Chapter 14. I Hate Bald People
I experienced Shaolin's martial arts to the point of exhaustion in my past life. I could even perform some of their techniques myself, so what more is there to say?
That's why subduing these fuzz-headed monks is nothing to me.
In an instant, a Shaolin monk approached me. Judging by the powerful fist pressure rising from his drawn-back fist, he was a first-generation disciple.
I dodged his strike by simply turning my head, then drove my fist into his abdomen. At the same time, I swayed away from the attack of an ill-mannered monk kicking at my head, using the Drunken Eight Immortals Steps, and immediately sent him flying with an uppercut kick to the chin.
When I was teaching them a lesson, I really wanted to use a sword.
But I couldn't just cut down Shaolin monks with a blade, so I gave up on the idea. I should have used a wooden sword, but it's been so long since I've had a proper spar that I forgot.
‘Ever since I regressed, I've only been in life-or-death battles.’
I'll have to remember to prepare a wooden sword tomorrow.
I naturally dropped my sword and began to use my own fist and foot techniques in earnest. A punch from a Shaolin disciple a head taller than me. I slapped his fist, which flew at me with a gust of wind, aside with both hands.▲
Red petal-like fist energy scattered from my palms, obscuring his vision. It was the Beggars' Sect's Lotus Palm.
Did he not expect me to parry his strike? The large-framed Shaolin disciple frowned, his expression dismayed, and I immediately tilted my head to dodge a kick coming from behind.
I grabbed the foot that flew past my shoulder and slammed him into the ground. *Kuuung!* For a brief moment, my heart ached seeing the bald head planted vertically into the ground with a thunderous roar.
The large man's fist flew at me again. The wind from his punch swept through my short hair.
‘This one's punches are pretty fierce.’
But that was all. A fist without precise distribution of power was nothing more than a child's tantrum.
I met the fist, as large as a man's face, by wrapping a golden dragon around my own arm. This was one of the Beggars' Sect's ultimate techniques, the Eighteen Dragon-Subduing Palms.
*Kwaaaang!*
With a sound like a thunderclap bomb exploding, the large Shaolin monk collapsed. I shook my tingling shoulder and spoke to the hesitating monks.
“Anyone else? Why do kids these days have no fighting spirit?”
Amitabha.
Hyewon, a second-generation disciple of Shaolin, squeezed his eyes shut and secretly chanted the Buddha's name. He couldn't bear to watch the horrific scene unfolding before him.
The prodigies of the thousand-year-old Shaolin Temple were being toyed with by a single ruffian. His martial arts weren't overwhelmingly powerful. No, he was certainly exceptional for his age, but not to the extent that he could thrash Shaolin's warrior monks like this.
‘The Heir of the Beggars' Sect. A Heavenly Martial Body.’
He had heard that this was a martial talent said to appear only once in a thousand years. Even so, wasn't this too much?
*Hwaak!*
A rough gust of wind swept past Hyewon's smooth head. The face of his Senior Brother—the strongest among the second-generation disciples and a man whose future position as one of the Four Great Vajras was all but guaranteed—was being brutally crushed by the beggar's kicking techniques.
The Four Great Vajras were the four strongest monks in Shaolin. It was not a position one could win through something like gambling.
The most peculiar things were the ruffian's eyes and mouth. His skin was unusually fair for a beggar, but what was one to make of those silver eyes?
He wasn't from the Western Regions, nor was he born that way. It seemed to be the aftereffect of mastering a divine art, but there was no martial art in the world known to have such an effect.
‘The creation of a new martial art?’
Impossible. No matter if he had a Heavenly Martial Body, could he already display the capabilities of a Grand Master?
That was the caliber of the first Heavenly Demon of the Sun and Moon Cult, Bodhidharma of Shaolin, Zhang Sanfeng the founder of the Wudang Sect, or Lü Dongbin, who was called the Sword Immortal.
They were called the greatest of all time and enjoyed power and glory even in death. It was a status that someone like the Heir of the Beggars' Sect should not dare to covet.
And his mouth! That mouth was the problem.
