Collecting Them All! I Want Every One of the Seventy-Two Supreme Arts!

Zhu Yingxiong returned the salute with palms pressed together, his gaze sweeping over the copy of Eight Strikes of the Divine Palm in the other man's hands. "Yuan Zhen greets Senior Brother."

"I heard Junior Brother has already comprehended our Shaolin's supreme art, the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture. You are truly blessed with great fortune." Yuan Hui's tone was calm, but a glimmer flashed through his eyes. ""

"Senior Brother flatters me. I merely happened to glimpse the way in." Zhu Yingxiong's words were humble, yet there was not a trace of timidity in his bearing.

Yuan Hui's expression turned solemn. "What place is there for luck in the path of martial arts?" He paused slightly, his words already carrying a hidden edge. "The year-end competition is approaching. When the time comes... I hope to exchange pointers properly with Junior Brother."

Zhu Yingxiong raised his eyes and met his gaze directly. "Since Senior Brother wishes it, Yuan Zhen will respectfully await your guidance."

Yuan Hui stared at him for a moment. The faint glimmer in his eyes gradually settled, returning to stillness.

"Junior Brother must also be here to choose a scripture today." He stepped half a pace aside, his tone returning to normal. "Then this poor monk shall not disturb you."

With that, he said no more and turned back toward the bookshelf beneath the eastern window.

Zhu Yingxiong did not linger either, heading straight for the row of cypress-wood bookshelves on the western side marked "Finger Techniques."

The cases on the shelves were arranged in perfect order. His gaze swept across them, and the first thing he saw was a volume carefully bound in dark green silk and placed alone in a compartment—One-Finger Zen.

The three ancient clerical-script characters were as dark as ink.

Among Shaolin's many supreme finger arts, this technique was known as the "Foremost Finger Art of Shaolin." None but those of immense perseverance and exceptional comprehension could lightly attempt its cultivation.

The Zen force of Buddhism was profoundly mysterious and beyond description. The power of a single finger could pierce gold and stone; when cultivated to the deepest level, it could strike acupoints from afar and subdue enemies invisibly.

Zhu Yingxiong's breathing tightened slightly. He extended both hands and solemnly removed the case. It felt heavy and solid in his grasp, its silk surface fine and faintly cool.

Standing in the light by the window, he held his breath and focused, slowly opening the cover.

There was no illustration on the first page, only several lines of inked words in lean yet forceful handwriting:

A finger is not a finger; thus it is called a finger;

Zen is not Zen; thus it is called Zen.

See one's nature through the finger, and comprehend Zen through one's nature.

Finger and Zen are not two; in the end lies empty clarity.

Yuan Hui stood by the window holding the Eight Strikes of the Divine Palm manual, his gaze seemingly fixed upon its pages. Yet his mind could not help but follow Yuan Zhen's every movement.

Ever since hearing that Yuan Zhen, a disciple of the Dharma Hall, had actually mastered the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture, which no one had cultivated successfully in two hundred years, he had remembered that name.

He had also been fortunate enough to read that martial art, hailed as Buddhism's supreme tome, but it had been like gazing at a mountain beyond the clouds—ethereal and inaccessible, with no way through its gate.

He had never believed his comprehension or innate talent inferior to anyone else's. Why was it this man who had opened that door?

At this moment, through a narrow gap between the shelves, he caught sight of Yuan Zhen walking toward the cypress-wood shelf on the eastern side that displayed finger-art manuals.

The young man did not pause. Reaching upward, he took down a manual from the higher shelf, its cover bearing the title One-Finger Zen.

Naturally, Yuan Hui had heard of this supreme art, renowned as the "Foremost Finger Art of Shaolin." Among the seventy-two supreme arts, it was universally acknowledged to be one of the most profound and unfathomable, as well as one of the hardest superior finger techniques to begin learning.

Throughout the generations, those who had devoted themselves to this art could be counted on one hand.

Yuan Hui's gaze flickered. It seemed that mastering the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture had truly given Junior Brother Yuan Zhen tremendous confidence, enough to dare choose this finger art.

Yet before his judgment had settled, the scene in his sight changed.

Yuan Zhen stood still for a moment, then slowly closed the One-Finger Zen manual and returned it to the shelf exactly as he had found it. Immediately afterward, his fingers shifted, drawing out another manual from beside it—Tala Leaf Finger.

Had he retreated in the face of difficulty?

Had he realized that the mysteries of One-Finger Zen were too profound to glimpse in a short time, and thus turned to Tala Leaf Finger instead? That was... at least practical.

Yuan Hui had heard of Tala Leaf Finger as well. This finger art was famed for its fierce power, sharpness, and unmatched speed. Its explosive finger force was like a raging storm, extraordinarily domineering and immensely powerful in actual combat.

But before that thought could settle, Yuan Zhen's actions again exceeded his expectations.

Tala Leaf Finger was gently set down, while Formless Calamity Finger was picked up and leafed through. A moment later, Formless Calamity Finger was returned to its place, and Great Wisdom Unfixed Finger entered his hands. Then came Flower-Picking Finger...

The fingers gripping Yuan Hui's scripture tightened almost imperceptibly.

