Chapter 637: Kunlun Sect vs Blood Thunder Sound Temple (13)

The lamas of the Blood Thunder Sound Temple pitched camp along the southern ridge of Ahablapdalhaptak Mountain.

By Central Plains reckoning, the twentieth day of the first month had already slipped by.

In the deadest bite of winter, and they were to sleep in the open until the enemy came.

Even so, the lamas’ morale wasn’t bad.

Of course—they had unshakable faith that the Great Pagoda Celestial Sovereign would shatter those loathsome oppressor-invaders into pieces.

Only—

“[What are you idiots doing! Put those fires out, now!]”

Lhundup Rinchen all but jumped out of his skin and thundered at the lamas who were lighting fires in the dark.

The winter sky was crystalline—no clouds, a bright moon.

If smoke rose, it wasn’t a joke: a white column would touch the heavens, visible from sixty-plus miles away.

“[Master? But if we don’t make a fire, how are we supposed to endure this cold?]”

“[Ahem. Yet it can’t be helped. The enemy is coming. If those Kunlun dogs see the smoke and come here instead of heading for the main temple, will that not ruin the Sovereign’s arrangement?]”

“Master” was the title monks on the Plateau used for senior monks.

“Lama” itself—what they called the Plateau monks—meant “teacher” in the Plateau tongue.

And the great teacher—well, in the Plateau tongue they called him the Dalai Lama.

Anyway—

“[Then what do we do?]”

“[There’s no help for it. Gather in groups, share body heat, pile on thick blankets, and cycle your breathing method—you can drive the cold out.]”

The lamas wilted.

For reference, there’s a Qinghai joke: “A Plateauer bathes three times in his life.”

At birth, at marriage, and at death.

A joke, yes—but in truth, water is hard to come by on the Plateau.

On top of that, the wind is strong year-round and the air is cold: get wet and you fall ill easily.

So not bathing (or can’t bathe) is... in fact the norm.

There’s even an actual bathing festival—mid-seventh month, the warmest slice of the year.

“[Master, then the dead—...]”

“[You fools—on the eve of Tibet’s liberation, with fate itself on the line, are you lamas really minding your own comfort? Since when did you boil tsampa like that and slurp it up?]”

The lamas drooped even more.

How precious is hot food on a frozen day.

But if they couldn’t light fires, that was all a wash.

So now they were in for a night of shivering through circulatory patterns, chewing raw barley flour while breathing in each other’s stink.

Still—what could they do.

They couldn’t refuse; if ordered to curl up, they’d curl up and hug.

Night one.

Their soaring morale fell off a cliff.

But the lamas’ woes were only just beginning.

Ten days later, at the turn into February.

In a mere ten days their cheeks had sunk in.

Nights went to inner-energy cycling, days to snatched naps by turns.

The nights were freezing, the stink unbearable.

And that damned barley—they couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore.

If Amukhablap had seen them he’d have clicked his tongue.

Of all people, Vajrayāna monks—who should take it as a virtue to spread merit among living beings by sleeping roadside and living on alms—were being pampered with good beds and rich offerings, only to whine like brats.

So said he—who himself accepted good beds and rich offerings.

Consequently, his popularity within the Blood Thunder Sound Temple was never much to speak of.

Anyway, while the lama monks’ misery dragged on, when in the world were the Kunlun Sect warriors going to arrive?

****

The Kunlun procession aiding the mad monk’s revenge had covered only about 186 miles.

For a column made entirely of elites at least at the Pinnacle, the pace was unbelievably slow.

Were the Kunlun warriors shirking?

Hardly.

They couldn’t help it either.

The original plan was to head straight to the Blood Thunder Sound Temple along roughly a 341-mile line.

But—this plan assumed they would pass through large and small Plateau villages for meals and lodging.

However—

“Hooh. Namo Amitābha...”

The Martial Buddha intoned a lament.

Half-picked corpses left to lie for long, tents collapsed for lack of hands to tend them, buildings gone cold and dead.

The Vajrayāna monks who’d set out to “deal with” Amukhablap had stopped at each Tibetan village along the way to “offer merit.”

But when they arrived to bestow that “merit,” the villages held nothing but severely contaminated Han scum.

Truth is, the Qinghai lands fell into Central Plains hands centuries ago.

Centuries—how could customs not change.

The “purity” they prattled about was nonsense from the start.

