Martial Cultivator

Deercry Monastery, in a small temple at the back of the mountain.

These days, the old monk perhaps felt too stifled staying in the temple, so he simply sat on the doorstep. Today's sunlight was pleasant, a rare warm spring day. But even as the warm rays fell on the old monk's face, they couldn't illuminate the deep lines etched there. Those things hidden within his wrinkles remained forever shrouded in darkness.

Under the sunlight, the old monk's dust-covered robes had specks of dust dancing in the air. He lowered his head to look, but his turbid eyes showed no emotion.

The old monk narrowed his eyes slightly, looking up at the warm sun in the sky. Actually, cultivators had a different name for the sun, they called it celestial star.

However, a more widespread term among the common populace was simply “the sun,” while “celestial star” was a phrase only found in the memories of older cultivators and ancient texts.

The old monk sat on the doorstep for a while before he vaguely noticed a figure clad in black walking over from the distance.

This sight caused the old monk who had lived for countless years to fall into a brief trance. Most of his life had been spent in this small temple without friends. Perhaps he had friends once, but they had long since passed before him. He had no disciples either. Though he occasionally gave guidance to some monks in the temple, there was never an official master-disciple relationship. The one person he had truly regarded as a disciple was the Nation Teacher of Great Liang, who was called the “Demon Monk.” Yet, even they never had the official relationship of master and disciple. Now, many years have passed since that Great Liang Nation Teacher's time.

That once-young monk also liked to wear black robes.

Now, he was once again seeing a young monk who liked to wear black.

The young monk came before the shrine, slowed his footsteps, and respectfully bowed to the old monk in front of him.

The old monk was the oldest and most senior person in Deercry Monastery. No matter who came before him, they were all juniors in his eyes.

The old monk opened his turbid eyes and gazed at the young monk without saying a word.

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The two monks, one old and one young, locked eyes for a long time.

Finally, the old monk sighed deeply and said, “Since you chose the worldly Zen, seeking a fresh start, why have you changed your mind? Cultivation isn't easy. To walk the same road again, do you not find it tedious?”

The young monk smiled and asked, "You've walked this path for so long, what scenery did you see at the end?"

The old monk sighed, "The Great Dao is endless. Who dares claim they've reached the end?"

"Then haven't you considered that this path might be wrong?" The young monk smiled and said, "Maybe it was wrong from the start, so no matter how far you walk, you'll never reach the end."

The old monk replied, "How long have you even lived to say something like that?"

The young monk said, "You’ve lived a long time, but spending your entire life in this temple isn't much different from living just a few years."

The old monk smiled, though when he did, the wrinkles on his face twisted in a way that made the expression seem odd; even uglier than crying. It was impossible to tell he was smiling at all. He had lived many years, and no one had ever dared speak so rudely to him. Even that monk, once called the "Demon Monk," had shown respect.

"It seems you've really changed a lot," the old monk said softly. "You're not the same as before."

The young monk smiled, "I'm not that old friend you knew."

The old monk smiled but remained silent.

The young monk slowly knelt down and said softly, "I want to hear you preach on Zen."

The old monk asked in surprise, "Since you've already started practicing worldly Zen, what's left to learn from my Zen?"

The old monk had spent his entire life meditating on the secluded Zen. In all the world, there was no one more knowledgeable in this aspect than him. If the young monk were still cultivating secluded Zen, he would naturally be the old monk's heir. But since the young monk had switched to worldly Zen, their paths had already diverged.

They were like a chicken and a duck trying to communicate - completely different paths.

The young monk said earnestly, "All rivers flow to the sea, all paths lead to the same source. In the end, it's all the same."

The old monk remained silent, simply looking at the young monk before him quietly.

It seemed as if he were trying to see through the black robes, to pierce into the heart within - was it still the same heart?

In that moment, everything around them froze. The falling leaves suspended in mid-air, distant birds ceased their chirping, and even the wind between heaven and earth stopped flowing.

The old monk slowly raised his withered arm, and no dust fell with the movement.

He had lived many years and reached an exceedingly high level of cultivation. Though he might not be the most deadly of cultivators, he was likely the most mysterious. His mysteriousness far exceeded even that of the Sword Sect's Sect Master. The world knew the Sword Sect's Sect Master for his unparalleled Sword Dao, yet few had ever seen him unleash his sword. This made the Sword Sect's Sect Master known as the most mysterious cultivator in the world. But as for this old monk, there were likely even fewer who knew of his existence at all.

If the old monk wished to do anything, the young monk would be powerless to stop him. If he wanted to know something, presumably, the young monk would not be able to hide it as well.

And yet, his hand never fell upon the young monk's head.

Not because he could not, but because he did not wish to.

He did not want to be tainted by this karma.

No one knew how long had passed when the old monk finally withdrew his hand. The wind began to flow again, distant birds resumed their singing, and the fallen leaves drifted to the ground.

The old monk let out a sigh, "Since our paths are different, why listen to my Zen? I have no Zen left to share with you."

The young monk slowly lifted his head and said softly, "In that case, I ask you to cripple all of this disciple's cultivation."

The old monk looked at him and said, "Are you sure you want to start over, leaving no way back?"

The young monk nodded lightly and said softly, "Without destruction, there can be no rebirth."

The old monk was silent for a long time before saying, "I've seen many young people, but they've all died."

It was an interesting remark, yet a bit perplexing.

The young monk said, "Dying on the path isn't a disgrace."

Hearing these words, the old monk made no further attempt to dissuade him. He cast one last glance at the young monk.

The young monk's brows furrowed slightly, and then a trace of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His body trembled violently, nearly collapsing to the ground.

After a moment, the young monk slowly straightened up and solemnly kowtowed three times to the old monk.

Then, struggling to his feet, he said softly, "I hope we never meet again in this lifetime."

The old monk said nothing.

The young monk turned and slowly walked away.

Step by step, he walked with great difficulty.

The old monk glanced up at the celestial star in the sky, but said nothing.

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