreme arts, and they were all here.

He had thought there was no one else on the second floor, but as he approached, his steps halted involuntarily. Before a bookshelf by the eastern window stood a young monk.

The monk appeared to be in his twenties, dressed in ordinary gray cloth robes, with a figure straight as a pine. He was studying an open scripture before him with utmost concentration. Only when Zhu Yingxiong's footsteps drew near did he slowly raise his head, his gaze settling on him like still water.

Their eyes met in the air.

The young monk closed the book in his hands and carefully looked Zhu Yingxiong over from head to toe. Only then did he raise one palm and speak in a calm voice that carried an innate composed bearing.

"Are you Junior Brother Yuan Zhen of the Dharma Hall? This humble monk is Yuan Hui of the Prajna Hall."