“We should stick to the highway. No matter how insane they are, they won’t have exterminated the cities where magistracies are set up.”

“Hooh.”

It was hard to believe there’d be more villages ahead where they could take on supplies.

And even if there were, who would they be but extremists swayed by the Blood Thunder Sound Temple’s ridiculous ravings.

So their shortest route of about 341 miles turned into a 435-mile march following the state road.

Even then, whenever a whole city still stood, they had to stop and rest, even in broad daylight—dragging the schedule out and out.

“Amook, you okay?”

“The Great Me has never been so shabby. Even with a hundred mouths the only words to speak are apology. Bald bastards without father or mother should roast forever in hellfire.”

Sorrow pooled in the deep, hollow eye sockets that stared at the toppled tents.

Qing only tapped his shoulder twice.

“Mhm.”

The bony chest of Amukhablap caved just a bit—like a soundless sigh.

Six days after that, February 13.

Gyeongimok County—the last city, a day and a half at a warrior’s pace from Ahablapdalhaptak Mountain.

They ate one last good meal, passed wine all around, slept deep, and at dawn ran final combat checks.

They unfolded the sword formation and did a full-dress rehearsal.

Each took five days’ rations, checked their packs, and re-formed the marching array.

Near full moon—the night was bright—so they moved through the night up to the base of the northern ridge.

After breakfast and a catch-up sleep, they gnawed half-frozen rice balls at noon and formed their final lines.

Even with three Translucent Realm masters along, the tension before battle was plain; a grim, fateful hush hung over them.

Then—advance.

Qing took a place right at the fore.

She was a Flower Realm expert, and it was right that she keep her place at her master’s side.

Once they crested the ridge, a white-and-blue temple in Plateau style came into view on the opposite slope.

Unlike Central Plains mountains, the slopes of the Plateau were almost bare of trees—sparse scrub brushing the waist here and there.

Qing’s beyond-human sight did not miss the figure planted bold and square before the Blood Thunder Sound Temple’s mountain gate.

Of course, even without beyond-human eyes, anyone could have told someone was standing there.

For one thing, his head was shining.

“Who’s that? Is that baldy the abbot?”

“Strange. That abbot bastard’s shape is not so. He’s short a great deal of flesh. The abbot bastard ate father and mother both to get a magnificent girth.”

“For that, he’s standing like a commander, blocking the gate—ah, he’s going in.”

If they could see the enemy, it meant the enemy could see the punitive column just as clearly.

Then—DANG DANG DANG!

A riotous clang rolled across the barren stone slopes.

Warning gongs have no sound box—just thin iron plates chained together—so they rip the eardrums when they go.

The Blood Thunder Sound Temple was no different: the winter mountain rang with shrill, piercing clangor loud enough to wake hibernating beasts.

If the enemy hadn’t noticed, that would be one thing—but with the gong screaming, there was no need to rush.

Besides—the Blood Thunder Sound Temple hadn’t shut its sturdy gate like a city gate beneath its high walls.

It was standing wide open.

Come in if you dare.

Normally you’d bar the gate and lace traps behind the walls—that’s defense 101.

The Kunlun punitive force advanced in tight, severe lines.

On these open, wide-skied stone mountains of Qinghai there was no sign of an ambush, and even if there were, with three Translucent experts they wouldn’t miss the telltale breath.

In truth, whatever had been prepared was unlikely to stop the power of three Translucent Realm figures.

So they shifted formation—masters on the outside, the slightly lower Pinnacle early-mid ranks to the inside—and at last crossed the threshold of the Blood Thunder Sound Temple.

A huge court paved with blue-grey stone, scores of small stupas about a person’s height (~6 ft) lined up in rows.

Down the broad brick avenue to the largest hall—the Main Hall—stood a single lama, beaming for some reason.

His lips moved—

—So the Kunlun dogs have put their feet into the death-trap at last!

The voice came from all four directions and above-below—no way to place it. A refined projection: a Six Harmonies full-projection.

Which meant the lama’s realm had reached the Translucent Realm.

—Let’s see... Flower Realm, two, four, six, eight! Heh-heh, no wonder you’re swollen with confidence. With eight Flower Realm warriors, you feel bold enough to profane the sacred Plateau!

In fact, the Kunlun Flower Realm in the column numbered three.

