Chapter 587: Let’s Kill the Bandits (9)

He stood like that for a long while—head canted, dropped askew; the hollowed, gaunt eye sockets cast pitch-black with fire-shadow.

At length,

the mad monk moved.

Crack! Crack! Crack! Without so much as thinking to use the truth-bringing soup he’d prepared, the shaven-headed bandits’ skulls burst one after another.

Thud, thud, thud. With shattered heads, the bodies lay themselves down by the fire in the cold night.

“Aaaiie!” “Spare me! Spare me!”

The Middle Kingdom men flailed their missing limbs, not even noticing the blood running from half-melted wounds, scrambling to get away from the mad monk.

Amukhablap, of course, had no interest in the Middle Kingdom bandits.

Crawling over iron-hard frozen ground just to cut themselves open and tear their wounds—such fools.

You shouldn’t have sinned.

You know you did the thing that gets you killed; your own feet tingle, and you’re afraid.

“[You damned lack—]”

Crack!

“[We shall meet again—]”

Crack!

Amukhablap going down the line to crack skulls—well, that was Amukhablap—but the shaved heads meeting death with a cold blue hatred, not even begging for life, were plenty grotesque, too—

“[Spare—spare me, Venerable Master. This disciple—this disciple has done wrong.]”

No sooner thought than spoken: a bandit monk begging for his life.

“[You—little puppy. You who trembled so badly from fear since childhood. If you set a vow, you should carry it through {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} and face death with composure. Why foist your torment onto me?]”

What, his dharma-name is “Small Puppy”?

To Qing’s eye, for a “little puppy” he was a big ox who’d probably get along with Jegal in conversation.

“[This disciple’s eyes were dark; I strayed onto the wrong path. Please—grant mercy, grant mercy.]”

“[I cannot know whether you truly repent, or whether, only fearing death, you speak falsehood and pile up sin the more. Then—will you abolish your core and return with me, to confess your monstrous crimes before the abbey? If you will do so, I will not doubt your sincerity.]”

“[Yes, I will do so.]”

The mad monk flicked his brows wide at that.

He exhaled a long, deep sigh, then intoned a plateau scripture as he passed “Small Puppy” and turned to the remaining bandit monks.

He looked down with a pained, desolate gaze; his lips worked—words wanting to come out yet held back in hesitation.

“[Kill me. I will not beg like my fellow.]”

It looked like, from that point on, they were disciples of Amukhablap’s own temple—faces he knew.

But each only clamped his mouth shut, or spat again, or muttered low curses and maledictions—an attitude of simply yielding to death.

Thus—crack, crack—the skull-splitting sounded, and somehow the echo carried a desolate note.

At last, the only shaved-head bandit left breathing was the one called Small Puppy. The mad monk, seeming somehow abruptly aged, trudged toward the party’s fire.

Qing pretended not to know, testing his inside.

“What’s this? You’re going to spare that one?”

“Its name Deokgilgiju—in the Middle Kingdom tongue, Happy Dog Bastard. A disciple of the great Blood Thunder Sound Temple. Among this bandit crew are some disciples of Blood Thunder Sound Temple. Great Me is ashamed to stamp My face upon them.”

For the record, “dog bastard” isn’t Amukhablap’s coinage but a common childhood name among the plateau folk. And “Deokgil” is not just any happiness; it means the supreme bliss that reaches Nirvana—so as a monk’s dharma-name, it isn’t bad at all.

Any name sounds low if you unpack it crudely.

Qing herself is the “blue bitch of the western gate.”

“This is a marvel none will believe. Therefore testimony is needed, because none can be trusted. Great Me will bring him to the main temple and use him as a tool to prove these crimes.”

Since multiple disciples of his order were implicated, he meant to drag one back and make him testify.

“Great Me feels sorry toward you. For the dreadful sins of some ill-virtuous plateau folk, Great Me—on behalf of our great plateau folk—will apologize to you humble, pillaging Middle Kingdomers.”

Amukhablap put his palms together and bowed at the waist.

“However, you are not uninvolved. You must report this at once to the Kunlun Sect. The authorities know nothing; rather, may the Martial Alliance take this up...”

Amukhablap began to explain.

The Middle Kingdom is benighted.

Because its Buddhists, its martial world, and its civil authorities are separated into their own mess of inefficiency.

