Chapter 610: Mirror-of-the-Sky Blood (14)

The same notice placard had gone up again.

They were impostors who passed themselves off as monks—bald shavelings with a filthy, necrophilic itch. As far as is currently known, they massacred three villages besides Chaka Village, violated the corpses, and then tore off pieces to eat—demons in human skins. Do not throw hard objects such as stones. Soft filth is acceptable. Splattering them with spoiled food is even better. Beware of the mouth; they may bite, etc., etc... It ended with, “Let’s build a mature culture of spectatorship to establish justice through the villains’ downfall,” the brushwork neat and forceful.

Unfortunately, among Middle Kingdom cities, Tianjun was about as backwater as backwater gets. Most of its residents were plateau folk. So they couldn’t really judge how fine the calligraphy was. In truth, instead of worrying about people throwing stones or forming a lynch mob, they should have worried about someone stealing the lettering—but country folk don’t know things like that.

Still, the charges written in clean, instantly legible script lent them weight. Plateau folk spat and cursed.

“Violate corpses? Filthy, vile swine.”

“And you dare impersonate monks? Not even afraid of Heaven’s wrath, you beasts!”

I did add a little seasoning to the indictment. “Tubo this, pure Tibetans that” is a tired tune; saying they massacred because slaughter is their taste is much cleaner. It also makes it easier for onlookers to understand these bastards deserve death.

Qing has not the slightest desire to make these sons of bitches into martyrs dreaming of national liberation.

That’s how it goes: if you aren’t careful, you become trash in an instant. In a blink they’d turned into corpse-loving cannibal shavelings.

If they could still make sound, they’d at least try to protest, but even that was impossible. Watching tears stream down faces blotched with grievance and rage, Qing simply couldn’t understand.

Even if their plan had succeeded, weren’t eight out of ten plateau folk in this city “traitors” to be slaughtered? You’re vicious butchers—what’s so grievous that you shed hot tears? That you should have stopped hesitating and just started killing the locals? Hm. Serves you right.

Qing turned her eyes to the mad monk. His pallor was alarming. He’d already been skin over bone; now he was a startling proof that you can in fact grow even more emaciated.

When you lose an arm, it doesn’t end when it scabs over. Of course the fever rages and the body withers; sitting there pretending to be calm takes extraordinary endurance.

“So—what happened?”

“My greatness does not mind being one-armed.”

“No, not the arm. The lama shavelings did that, obviously. You didn’t cut weight because you suddenly felt heavy, and you didn’t pay a tuition fee for enlightenment with it either.”

For reference, the one who paid his arm as tuition for enlightenment was Master Huike—Bodhidharma’s famous disciple. Bodhidharma, satisfied with that generous tuition, supposedly poured enlightenment into him in one go.

“I was returning to the Blood Thunder Sound Temple. Our Blood Thunder Sound Temple exists for the plateau folk of Tibet, so I moved in person to set an example. But there have long been foolish monks. They were in contact with the shavelings of Potala Palace; thus I intended to discipline them. That is so. To explain Potala first—right now there are broadly two kinds of Buddhas in Potala...”

Amukhablap began to explain. But his manner of speaking was what it was, and he hopped back and forth between past and present so it wasn’t easy to follow. I went here, right, originally it was like this, so I did such-and-such, but in the old days there were these circumstances, and those circumstances had other circumstances—pure stream-of-consciousness.

Tibet is presently a theocracy: a religious leader rules the region. There used to be a royal dynasty, but recently the head of a Buddhist sect called the Yellow School overthrew the dynasty with foreign help and ascended as both religious leader and king of Tibet.

In Middle Kingdom terms? It’s like Shaolin got help from barbarians to topple the imperial clan and then the abbot took the throne as emperor.

“Those vile ones are not monks. They merely use the Buddha as a tool for power! Once made king, to steady his shaky realm, his next tool was immediately Tibet!”

None of this was shocking. From of old, when a country’s insides wobble, it wages war to project force outward. Under the banner of patriotism you seize the people’s hearts, and by cutting down provincial armies you exalt the royal power—history has countless cases proving war’s superb efficacy. The rulers don’t bleed anyway. The people bleed while the rulers hum along, and if it goes poorly they declare defeat and kneel once, and that’s that. So Amukhablap’s fire-breathing was a denunciation of exactly this.

“That is not a Buddhist’s thought. Filth! The notion of one who lacks a mother! Saving sentient beings is the monk’s duty! Yet these shavelings, whose genitals should be cut off and shoved down their throats, attempt instead to shove the masses into hell! Vile! Foul! The stench is so fierce my nose is numb!”

“Eh? Ahab—you’ve lost not only an arm but your sense of smell? Yikes. I’ve heard everything tastes like nothing if you can’t smell.”

“Meritorious one, your skull remains empty! I meant it reeks so abominably that it numbs my nose!”

Meanwhile, even within the Blood Thunder Sound Temple, more and more were getting drunk on this wind—this war-game mood.

“The abbot and I let the wind out of those puffed-up bastards. A cudgel is excellent guidance. When the head is full of air, beating it makes the air escape. That’s what I thought. But I failed to realize that since my great abbot lacks parents, the thought of beating to death the cause directly makes me a parricide.”

At that time, a single Jangbo Chart flew into the Blood Thunder Sound Temple—marked with the location of the Absorbing Essence Devil Art.