Skimming through them like this, turning pages as though brushing aside leaves—how could this be the manner of someone selecting an art to comprehend? Clearly, his heart was restless, his eyes dazzled by the treasures of this mountain, not knowing where to begin or how deep the waters ran.

Yuan Hui could not help shaking his head inwardly. He remembered how, when he had first entered the temple, his master had earnestly instructed him: Shaolin martial arts were vast and profound. Any one of the seventy-two supreme arts contained endless wondrous principles, enough to occupy even one of excellent talent for a lifetime. Greedily seeking too much and merely sampling each art was a great taboo in cultivation. Not only would it waste one's years, it could also damage one's very foundation.

Could it be that Junior Brother Yuan Zhen truly believed that, having received the opportunity of the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture, he could succeed in one stroke and master every art?

The faint competitiveness and scrutiny in his heart, born of the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture, faded somewhat at that moment, turning into an indescribable melancholy, even a trace of disappointment.

So this man is nothing more than that.

If so, there was no need to pay him further attention.

Yuan Hui gathered his thoughts and completely immersed himself in the force diagrams of Eight Strikes of the Divine Palm, no longer allowing himself to be distracted.

On the second floor of the Scripture Repository Pavilion, time quietly flowed amid boundless silence. Only dust motes drifted slowly through shafts of light streaming in through the window lattice.

One man sat cross-legged beneath the western window, comprehending palm techniques, spirit and intent united as he forgot both self and surroundings. The other walked slowly between the bookshelves, touching the many scriptures and leafing through their pages.

After an unknown amount of time, Yuan Hui gained a new understanding from a diagram explaining the wondrous interplay of yin and yang, hardness and softness, in the force behind Needle in Cotton, one of the Eight Strikes. It was as though enlightenment had been poured over his head; his mind suddenly opened wide, and a faint curve of joyful realization appeared at the corner of his lips.

He let out a long breath, as though expelling every burden from his chest, and felt the circulation of energy throughout his body become livelier.

In his relaxed state of mind, he lifted his head. Almost casually, with the ease that followed his realization, his gaze swept toward the row of finger-art shelves opposite him.

Yet the instant his eyes landed there, they froze—

The figure that should have been lingering before the finger-art shelves had somehow moved to the more distant shelves of fist techniques!

At that moment, through the gaps between the shelves, Yuan Hui could clearly see that the manual in Zhu Yingxiong's hands was none other than Perfection Hand!

A Dharma Hall disciple, instead of devoting himself to finger techniques, was actually reading fist-art manuals?

Yuan Hui was first stunned, then a sense of absurdity rose within him. This was no longer simply greed for too many arts. He had no fixed purpose at all; this was practically child's play!

Shaolin martial arts might indeed be vast, but each hall and academy followed its own specialized path precisely to keep disciples from aiming too high and wasting their years. By behaving this way, was he not ruining his own future?

Seeing this fellow disciple take the wrong path and verge on straying into error, Yuan Hui felt that he could not simply stand by.

At the very least, he should offer a reminder.

Yuan Hui closed the Eight Strikes of the Divine Palm in his hands, straightened his monk's sleeves, and walked with a calm expression toward Zhu Yingxiong, who was still intently reading before the fist-art shelves.

Zhu Yingxiong was currently reading the Perfection Hand manual in his hands.

If his state of mind had to be described with a common saying, he was like a rat falling into an oil vat, or a black bear crashing into a jar of honey.

Wherever his eyes fell, lines of text and diagrams of energy circulation streamed into his vision, while the pale golden interface before him flickered and flowed.

[Perfection Hand, currently being recorded...]

The golden finger really can record all kinds of martial arts manuals. Three days should be enough, then, he thought to himself.

Within this limited time, he would record every Shaolin supreme art!

Zhu Yingxiong took a deep breath, suppressing the agitation in his heart, and reached for another volume—Great Vajra Fist.

"Junior Brother Yuan Zhen."

Holding the Great Vajra Fist manual he had just taken down, Zhu Yingxiong turned at the sound. Yuan Hui was already standing one shelf away, calmly looking at the fist manual in his hands before shifting his gaze to his face.

"Junior Brother has only just entered this treasure mountain of martial arts. With so many dazzling treasures before you, it is natural to be momentarily overwhelmed." Yuan Hui's tone remained even, but his gaze carried a hint of admonition. "However, Shaolin's seventy-two supreme arts are vast and profound. Do not greedily seek too much or try to possess everything. Choosing one or two and studying them deeply is the proper path."

"Thank you for your guidance, Senior Brother." Zhu Yingxiong pressed his palms together in response, his tone mild and casual. "But since I have come to such a treasure ground, I should examine everything carefully before making my choice."

Seeing that he would not heed the advice and insisted on his own course, Yuan Hui could not help shaking his head. He merely said, "It is good that Junior Brother has his own judgment."

With that, he turned and returned to his original place, picking up the Eight Strikes of the Divine Palm once more.

However, whether because their earlier exchange had disturbed his thoughts, or because the figure moving slowly among the different bookshelves and occasionally pulling out manuals to browse was simply too conspicuous in the corner of his eye, Yuan Hui found that he could no longer immerse himself in the scripture as completely as before.