The plateau is one: Buddhists, martial, and government.

The ruler of the plateau is a monk, and the plateau’s martial world is led by monks as well.

How simple—and the Buddha’s will erected as a state in the saha world; no other land can match such greatness.

Only—there is a problem even in the great plateau: there are many Buddhas, that is, many sects.

Though they serve different Buddhas, all will meet in the same Pure Land in the end; yet they hate each other and count each other enemies, and this has persisted for a thousand years since the fall of the Tibetan Empire.

“Aren’t you contradicting yourself? You just called it the great plateau. Is schism and a thousand years of infighting your ‘greatness’?”

“Dear one, Great Me already knows your hollow head. Do not belabor it. And even so it is great. Because...”

In truth, better they fought.

In the days of the Tibetan Empire, when the monks did not fight each other, they committed every depravity, so the plateau folk never had a day their tears of blood dried.

Such was the imperial law of the Tibetan Empire.

Stare at a monk with insolence?

They gouge out the eyes of you and your five neighbors.

Point at a monk rudely?

They cut off the wrists of you and your five neighbors.

Speak impiously to a monk?

They tear out the tongues of you and your five neighbors.

A truly terrifying code.

Because “insolent,” “rude,” “impious”—the standard of enforcement lay purely in the monk’s mood.

In short, if a monk felt a little irritated, he could kill commoners with ease.

Worse, the punishments bound six household registers together, and each of the six families had to offer up one member to pay.

“What kind of sewer-law is that? That’s a system designed to ruin a country.”

“Dear one—correct. Thus it fell.”

Yet the legacy remains.

“Monks honored, commoners base.” Monks are noble, commoners are low.

The plateau’s monks still lord it as nobles; they factionalized under the name of sects, and for a thousand years fought under the ambition of “unifying the plateau.”

War is atrocious; thus the plateau commoners have not had easy lives for a thousand years.

Of course, that is the plateau’s internal affair.

In contrast, on the lands of the old Tibetan Empire that became part of the Middle Kingdom—Qinghai, Sichuan, Guangxi, Gansu—the plateau nation’s people live far more peacefully than the commoners back in the home country.

So Amukhablap wished to leave the plateau to live as it would, and wished for the plateau nation living in the Middle Kingdom—the Zang—to keep living well as they were.

That is why Ahablapdalhaptaksa, Blood Thunder Sound Temple, moved its base from the plateau into Qinghai: to protect the Zang living in the Middle Kingdom.

“Mm. And?”

“Even Great Me does not know the details. But...”

Perhaps the home country decided to turn its hatred outward; perhaps a new Dalai Lama unified the sects and achieved consolidation.

Dalai Lama—Qing’s homeland uses that phrase for the plateau’s king.

It means “teacher of all,” the supreme teacher—that is, the religious leader; and since the plateau is one of government–martial–Buddhist, that seat is also the plateau’s king and the overlord of the plateau’s martial world.

“Dalai Lama” had always felt like a symbol of peace.

Put like this, isn’t that just a dictator—with savagery on the side?

It only feels that way because the title is unfamiliar.

Say “king,” and there are tyrants and sage-kings; we don’t lump them as one.

Even in Qing’s homeland there was “that Injo,” and there was King Sejong.

Only—regrettably, in this primitive, ancient, benighted Middle Kingdom, every Dalai Lama so far has been nothing but a merciless tyrant, a warmonger wearing a Buddhist mask.

And now that warmonger has turned his gaze to Qinghai.

“Our Blood Thunder Sound Temple will do everything we can, by every means we have, to block it before it begins.

But human affairs do not go as plotted; if it goes wrong, there will be war.

Therefore you must inform the Kunlun Sect so they can prepare, and we hope the Martial Alliance will act at the alliance level.

If the worst happens, let it be plateau martial vs. Middle Kingdom martial.

Non-aggression between authorities and martial—civil authorities will not intervene; rather, they will welcome it and watch.

If the Middle Kingdom’s monstrous authorities move, the plateau will be annihilated outright.”

“If it’s as you say, isn’t it better to let it be annihilated? You just said the plateau folk living in the Middle Kingdom are doing better.”

“Foolish!”

Amukhablap snapped.

“The plateau’s annihilation—I do not care.