“You were willing to go bald to learn martial arts, yet you're losing to a damn beggar? So you went bald but didn't gain any power. That must mean your faith is lacking. Go on, hit your heads with a wooden fish. I bet it'll make a nice, clear sound… Is it because your heads are empty that the sound is so pure?”
How could a person say such infuriating things? Could this kind of brawling even be called training? It was then that one of the first-generation disciples, who had been lying on the ground, shot up to protest.
“It's not that our hair doesn't grow, we shave it!”
That timid protest was silenced by a single kick from the Heir.
“Shut it, baldy. If I say you're bald, you're bald. You're a monk, you should be striking a wooden fish and chanting scriptures, not kicking up a fuss trying to fight. If you think I'm wrong, throw a stone at me. Oh, no stones around? Then why don't you headbutt me with that rock of yours. Haha.”
“Laugh.”
“...…”
Once again, the Heir took a bell from his robes and jingled it, and the Shaolin disciples began to laugh reflexively, clutching their stomachs. They likely lacked the strength to even throw a punch, so to see them react like that... the Heir's methods must be quite painful indeed.▲
It was a lame joke befitting the old abbot in his chambers. He must have never learned manners or propriety from his parents.
Has Qi deviation penetrated his very marrow, or has he simply gone senile?
Hyewon squeezed his eyes shut once more and chanted the Buddha's name.
“Amitabha!”
As a disciple of Buddha, what kind of blasphemy was this? There were thoughts one should have, and thoughts one should not. That man was a demon.
At that moment, a dark shadow fell over Hyewon's face. It took but an instant to realize it was a worn-out leather shoe.
*Kwaaaang!*
With a harsh roar, Hyewon's consciousness sank beneath the surface.
I patted the monks' heads and then dusted off my greasy hands.
“Why is this bastard resting all by himself?”
He'd been getting on my nerves for a while. The baldy who just stood there chanting the Buddha's name instead of attacking. Guys like him never master martial arts.
Because they have no perseverance, and they can't go crazy. It was a pity, considering that all the peerless masters—those who reached the Profound Realm—were all insane.
In this world, the only sane ones are me and Baek Cheon.
I picked up the old iron sword rolling on the ground and tucked it back into my belt, then kindly pulled out the baldy who was planted headfirst in the dirt.
I suppose I've come to understand the heart of a farmer. How beautiful is the joy of the harvest?
Muttering such nonsense, I sat alone in the training yard and waited for them to wake up.
It may not look like it, but I actually hold no grudge against these monks. Why do I say this?
Because I wasn't just beating them up. Every attack I used on the Shaolin monks incorporated the technique of the Vital Passage Method.
The Vital Passage Method is a technique that heals internal injuries by massaging the opponent's acupoints. However, a master of my level could use it a little differently: kneading the acupoints to widen the blood vessels.
These vessels are the pathways through which internal energy flows. Wider, stronger vessels were a natural path to becoming stronger.
To think I have to provide this kind of training, which they couldn't get anywhere else, to these damn baldies. I let out a deep sigh.
These foolish baldies wouldn't know it, but there was another reason for my provocations. People tense up when they get angry. My goal was to make them exert all their strength until they surpassed their limits, so by provoking them...
Alright, fine, I also did it because I was a little pissed off. Happy now?
I looked up at the clear morning sky. The round clouds, flowing aloofly, seemed to resemble the monks.
I hate bald people. So what?
Time passed, and before I knew it, the day of the martial arts tournament had arrived. Since only proven experts were participating, they decided to skip the preliminaries and start with the round of 16.
It seemed certain that Dowonhyang was coming, so I decided to stay put in the relative safety of Shaolin.
After the Shaolin monks' training was done, I also helped Hwapyeong with his swordsmanship a bit, but he was so infuriating I felt like I couldn't do it anymore.
That damn idiot. The baldies understand ten things when I say one, but this supposed direct disciple of the Haomun Lord understands one thing when I say ten.
It couldn't be helped. The Haomun Lord had dozens of disciples. It was in his nature to teach someone a little if they caught his interest and then give them a decent position.
Separately, the thirty-six chambers of Shaolin were bustling with pilgrims who had come to the temple after a long time. The Shaolin monks swiftly constructed a tournament stage out of precious lapis lazuli.
