When Liu Yun's verse was finished, all present clapped in praise. Lady Yang Mi said:"Your poem is rich in atmosphere and true to the tonal patterns—most admirable!"
Liu Yun rose and bowed modestly:"Elder, your praise is more than I deserve."
At that moment Yang Mi too was moved by inspiration under the moonlight. She stood, her thoughts gathering like mist, and chanted:
In a quiet vale, a hidden retreat,Fragrant blossoms and wine in rustic talk.Tired birds chirp, returning to the nest,Before the moonlit pavilion, hearts flow in speech.
The four drank tea and wine beneath the moon. Since ancient times, what joy could be greater? To steal away half a day of leisure was a flavor of life all its own. The next morning Wu Tong and Liu Yun reluctantly mounted their horses and departed the estate. By dusk they reached a small town, weary from travel, and lodged at an inn, retiring early to rest.
At dawn they descended for breakfast. The inn's common room was crowded when a voice suddenly called out:"Lord Wu!"
They looked up to see a tall monk in snow-white robes approaching. His frame was lean and lofty, white brows hung low, eyes deep as the stars, bearing both wisdom and sorrow. His nose was straight, his face striking, and though past fifty his presence was still vigorous. Golden thread edged his robe, the wide sleeves rippled as he walked. Every gesture carried calm nobility, like an ancient pine unbent by storm.
Wu Tong rose at once, clasped his hands, and said:"So it is the great master of the Church of the East, Father Isḥāq—an honor!"
The Nestorian monk inclined in greeting:"Indeed. I am glad to meet you here, Lord Wu."
Wu Tong asked:"Master, what brings you to this place?"
Father Isḥāq's gaze was grave, his voice low but firm:"I have heard that today the Lamas intend a duel with our Church of the East. They come in force, claiming to demand justice, but truly seeking to intimidate our disciples with violence. I am summoning allies and heroes for aid. To encounter you here, Lord Wu, is Heaven's blessing!"
Wu Tong frowned, thinking deeply. As Lord of the Loyalty Hall he was bound to uphold justice, and the Church of the East had long been allied with him. Since the matter was urgent, he could not refuse. He drew a steady breath, eyes resolute:"Where is this duel to take place?"
Isḥāq answered:"Thirty li outside this county lies one of our monasteries, where scripture is taught and our people gather. The duel is set there. Already the Lamas have arrived—if we delay, the situation will turn against us."
Wu Tong nodded gravely:"Then let us waste no time. Master, please sit for a moment. We will take a quick meal and depart at once."
The three ate hastily, then stepped into the street to ready their horses. Morning light crept over the horizon, crimson clouds staining the earth, a hint of foreboding in the air. The horses neighed sharply. Mounting in unison, the three lashed their reins and galloped away.
Along the official road they rode like thunder, dust billowing, hooves pounding. Villages and green woods flashed past, but they had no eyes for scenery, only the urgency ahead. After thirty li, a vast monastery loomed into view—white walls and red roofs towering among the mountains, solemn and majestic beneath the morning sun. Its great forecourt was already filled: two forces facing one another, blades half-drawn, tension sharp as steel.
Wu Tong's heart sank. The storm was unavoidable.
Before the monastery square, two hosts confronted one another. On one side stood the monks of the Church of the East, led by Abbot Luoben. Their white robes and golden sashes gleamed, their faces solemn. Opposite them were the warriors of the Lamaist sect, led by Marpa, disciple of the great guru Geleba. Marpa's red robes flared, his eyes haughty. Beside him stood the Tibetan champion Zongzan, the Tuyuhun prince Danba, and the warrior of the Onion Range, Darius—each radiating menace.
Abbot Luoben stepped forward and declared:"Friends, you come to our monastery from afar—what is your purpose here?"
Marpa laughed coldly:"Purpose? Your Church has trespassed upon our domain, spreading your teachings everywhere. This cannot be endured!"
Luoben raised his voice:"This is Tang territory. Within it, all faiths have the right to preach. What crime is there in that?"
Marpa's eyes narrowed:"Rumor says your Church has raised a mighty Daqin Monastery at Shaolin's Mount Song, where you study both scripture and martial arts. They say your strongest monk, Luoben, once fought Master Yuanguang and Master Yuantong of Shaolin to a standstill, shaking the martial world. Is that monk present today?"
Luoben lifted his brow and answered:"I am he. What do you wish?"
Marpa sneered:"So it is you. Words are wasted. Since our sects are at odds, let us test your skill!"
Luoben thought, So you seek a contest? Then we shall oblige. He raised his hand:"Very well. Since you insist, we will meet you. Jingjing, you lead the first bout!"
A young monk stepped forth. Barely seventeen or eighteen, fair-faced, his bearing elegant yet resolute. His robe fluttered though no wind stirred, his eyes shone firm. He bowed:"Yes, Master."
Marpa gestured:"Zongzan, Tibetan warrior—step forth!"
The great warrior strode forward, muscles bulging, eyes flashing like lightning. His fists cracked as he flexed. He said harshly:"Little monk, withstand three of my strikes if you can!"
With a roar, he hurled his palm outward. The gust howled, fierce and crushing, the air itself torn with force, surging toward Jingjing's chest.
Jingjing inhaled deeply, his foot tapping the ground as he slid back. Left hand rose, right palm thrust forward—using the Church's soft-overcoming-hard method. Their palms met with a resounding bang. Zongzan staggered half a step, startled that the boy's inner strength was so solid.
He snarled, Not bad—but still nothing! His body turned, fist like thunder, his second technique—"Shattering Rock, Splitting Earth." The punch roared like a landslide, intent to kill.
Jingjing's eyes sharpened. He recognized the ferocity of Tibetan boxing, impossible to meet head-on. His feet shifted, body soaring like a startled swan. Toes tapped Zongzan's wrist; he spun mid-air and landed lightly, evading the blow.
Zongzan's eyes blazed."Then take my final strike!"
His body erupted with energy, both fists pounding out together like storm and lightning, sealing Jingjing's escape.
Jingjing's spirit steadied. His qi surged to the utmost. Both palms flowed like clouds and water, unleashing the Church's "Formless Prajñā Palm." Force poured forth like a tidal wave.
The two powers clashed.
BOOM! Dust flew, earth trembled. Both men staggered back three steps, glaring at one another, the air between them taut as a drawn bowstring…