Chapter 635: Kunlun Sect vs Blood Thunder Sound Temple (11)

There was a grim rumor running through Sining.

The Blood Thunder Sound Temple had gone mad and was wiping out Tibetan villages wholesale.

Word had it there weren’t any homes left around Chaka Village, and that in Tianjun County the madcap lama monks who’d committed atrocities had been put down by a rogue monk.

Ghastly stories since New Year; with nothing to do in winter, everyone whispered.

Some said it was a smear.

Some said the abbot of the Blood Thunder Sound Temple had lost his mind, and whenever people gathered they bickered this way and that until the whole capital-of-the-province looked like a tavern on fire with hot gossip.

Then, the day after Spring Festival ended—

A one-armed lama monk appeared in Sining.

Since that lama monk was already wildly famous in Qinghai, word of who he was spread through the city in no time.

The mad monk Amukhablap!

He was originally stick-thin, the sort of dried-up elder people called a “man-shaped skeleton.”

But now, with the left sleeve of his kashaya hanging emptily and fluttering—what was he?

His cheeks were hollowed so deep a shadow turned them into holes of black.

His eye sockets were the same shape, but the eyes inside them blazed with a steely, blue-tinged fury, so he didn’t give only that impression.

The mad monk walked Sining slowly from end to end.

Because his face was brimming with killing intent, the townsfolk of Sining were afraid—yet they didn’t hesitate to follow him.

Because that is the Central Plains spirit.

“To see a fight in the morning, and if I die by evening, so be it—!”

(For reference, this twists Confucius’ saying about staking one’s life on the pursuit of enlightenment: “If in the morning I hear the Way, I can die in the evening.”)

Anyway, when people swarmed after the mad monk, the crowd grew and grew until it filled Sining’s broad thoroughfare.

Where was the mad monk going?

Judging by his face, a wind of blood was about to blow—this wasn’t going to be ordinary.

The mad monk reached Sining’s central square, slid his gaze around, and moved toward a merchant who had snagged a fine spot right in the middle.

The poor merchant’s eyes rolled.

“Uh, Reverend? Why are you—coming to me...?”

“I borrow—your platform.”

“Ah! Yes! Of course!”

With the look of a man who’d just lost ten years of his life and gotten them back, the merchant patted his chest ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) in relief, then, seeing the flood of onlookers, found himself a choice spot up front.

A dramatic job change from merchant to spectator.

If it’s not my business, curiosity spikes.

“The great self’s name—”

“Oooh.” “The mad monk!” “Yahippa!”

He’d barely gotten a few words out, but several people immediately began chanting those names.

There was only one lama in the world who called himself “the great self.”

And Central Plains folk like to display their learning as showing off, so the hot-tempered “man of culture” shouted first to be ahead of the rest.

“The great self—needs among you, mm, someone existing—one who speaks the great tongue and is fluent in the crude Central Plains speech. A chance to acquire vast merit by aiding the great self.”

Collective bewilderment.

But there were those who understood among them.

Which, one could say, served as proof of comprehension of the high language—a very effective way to pick out a smart interpreter.

“[The abbot of the Blood Thunder Sound Temple has gone mad.]”

“The abbot of the Blood Thunder Sound Temple has—lost his—”

Smack. With a solid sound, the Tibetan man acting as interpreter had his head rocked.

“[You brat—carry my words exactly.]”

“[Y-yes, sir!] The abbot of the Blood Thunder Sound Temple has gone mad!”

The crowd boiled, buzzed, murmured, rippled.

The mad monk stretched out his hand and—Oṃ—!

The mantra sound of the Great Handprint, which clears the mind, stilled the clamor in an instant.

“[Lhundup Rinchen—that one has gone completely mad. He used to prattle about Tibetan purity; now he’s truly snapped. Any Tibetan who wears, eats, or uses the customs, food, clothes, speech, or letters of the Central Plains he calls a traitor of a defiled people and intends to slaughter and sweep from the world.]”

“Huhh.”

The day’s interpreter was the first to gasp; the Tibetans of Sining followed exactly in his footsteps and sucked in breath.

Those who didn’t know the plateau tongue could only wonder what in the world the words were that made people blanch blue the instant they heard them.

But only for a moment—then the day’s interpreter rendered it into proper speech of the Central Plains, and there came another round of whispering.

“Hey, what brand of lunacy is that?”

“No one not insane would say—”

“He said insane, didn’t he.”

“Oh, he did say insane. Then it tracks.”

“Shh, he’s talking.”

“[Nor does that lunatic’s delusion end there. He also insists that, in the land of Qinghai, all who are not pure Tibetans must be killed to the last. Yes—you poor people of the Central Plains, I mean you.]”

This time, the faces of all who weren’t Tibetans turned pale.

It was no longer a Tibetan matter; it had become their own.

“[They’ve already exterminated nine villages and carried out massacres—rooted out even infants and elders to wipe out the seed. I tried to stop them but was overmatched; I gave up my arm and fled in misery.]”

Then the mad monk raised a half-palm with his remaining hand and bowed his upper body.

“[Because my power was lacking, and because I failed to grasp the mad intent of that one Lhun-rin in time—this came to pass. I hereby express my sincere apology.]”

The square grew solemn.

What manner of figure was the mad monk?

Even setting him aside, it was rare in martial-world history for an expert of such stature to express an apology personally.

Which also meant the weight of his sincerity.

Among them, the Tibetans, even in that jam-packed little space, hurried to drive their knees into the earth and shout—

“Raise your head!”

“This is not something for you to apologize for!”

“Please withdraw such excessive words!”

At those words, the cheekbones behind Amukhablap’s cheeks suddenly jutted out.