I sat next to Beomcheon on the platform with the Shaolin dignitaries, resting my chin on my hand as I watched the disciples.
Watching the baldies work, sweating profusely, a satisfied smile naturally formed on my face. Is this what a mother feels? To make me, an orphan, understand the warmth of a mother's love?
Thanks to my training methods, the disciples have reached the state of a Buddha. If so, does that not make me the Sage of the Shakya Clan himself?
On either side of Beomcheon and me were Shaolin's pride, the Four Great Vajras, and the Elders who led this great sect. Behind them, the Ten Precept Monks, who were in charge of Shaolin's discipline, were glaring at me.
It seemed they had all witnessed me rampaging like a ruffian in the training yard.
Frankly, I didn't care whether they glared or not, so I just smirked and looked at the tournament stage.
Two of Shaolin's second-generation disciples were already standing there with clenched fists, waiting for the tournament to begin.
Instantly, Beomcheon stepped into the sky as if treading on lotus flowers. It was the Nine Ranks of the Lotus Throne, a movement technique famous as one of Shaolin Temple's ultimate arts.
The nine steps that Sage of the Shakya Clan Buddha was said to have taken at birth.
The old monk, having ascended high into the sky, spoke with a benevolent smile.
"I now declare the martial arts tournament open."
I thought to myself as I watched the two Shaolin monks fiercely exchange blows.
His brief announcement was over. With a roar from the pilgrims, the Shaolin monks began to clash.
One had mastered the Great Strength Vajra Palm from among the Seventy-Two Arts of Shaolin, while the other had mastered the Supreme Great Power.
I turned my gaze to the people who had set up stalls and were taking bets on the matches.
‘I'm jealous.’
If I had gone over there, I would have been raking in the cash. But my status as Hugae of the Beggars' Sect made it difficult to act so rashly.
As much as I wanted to jump in right away.
I decided to hold back, if only for the sake of the Branch Chief and Baekhae. See? This is how considerate I am of others.
The outcome of the duel was obvious. The Shaolin monk who had mastered the Wuxiang Divine Art would win.
It would be a while before my turn came anyway, so I closed my eyes and sought sleep under the guise of mental cultivation.
How much time had passed? The murmuring of the crowd grew louder. Was a famous Shaolin monk stepping up to fight? From the sound of it, he seemed to be a powerhouse on the level of the Eighteen Arhats.
I stretched wide, rubbed my sleepy eyes, and looked down at the sparring stage.
On the left side of the stage, a Shaolin monk with the character for ‘Dharma’ embroidered on the chest of his yellow robes stood with a confident expression. He was one of Shaolin’s main fighting forces, the Eighteen Arhats.
And to his left.
A young girl with arrogant eyes swept her gaze over the audience. Short legs and small arms. Utterly disadvantageous for a fight of range and timing. She looked too young to be a martial artist.
Her long black hair fluttered haughtily. Watching the scene, my jaw dropped open without me even realizing it.
The girl’s eyes met mine, and she scowled in displeasure before stepping onto the stage. A cute face, her cheeks still full with baby fat.
*Crackle!* A flash of lightning bloomed from the girl’s entire body. It was the characteristic reaction of the Lightning Qi Art.
In that fleeting moment, a line of blue lightning was seared across the massive sparring stage. The stage, made of lapis lazuli, shattered with a deafening roar. At the end of that long path was the pitiful Eighteen Arhat.
The eye technique known as the Sun Moon Heavenly Art unfolded in my vision. I barely had time to register it. With a hand like a tender fernbrake, she grabbed the bald man’s triumphant face and immediately slammed the Arhat into the hard floor of the stage.
A cold silence hung over the training ground. I spoke to Beomcheon, chewing on my words.
“You crazy son of a bitch, that’s Invincible with a Single Strike.”
Tamrang of the Dark Moon Society.
A top-tier fighter of the Dark Moon Society handpicked by Baek Cheon, a master from a previous generation, a woman who had grown young again through the Art of Returning to Youth.
She, too, was a master of the Realm of Life and Death.
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