Chapter 33: Monk Hongde (Revised)

Ling Chi pushed aside all distracting thoughts, focusing single-mindedly on his journey. He gathered his energy and spirit to their peak, knowing the true battle still awaited him.

In the early autumn night, a subtle chill had set in. On the deserted long street, a shadowy figure darted silently through the gloom. Night-walking garments were not simply named for their color, but for the special materials from which they were made—fabric that made no sound in movement, essential for a silent and victorious ambush.

It was now the sixth quarter of the second watch. Ling Chi had already slipped quietly to the Hall of Heavenly Kings. A broad-bellied Maitreya Buddha sat grinning on the altar, its smile seeming strangely uncanny to him.

After some consideration, he decided to deal with the rats underground first. If something went amiss, at least the underground was soundproof, giving him a margin for error.

Ling Chi carefully searched behind the Buddha, beneath a large meditation cushion, where he found an entrance concealed by a wooden board. Lifting it, a pitch-black hole was revealed below, like a void that could swallow souls.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside, weighing the plank down with the cushion and then resetting the board from within. He descended the stairs to the depths. Oil lamps flickered in the tunnel. Encountering lights while sneaking in was always troublesome, as one's shadow could betray them.

Ling Chi crept along the wall, encountering no one, not even a single sentry, and a sense of unease crept over him. He trod carefully, testing every step for fear of hidden traps below.

Finally, after rounding a corner, he breathed a sigh of relief—he’d finally spotted someone. A guard, nodding off, was deep in a dream.

Ling Chi crept up silently, clamped a hand over the man’s mouth, struck his artery with a knife-hand, and hoisted him onto his shoulder, carrying him back several dozen paces into a dead end.

He began his interrogation, a flicker of lightning sparking from his finger as he pressed it against the man’s forehead. The lackey awoke with a jolt, staring wide-eyed at the blade pressed against his jaw, the razor-sharp tip already breaking his skin. He could feel the blood inside him beading and trickling out through the wound.

Trembling, his teeth chattered uncontrollably.

“Stop shaking. The more you tremble, the sooner you’ll die. I’ll ask, you answer. Get it wrong, and you die instantly.”

“Look into my eyes and answer: how many exits are there here?” Ling Chi asked.

A small psychological trick: ask how many, not if there are any. The questioned instinctively thinks you already know at least one exit, making it easier to break their mental defenses.

“There are two exits. The ones with two oil lamps at the fork are the exits,” the lackey answered.

“Who’s the strongest here, and how many people are there?”

“Li Chun. He’s at Body Tempering Ninth Stage. Each group has twelve men.”

“Don’t meet me in your next life.”

With a snap, Ling Chi broke his neck. Two streams of spiritual energy flowed into him.

He tossed the corpse aside and retraced his steps to the sentry post.

Proceeding forward, he found the underground quarters crowded. In one hewn stone chamber, six men crammed onto a single large bed, the air thick with stench.

Even wearing a mask, Ling Chi could smell the foul odor, but he forced himself to ignore it as he worked methodically and efficiently—his knife striking swiftly and precisely, each thrust ending an enemy’s life in an instant.

There was no time to cover them up; in this sealed space, blankets could no longer muffle the scent of blood.

Following the sound of snoring, he found another chamber. Not good—only four people lay inside, their bedding still warm. One was missing.

He dispatched the sleeping lackeys one by one, but the missing man made him uneasy.

Footsteps approached, and his heart leapt; at least the man was returning, which meant he hadn’t been discovered yet.

Ling Chi hid in the shadows. As the newcomer entered, he drove his crimson blade, charged with blazing energy, deep into the man's waist.

“What’s your name?” Ling Chi’s voice was like a demon’s, crawling from the abyss.

“Li…Li Chun. Spare me, spare my life,” came the desperate plea.

Li Chun felt his life ebbing fast and quickly begged for mercy.

“Besides those eleven, how many others are here?”

“No more. With me, there’s twelve of us in total.”

“Where else in the city do the Mountain Bandits have a base?” Ling Chi pressed, still suspicious of the man in gray.

“This is our only base. But the Third Chief is staying overnight at the Spring Tower in the city,” Li Chun muttered, nearly unconscious.

“Where’s your money hidden?”

Ling Chi had no intention of letting this dirty money soil anyone else’s hands—he would bear this sin himself.

“In the wine jar next door,” Li Chun replied. Ling Chi twisted his neck, ending him.

Opening the jar, he found a mix of gold and silver, along with a bundle of banknotes from the Imperial Silver and Gold Guild.

This guild was the empire’s official bank, redeeming gold and silver for notes, with additional holdings in courier inns, salt and tea, and farmlands.

Ling Chi didn’t inspect the haul, stuffing it into his robe and leaving the jar by the entrance to retrieve later.

He slipped back to the Hall of Heavenly Kings. With no night watch, he had no idea what time it was, but guessed he hadn’t wasted much.

The monk Hongde was extremely cautious—a tough opponent. But now that Ling Chi had no more loose ends, as long as no one escaped, the news could probably be kept under wraps for a day or two.

The temple’s accommodations were at least better than the bandits’ six-man bunks—here, monks had double rooms. Ling Chi unlatched each door, moving from room to room, reaping over a hundred threads of yang energy. A bandit’s den had its uses.

He spared one, who seemed strong enough, for questioning.

“What’s your name? How many monks are in your temple?”

“My name is Zhiyuan. Counting our master, there are twenty monks here. One senior brother is out performing a ritual and hasn’t returned.”

“Performing a ritual? More like taking a killer’s job. You bald frauds don’t meditate or eat vegetarian, yet you kill and burn like I do.”

Nine monk’s rooms, eighteen monks. Counting the monk Zhishan who died in Li Village, the tally was complete.

With one slash, Ling Chi cut his throat. “In your next life, be a good man like me.”

End of the second watch, outside Hongde’s meditation chamber.

From inside, breathing could be heard—steady, but Ling Chi knew Hongde was awake. People who slept did not breathe so evenly.

There was no point hiding now. He boldly pushed the door open.

“Stop pretending, old bastard. Your act is far worse than that brother you sent to play me,” Ling Chi said, exposing him outright.

Hongde sat up, eyeing Ling Chi with interest. “How did you know? Though Little Five’s cultivation is average, his talent for tracking and infiltration is the best I’ve encountered.”

Ling Chi’s fighting spirit soared. Thunder churned in his chest as his saber slid from its sheath.

“Old thief, prepare to die!”

With no wasted words, Ling Chi attacked, leaping into the air with both hands gripping his blade.

[Er Lang Splits the Mountain]

A brilliant arc of blade light traced a rainbow, aimed at the resplendent Buddha’s radiance around Hongde.

[Amitabha]

Hongde chanted the sacred name, his body shrouded in golden light that gradually turned his flesh to gold.

[Clang]

Spiritual energy exploded, the air rippling in waves.

[Hum]

A dragon of thunder and mist shot forth.

Hongde’s mind wavered; he bit his tongue hard and pressed his palms together.

[Ananda’s Guardian Mantra]

Glowing Sanskrit characters shimmered into existence, circling about him in a radiant shield.

For the first time, the “Hum” strike failed to break through.