Three Kunlun Flower Realm masters within the punitive force.

Add Qing and the mad monk and you get five.

The Great Pagoda Celestial Sovereign’s count of eight left three unaccounted for.

But he had his reasons.

A Translucent master can read realms up to Super-transcendent.

When he can’t read a realm, he chalks it up as Flower Realm.

Of course, it could be higher than Flower Realm.

But at the Translucent level, everyone pretty much knows everyone—old faces—so even if there were hidden recluses, they say there aren’t more than twenty Translucent under heaven.

On the other hand, he was secretly impressed.

Kunlun—counted the weakest of the Nine Sects alongside Qingcheng and Emei.

And yet, even excluding that turncoat and her damned Heavenly Flower Sword, they’d fielded six Flower Realm?

That was a force no single sect should be able to muster.

Truly, the Nine Sects.

Exploiters who have ruled the Central Plains so long!

How hard did they squeeze to amass that kind of strength.

“Kh-h-h...”

The Great Pagoda Celestial Sovereign couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

And this was the moment one of those Nine Sects would fall.

By my hand.

—Kh-h-h. I am the Great Pagoda Celestial Sovereign.

At that, one, two, three—

“Great Pagoda Celestial Sovereign!” “Foremost of Tibet!”

Qing and the mad monk shouted side by side.

Precisely two voices.

How would any non-Plateauer know “Foremost of Tibet.”

Qing only felt like acting like she knew; in truth, only Amukhablap grasped the weight that name carried.

Qing scratched her head.

Maybe not the time to act like she knew things.

With an unknown Translucent master before them, the Kunlun warriors murmured; just as the Martial Buddha was about to step forward—

—So you vile, wicked Han dogs have finally brought those filthy, stinking bodies into the sacred mountain. A crime you could die for ten thousand times and never repay!

The Great Pagoda Celestial Sovereign, in high spirits, cut off the Martial Buddha’s opening word with his Six Harmonies voice.

The Martial Buddha’s brow twitched; he drew a breath.

Tup. A light brush of wind tapped his back—he turned. Ximen Surin was shaking her head, face full of quiet disdain.

Let’s hear what he says first.

The Martial Buddha let the breath go.

Truth be told, he was curious.

The Great Pagoda Celestial Sovereign, oblivious, was delighted with himself.

—You Han dogs are, by blood, the brats of slaves. Trash who lived licking Mongol boots got lucky and seized the world—so all your tyranny flows from that low character.

Qing poked the mad monk in the ribs.

“Why are you nodding to that?”

“That one is a savage evil. But his words are not false. Right and wrong are unbudgeable truth; even the Great Me cannot deny truth.”

“Don’t make me laugh. You said the Plateau emperor’s title ‘Dalai Lama’ isn’t even Plateau-tongue but a barbarian word, right? So you lot were lapdogs under barbarians too, weren’t you?”

For reference: “barbarian” is a slur for the Mongols.

These days it’s thrown at all border peoples, but the original “barbarians” were precisely those Mongols—the very Mongol folk of Qing’s homeland.

So Qing was right.

The Mongol people were the ones who truly conquered beyond East Asia, across other continents—the genuine hegemons of the world.

Strip out the black-skinned peoples and there’s hardly a nation on earth that escapes having been a Mongol lackey somewhere in its history.

“One more word and no more—the Great Me, fond as I am of you, cannot endure further insult.”

“Heh. Truth hurts.”

—Silence! Who dares chatter before the Celestial Sovereign!

“Who’s the celestial what-now? Isn’t it embarrassing to call yourself ‘Sovereign’ with your own mouth? And since when does a monk set himself above Buddha?”

Qing’s specialty—scratching her cheek and muttering like she’s talking to herself.

Loud enough for everyone to hear; snickers bubbled up among the Kunlun ranks.

The Great Pagoda Celestial Sovereign’s killing intent detonated.

“Typical bald-headed—... ngh.”

Qing abruptly shut her mouth, face gone very pale.

Not from fear of killing intent.

Because her master shot her a sharp, slicing glare.

Right. Master’s here.

Qing slid her hands together and assumed belated demureness.

Too late—Ximen Surin’s disapproving gaze would not ease.

Ah. I messed up.

Qing hunched her neck in belated regret.

And the Great Pagoda Celestial Sovereign, thinking his killing aura had cowed her, smiled in satisfaction.