Chapter 206

Chapter 206
**Chapter 206: Towards the Dragon-Phoenix Gathering**

High atop Mount Song’s sheer cliffs, in the region of Henan, a boulder the size of an entire house plummeted earthward with the speed of a loosed arrow.

Though “arrow-fast” scarcely did it justice. Its girth spanned no fewer than ten jang—so vast a rock that nearly ten grown men would have to link arms just to encircle it. As it careened downward, the roar it raised matched thunder itself.

*Boom! Boom! Kwang!*

Standing firm in a horse stance directly in its path was a monk. His frame was so immense it seemed impossible he could be human at all, yet his face held an innocent, boyish purity that stood in striking contrast to his rugged, powerful build. This was Adhu, hailed as Northern Shaolin’s most extraordinary prodigy in a hundred years from the thousand-year-old order.

Adhu poked his head forward toward the descending stone and let out a ringing, spirited cry.

“Haaap!”

The boulder met his head head-on. Both were round, but the disparity in size and substance made it abundantly clear which ought to shatter.

And yet…

*Kwaaaaang!*

The massive stone split cleanly in two. As billowing clouds of dust obscured all sight, a bright, triumphant voice cut through the haze.

“Master! I did it! Hehe!”

A frail, slender old monk—hardly the robust figure one would associate with a Shaolin master—laughed just as merrily as his young disciple. This was Rakbul, Shaolin’s abbot, one of the Heavenly Martial Ten Venerables, said to wield martial prowess that reached the very heavens.

“Heh heh heh. Well done. My congratulations on mastering this, my disciple.”

For any accomplished martial artist—those at the peak realm or higher—splitting a boulder with one’s head was no remarkable feat. But Rakbul had good reason to praise him so.

“You broke that boulder using nothing but your own flesh, without drawing upon even a trace of internal energy. At this stage, we may truly say your Iron Head Skill is perfected.”

Among Shaolin’s renowned Seventy-Two Supreme Arts lay the Iron Head Skill. As its name suggested, it was a discipline designed to harden the head until it was as unyielding as iron. What elevated such a seemingly straightforward, external technique to the ranks of Shaolin’s supreme arts?

“Now that your head is as solid as stone, your body has drawn one step nearer to the Vajra Immovable state.”

By fortifying the head—the body’s most exposed and vulnerable prominent feature—he had overcome one of the two critical weaknesses that plagued every martial artist. This was the foundational practice that, paired with Shaolin’s core Yi Jin Jing, paved the way toward attaining Vajra Immovability. That was the true, profound purpose behind the Iron Head Divine Skill.

Adhu, however, knew none of this—or rather, he had heard it, but paid it no mind. Right now, he was simply indignant at being called stone-headed.

“Master! I am not stone-headed!”

“Silly child, if you split a boulder apart with your skull, that makes you stone-headed by definition.”

“Hiiing…”

“Heh heh heh, Adhu. If your head is already as tough as rock, think how formidable the rest of you shall become. In time, you will come to thank your old master for this.”

Rakbul continued jesting in this lighthearted, familiar way, waving his hand back and forth as he spoke. His manner and speech were those of a roguish, jovial old wanderer—but his only audience was Adhu, whose mind was as unmarked and clear as blank paper, so the abbot’s dignity remained perfectly intact.

“Tch. No fun at all. A proper disciple ought to turn beet red at such teasing; then it would be worth saying.”

“Master, Senior Brother told me I must report if you speak in ways unbefitting a monk.”

“…That Beop-gak. He isn’t even Head of the Discipline Hall, yet he carries on so rigidly.” Rakbul glanced askance, then pressed on craftily. “And will you really tell him?”

“Yes!”

“Why so eager?”

“Because Senior Brother promised me rice cakes if I did!”

Rakbul slapped his knee in understanding.

“Then we must make absolutely certain you never run into Beop-gak! Come, Adhu—we are off to see the Dragon-Phoenix Gathering!”

“Uung… but I want to tell him and get my cakes…”

“Now, now—haven’t you someone you wish to meet there? A friend named Yang-hwi, was it?”

Adhu’s face lit up instantly.

“Yang-hwi! That’s right! I want to see him so much!”

A memory rose clear in his mind: the last time he had spoken with Baek Yang-hwi. It had been three years ago, yet it remained as vivid as if it were yesterday.

*—Let us part for ten days and then meet again. If you have been well-behaved, I shall grant you one wish.*
*—Then I want to taste wine!*
*—Ah… very well. A cup of wine to celebrate our reunion. That sounds just right.*

“I’m going to ask Yang-hwi to share his wine with me. I bet it will taste wonderful!”