The telltale sign of grinding one’s teeth.

“[The mad Blood Thunder Sound Temple must be stopped. But my strength falls short; with a shameless heart I can only ask for help. Namely—from the Kunlun Sect Daoists, a group that exalts the Way.]”

People grasped the mad monk’s intent.

This was both an accusation of the Blood Thunder Sound Temple’s slaughter and, at the same time, a public plea directed at Kunlun!

Those with sharper eyes thought:

He gathered this many people and bared his own shame.

With the righteous banner of destroying evil also correct, hasn’t he put Kunlun in quite a bind?

If they refuse, as the representative of the orthodox martial world that claims the proper Way—and as a great monastery of the Nine Sects—they’ll suffer a huge loss of face.

If they accept, blood will be spilled.

Of course, no one thought it was all prearranged.

“[Therefore, I will go to Kunlun to ask for help directly. Let those who are willing join me and raise their voices, that together we may accumulate merit—this is what I ask of you.]”

So Amukhablap set off.

And people followed behind.

Some intended to support the mad monk and ask Kunlun to fight together; others were merely curious how Kunlun would respond.

But there were so many that when they left Sining’s West Gate and took the main road toward Sun and Moon Mountain, the way filled up and the mass of them moved as one lump.

Half a day like that.

Having even skipped lunch to follow, the crowd finally caught sight of Kunlun Sect Daoists in neat garb before the mountain gate—and in their midst an old man, his face densely plowed with fine wrinkles, who, for all his immortal air, stood ramrod straight and regarded the assembly.

The elder stepped one pace forward and raised a respectful cupped-fist salute.

“I am an old Daoist called True Person Cheonbija. May I ask what business brings so many of you to the monastery of Kunlun?”

“Cheonbija!” “Kunlun’s Sect Leader!” “White-Cloud Immortal!”

The inevitable glosses followed.

Then the mad monk stepped forward, intoned the Buddha-name, raised a half-palm, and bowed.

“[I am called Amukhablap. For all the peoples of Qinghai, I beg the Sect Leader—please lend us your strength.]”

Thus the lines, already matched and arranged in advance, spread to all through Cheonbija and the day’s interpreter.

(As if coughing blood) Those Blood Thunder Sound Temple bastards are evil bastards.

(As if hearing it for the first time, in startlement) What? How could such bastards—!

(Half in shame, half in heartfelt plea) Shameless as it is, please thrash those bastards.

(Putting on difficulty) Ahem. But we too have our own circumstances. Ahem.

(Going to the knees) Please—for the sake of stopping the ruin of peace under Heaven, for the sake of protecting the peace of Qinghai—

(Putting on greater difficulty) Oh-ho, good fellow, would you please rise.

(Especially loudly, in a resounding voice) Please, strike down those villains who outrage Heaven and humanity, and prove that justice still lives in this world—that there is still a banner of destroying evil. Yes?

(Very, very troubled face) We would like to do so as well, but—ahem.

(In a grave voice, eyes blazing; be careful not to look like you’re throwing a tantrum) I won’t move until you help. Cut my belly open or step over my corpse; I’ll live here. Kunlun Sect can go up the mountain or help as it pleases.

And then Amukhablap actually closed his eyes and began to chant, still on his knees.

Because Kunlun Sect needed to show a posture of thoroughly responding to the mad monk’s request.

No matter how much the other side were men fit to be killed and no matter how clear the justification, it is no small thing for a great sect on the scale of Kunlun to attack another sect.

Without a process like this, people would be certain to say they struck the Blood Thunder Sound Temple just to seize hegemony in Qinghai.

At the Nine Sects’ level, the influence is vast.

“If Kunlun did it, why can’t we?”—and the war—no, the war—could call a wind of blood down on the entire martial world.

So the mad monk held his place in front of Kunlun’s mountain gate for three days and nights.

Without eating or sleeping, chanting without cease.

The onlookers who watched him gradually grew in number as well—would Kunlun respond to the request or not?

Some even took the same posture behind the mad monk to add their prayers; finally, on the evening of the third day—

Cheonbija came down with Kunlun’s warriors, looked at the mad monk, and declared:

“I yield. And you speak rightly: if those villains are left alone, great bloodshed will continue. We must not turn away from those in difficulty out of fear of shedding our own blood. Therefore Kunlun will aid you. If we do not go to Hell, who will?”

He then personally raised and supported the mad monk to his feet—at that moment, Kunlun Sect declared a punitive expedition against the Blood Thunder Sound Temple.

In an instant—Waaaa!—a thunderous roar shook quiet Sun and Moon Mountain as if it would fall.

Everyone’s chests swelled.

As though they’d witnessed a historic moment.

And within that roar stood one woman, expressionless, observing the crowd.

Why are they cheering?

Because the scene was moving?

Drunk on the heartwarming tale of a mad monk who kneeled for three days to beg for the sake of vengeance and the salvation of the masses—and Kunlun Sect answering?

Because they’ve aligned themselves with that justice.

In short, to them the Blood Thunder Sound Temple has become the villains of the world, hasn’t it.

Humans, honestly.

The woman shook her head softly side to side, then started muttering to herself:

“Sis, you doing all right? What? He shoved you under the bed and feeds you dog food? That’s really too much. You must be starving. Ah—mm. As for the current situation—mm. Mm. The formal notice probably won’t go out. Looks like they’ll build the pretext of a punitive expedition and march straight in. Mm. Who? The Heavenly Flower Sword? She should still be at Kunlun. I haven’t seen her bare face either—mm. I’ve seen her. You can tell she’s a beauty just from the eyes. Mm. Mm. See you later, then.”