But war makes peoples enemies and stirs up hatred; once they fight, the sparks fall on all Zang everywhere.

Even if not that—what of your Middle Kingdom commoners?

How much blood will flow before war?”

His argument about Middle Kingdom commoners didn’t exactly convince; by his usual words and deeds, he’d seemed the sort who only took care of his own Zang.

Still—weak persuasion aside, he wasn’t wrong.

“Wait—hold on. Amuk, come here a moment.”

Qing walked with Amukhablap toward a brick building in the bandit camp.

“[Truth is, I can speak that ‘great plateau’ tongue too. I wouldn’t say I speak it, exactly, but—anyway, it’s doable.]”

She’d intended to keep that quiet.

Because he was too suspicious, his inside unknowable—and his way of speaking was strange, his temper crooked.

But now—she figured she could trust him a little.

From the start, he’d confessed not only the plateau dialogue she’d overheard, but also all of his own judgments.

“‘Amazing!’ How can dear one speak the most beautiful—and most difficult—language under heaven!? And even the set of dear one’s tongue—none of that Middle Kingdomer’s mangled imitation, none of that clumsy, dumb-cripple sound! Absolutely perfect!”

“[Don’t most foreigners say ‘well done, well done’ even when the accent is odd, if you try their language?]”

“Nonsense! An impossible sound—an intolerable dog’s howl! Great Me’s Middle Kingdom speech is perfect! But a Middle Kingdomer’s plateau speech—even after fifty years—stays at the level of a cripple. Thus is the greatness of the plateau tongue proven.”

Qing’s expression curdled hard.

“[Are you saying your Middle Kingdom speech is perfect right now?]”

“Indeed! Like dear one’s beautiful plateau speech—Great Me’s Middle Kingdom is flawless everywhere one might look for fault. All Middle Kingdomers take Me for a Middle Kingdomer.”

He said it with absolute conviction.

Qing was even more dumbfounded.

He meant it. Truly. What even.

“‘Huh. So then—were you truly a plateau folk all along, dear one?’”

“[Mm. I can’t swear I’m not. No, but—why do you keep speaking the Middle Kingdom tongue?]”

A strange tableau: a Middle Kingdomer speaking plateau, and a plateau man speaking Middle Kingdom.

“[Ah. Good child. I grew momentarily confused and let the base Middle Kingdom tongue stick to my mouth. Why do you wish to speak with this monk alone?]”

“[So we keep the base ‘Middle Kingdom’—got it.]”

“[A Buddhist never lets falsehood pass his lips. Look now—rather than the Middle Kingdom tongue, noisy like a pig’s cry, when you speak in our language, soft like song, I have, for the first time, realized how beautiful your voice is. Will you not return to the Buddha’s gate? If you chanted scripture in such a voice, all people would lend their ears unawares, and your merit would return a hundred times a hundredfold. Think how delighted the Buddha would be.]”

At his gentle tone, Qing scrubbed hard at the gooseflesh on her own arm.

Nope. Hell no. Can’t get used to this.

“I’m a sort of Daoist myself, you know? Granted, a bit of a fake Daoist—but still.”

“[Why make pig sounds again?]”

“Because—who knows. Mm. From where I’m standing, that Deokgilgiju? He reeks. In my experience, when one guy begs to live for himself, the rest usually shower him with curses and call him a traitor—hate him more than a real enemy.”

Qing toyed with her sharp chin.

“Otherwise, when one begs, the rest collapse in a heap too. But they were all too calm. ‘You live; I’ll die.’ That doesn’t track.”

“[Even the worst of them are monks who have practiced. They would have that much discipline of mind.]”

“And when you said ‘break your core,’ he said ‘yes’ right away—does that make sense? There’s supposed to be at least one round of pleading. To a martial artist, the core is—well. Anyway—be careful. It feels like they planned in advance for one to defect. There’s some scheme here.”

This was the wisdom learned by experience—by the Middle Kingdom’s best, worst pleasure-torturer and killer, the slayer with a Thousand-Kill Bone-Cry.

Qing’s nose for “off” was flawless.

“[With My effort, what is it to take one cripple who’s abolished his core back to the main temple. But good child—your concern is most welcome. I will take care.]”

So saying, Amukhablap smiled a Buddha’s smile—one that didn’t suit his ill-tempered face at all.