Poison and medicine are the same thing; their use decides their purpose. Even a devil art known as slaughter-in-slaughter—if held by would-be Buddhas of upright mind—could become compost used for the world’s sake. Of course, if it fell into the hands of those rotten to the bone from the Middle Kingdom, it would become a great calamity to the world.

“Thus I, the great I, went in person to retrieve the art. A sanctity for the world—my astonishing, great compassion—so meritorious even the Buddha would fall over in surprise.”

“We’d better ask the Buddha about that.”

Be that as it may, Amukhablap set out to strip the Absorbing Essence Devil Art far from the evil Middle Kingdom bastards and bring it into the pure Buddha’s house to use it for the world.

In the end he had to come back empty-handed.

And when he finally reached the Blood Thunder Sound Temple, hadn’t nearly half the familiar faces of the Blood Thunder Sound Temple vanished? Strange plateau faces swarmed, and the warmongers who’d been full of hot air were strutting about, freed from the repentance hall.

The abbot whom he had believed a sincere Buddhist turned out to be a lackey of Potala Palace. The moment Amukhablap’s seat was empty, he bared the true colors he’d been hiding; a blood purge followed at once. Moderate monks—true Buddhists who wished to lead the plateau folk by the Dharma and save them—were slaughtered without mercy.

“#### you ####-eating ####! How dare demons in human guise—! ## #### #### ###### ### ## #### ## ### ## ### ### ##!”

Amukhablap’s rage was attested by an unending torrent of thick plateau curses.

And at last that blade reached Amukhablap himself. The fact he’s alive at all is a creepy tenacity; losing just one arm could be called cheap.

Suddenly, a deep shadow crossed Amukhablap’s face.

“I have no right to be angry. I am a fool. Deceived by my vile abbot, I harmed countless innocents. I am one who should fall into hell. Yes. I should fall into hell.”

“Mm.”

Qing let out a troubled murmur. Acting under the abbot’s orders to hunt down criminals who’d fled to the Middle Kingdom, Amukhablap’s position was effectively acting abbot. It meant he had standing to represent the Blood Thunder Sound Temple in the Middle Kingdom and pass judgment on the guilty.

He shouted at the abbot and delivered stern admonitions—only to get this in return: Then what of the innocents you killed? Do you dare claim the right to speak of the Buddha and compassion?—a chilly sneer.

“I will go to hell. But I will not go alone. I will take those vile demons with me. That is why I still live.”

Then he bowed his head to Qing.

“Thank you, meritorious one, for your help. With this, there remains only one true master at the Blood Thunder Sound Temple—the abbot bastard alone. I will burn the Blood Thunder Sound Temple, leaving not even a foundation stone; though that would be a merit for the world, I lack the right, so I yield the credit to you, meritorious one.”

“Is that the sort of thing you can transfer like that?”

“The Blood Thunder Sound Temple is now a den of evil; thus we can no longer request you, meritorious one, to take refuge. Instead, I bestow a wondrous Great Handprint.”

It sounded familiar, but this time, instead of a palm slap, two books came flying. Qing, catching them on reflex, saw the Martial Arts window in the corner of her vision flare and flash—making a racket to be opened. Qing ignored it for now.

“Eh? You’re giving these to me?”

“I also bestow a tremendous study—The Myriad Becomes One; the Great One Returns. But that I merely entrust for a time. Only you, meritorious one, are qualified to learn it alone. You still have many years to live. In the far future, when the worthy monks rebuild the Blood Thunder Sound Temple out of ashes and establish the true Dharma, I ask that you return it.”

At that, Qing hummed.

“You sound like someone about to go die.”

“Meritorious one, you still have something jammed in your ear. I already said I would go to hell—and seek companions for the road.”

Apparently he meant to storm the Blood Thunder Sound Temple as he was, and to return the manuals later to a proper Buddhist.

Qing shook her head.

“In your state, going now is just a dog’s death, nothing more. Here’s something I’ve learned after trying to do everything alone until now: no matter how small a helper is, if someone assists at your side, it’s still better.”

At the “small,” Qing’s gaze, perfectly natural and perfectly matter-of-fact, slid to Seol Iri. A faint crack formed between Seol Iri’s brows. To Qing, a specialist in parsing Seol Iri’s expressions, it was an exquisitely aggrieved look. Qing sniffed. If you’re aggrieved, then break through to super-transcendent or something. This is all for Gunyeong’s sake. If I keep prodding you, you’ll hit super-transcendent out of sheer spite. It’s a method already proven effective with San and the Sword-Friend.

At that, Amukhablap’s face lit up.

“Ooh, meritorious one—then you will help me smash that vile Blood Thunder Sound Temple? Meritorious one, you are no longer an honorary plateau native. Nor are you Han. You are a proud plateau native. This is a vast honor that will pass to your descendants.”

As for Qing (imperial bloodline), she frankly doesn’t know whether she’s Han, plateau folk, or Jurchen—and has no desire to know. Does a person change according to what their blood happens to be mixed with?

“Will the two of us be enough? And didn’t you say the place is crawling with unfamiliar faces from Tibet—how are you sure there isn’t another master among them?”

“You will not help? You would deceive me?”

“The elders of the Orthodox will be coming to help. They already intend to block the Tibetans’ invasion. We can just tell them.”

It’s right after the call went out to gather all the Orthodox Translucent Realm elders. In that case, why throw away precious lives to fight right now?