“Dear me. My own disciple, newly returned to me, and his first thought is wine. I had intended to introduce you to such pleasures myself.”

“Senior Brother said never to eat or drink anything you offer, Master.”

It was true: Rakbul, Shaolin’s own abbot, was known for tempting his disciples with wine and meat. And so Beop-gak—his other disciple, and the one who effectively managed Shaolin’s most important affairs—had issued a strict edict forbidding it. One might say the abbot had only himself to blame.

Rakbul smacked his lips in quiet longing.

“…But the first cup shared with a dear friend carries a special magic all its own. Heh heh heh.”

His expression shifted then, growing grave and solemn.

“Adhu, the factions are stirring. Wudang makes its bid to stand as the foremost sect. Jinjeong, Kunlun, and Kongtong—those border sects—drift ever further from their bond with the Nine Great Clans. The Five Great Clans each advance according to their own ambitions. Amid all this strife among the so-called righteous sects, the heavens themselves foretell coming chaos. I pray your pure heart may help clear this dark and troubled world.”

Gone was the playful, teasing tone; his words carried the weight of profound, ancient wisdom.

Traditionally, Shaolin had never sent its younger disciples to attend the Dragon-Phoenix Gathering. This was why the order was known as the Benevolent Shaolin—worldly renown and rank meant little to them. But this time would be different.

“Ung? I don’t understand.”

He had not truly expected the boy to. It was simply a heartfelt reflection spoken aloud, born of tangled, heavy thoughts.

“Your old master’s hopes and dreams are too distant for you to grasp just yet. Very well—we shall lay a different foundation. We shall defy what is forced and false, and guide all things toward what is right. You, my disciple… you must become the greatest dragon beneath all heaven.”

“I still don’t get it.”

Rakbul had spoken with rare gravity and insight, but to Adhu it meant nothing at all.

“Yang-hwi will be there! It will be so wonderful to see him again! I know he will be glad to see me too!”

“Heh heh heh heh. Yes… that is exactly who you are.”

Rakbul knew exactly who this friend was: Baek Yang-hwi. A youth of such brilliance that even Pa Cheon-eum-hu, the revered master of the centuries-old Sacred Sound Jade Ling Sect, had broken a long tradition of naming only one successor to take him as a disciple. He was the protégé of one of the Heavenly Martial Ten Venerables—called a living god upon earth—and the young man who had sparked a glorious second golden age within a clan founded by a legendary figure from ages past.

“This too is part of the grand design. It should prove most entertaining. Among all the waves that course down the Yangtze, which shall rise highest and flow swiftest? Heh heh heh heh.”

“Adhu, if you enter the lists, fight to win. Otherwise I shall have no face left to show Eum-hu.”

“It sounds like great fun!”

“Precisely. And do not burden yourself with pressure—simply enjoy it. Life is meant to be lived in joy. The true Buddhist path is nothing more than embracing joy itself!”

Rakbul—known also as the Joyful Buddha—laughed, and his form seemed to stretch out, tall and bright. He took one step… then two, three… until nine. Just as the Buddha had walked nine steps at birth, a lotus blooming beneath each foot. This was Shaolin’s supreme movement art: the perfected Lotus Terrace Nine Grades.

“Come. It is time we departed.”

“Yes, Master!”

In the martial world of the day, there was no single, undisputed supreme ruler. But there was one supreme sect. And that was Shaolin.

Its abbot and its most gifted young prodigy turned their backs on Mount Song and set forth.

The Dragon-Phoenix Gathering lived up to its name: dragons and phoenixes from every corner flocked to it in endless streams. Each came with their own hopes and plans, yet all sought in the end the same thing: to stand supreme above all others.

“Master… if we leave without a word, won’t Senior Brother be very angry?”

“He will chase after us the moment he discovers we are gone. Heh heh heh.”

—

A boat labored slowly against the river current, creaking as it pulled into dock.

“We have arrived at Geochun County, Hubei Province! All ashore who are disembarking! All aboard for onward travel!”

Geochun stood as Hubei’s easternmost county, bordering the great Yangtze River. Further upstream lay the domain of the Je-gal Clan—one of the Five Great Clans—and the county sat close to the border with Anhui Province, making it a bustling, busy hub for travelers from every direction. This was also the home territory of the Taiji Sect.

“Tch. We poured a whole month into this and have practically nothing to show for it,” Baek Yang-hwi grumbled.

Dang-gun offered him a steadying, reassuring look.

“Not entirely nothing. We encountered and eliminated Blood Cult operatives on three separate occasions.”

“That is true enough… but we learned nothing of real consequence.”

Since meeting with Je-gal Seol-ha, the group had spent a month traveling through Jiangxi and Anhui, collecting wanted notices and intelligence. Disguised as wandering swordsmen and junior disciples from lesser sects, they had lain in wait—ambushed by Blood Cult followers, and turning the tables on them in turn—earning modest successes along the way. But every enemy they had captured or defeated had been a low-ranking underling, a minor cog in the machine, and none held any truly valuable information. It was reason enough for Yang-hwi to feel discouraged.

“We saved innocent lives from being sacrificed without cause. Our time was not wasted. Do not regret it so deeply.”

“You make it sound so noble and proper it makes me squirm. Anyway—shall we be on our way?”

The group stepped out of the cabin and onto the dock.

“They are the ones…!”

“Look—the green uniforms! And the white ones stitched with feather motifs!”

“There is no doubt about it?”

“It is them, right enough.”

Whispers sprang up on every side. This was what their month of hard work had earned them—recognition wherever they went.

“Everyone keeps staring. It’s getting kind of annoying.”

“It cannot be helped. Your exploits are the talk of the entire region.”

“Heh heh—after making such a stir, it would be stranger still if no one knew who you were.”

The river route from Geochun led onward to Wuhan, so weary travelers stopped here to rest and recover their strength. In short, Geochun was crowded with young disciples from sects across the eastern lands.

“Excuse us a moment.”

A group of curious young disciples approached them. “Young heroes… might you be from the Dang Clan and the Baek Clan?”

A short, reserved nod was all the answer they gave, and the onlookers broke into exclamations of awe.

“It really is them!”

“The Placard Snatcher Squad!”

“What? Squad? Did they call us a *squad*?”

“Eek!”

One sharp, displeased look from Yang-hwi sent the group scurrying away. “Squad” made it sound like a band of common thugs. It was an unexpected label—though, given that they had been stopping fellow disciples to claim their posted notices, it was not entirely undeserved.

“Brother… are we really developing a reputation as some sort of gang? Is that acceptable for our respected clans?”

“Worse nicknames have stuck. ‘Placard Snatcher Squad’ has a certain ring to it anyway,” Baek Yang-hwi replied without a flicker of shame.

“The more nicknames you have, the better. It just means you are famous. Xiang Yu, the great rival of Emperor Gaozu of Han, had any number of them—Overlord of Western Chu, One Man Army, He Who Moves Mountains and Seas… and many more besides.”

“That is true. Our Je-gal Clan’s founder also bore many names. Most renowned as the Crouching Dragon, he was also called the Soaring Dragon, the Favorable Wind and Rain of Red Cliff… and those closest to him knew him as the White-Feathered Scholar.”

As the group pondered whether having so many titles was truly such a fine thing…

“Fair lady, this humble gentleman hails from northern Hebei…”

“Not interested.”

“Hahaha! To think such beauty would grace the streets of Hubei…”

“You are being rude. Go away.”

Je-gal Seol-ha had now turned away four different suitors since stepping onto land—and barely fifteen minutes had passed.

*Good heavens. They swarm like bees around a bloom.*

Still, there was no harm done. She faced the world with a demeanor as cold and unyielding as a blizzard wind sweeping down from the north. It was a stark contrast to the bright, lively girl she had been inside the boat, and seeing her so distant felt strange.

“Seol-ha?”

“Yes?”

No, there was no coldness there now.

“Just calling your name.”

“Silly. Are we heading straight for the Taiji Sect?”

“That’s right. Strike while the iron is hot, as they say—then we can rest properly afterward.”

The Taiji Sect’s main manor stood grandly on the busiest street in Geochun, its entrance marked by a majestic plaque bearing the sect’s name. Rumor said the characters had been brush-written personally by the Heavenly Martial Ten Venerable known as the Taiji Sword Elder.

“Brother—look at that finely dressed young man standing at the gate. That must be the young sect leader.”

Word of their arrival had clearly traveled ahead. As they drew within speaking distance, the young man stepped forward and spoke with firm, steady confidence.

“You have business with our sect, I presume. I am Seong Ju-hun, Acting Sect Leader of the Taiji Sect.”

It seemed he already knew who they were. Still, courtesy demanded they introduce themselves properly.

“Baek Yang-hwi, of the Baek Clan.”

“Welcome. Please enter.”

The training grounds stretched out vast and wide, marked everywhere with craters, scuff marks, and broken stone—testament to countless sparring matches fought here over the years.

“I shall not waste time with flowery words. My sect opens its doors to all worthy young disciples seeking a match. Is a spar what you have come for?”

“It is. We wish to witness the true arts of the Taiji Sect.”

The young sect leader smiled, assured and proud.

“The Baek and