Outside Jiaxing City, endless yellow dust swirled.
The old monk appeared to walk very slowly, but his soles seemed slicked with oil, taking more than a zhang with a single step.
In the blink of an eye, he had already covered dozens of li.
The half-jar of Daughter Red in his hand sloshed gently as he raised it to take a sip.
The old monk smacked his lips.
"This Jiangnan wine really goes down easiest after all."
He glanced back in the direction of Jiaxing City.
It was too far away now.
The ruined temple had long vanished from sight.
Yet that little beggar with a mouthful of arguments still drifted through his mind.
As he thought about it, the old monk chuckled.
"Stealing money, and right off an old monk's head no less."
"You certainly have nerve."
"And quite arrogant, too!"
Few people left in the world knew who he was.
Fewer still would ever imagine that...
...the old monk wandering around today in a tattered monastic robe, straw sandals, and carrying a wine jar...
...more than a century ago...
...had worn brocade robes and jade belts, dwelling inside the imperial palace of Dali.
...and had once been a romantic young noble who couldn't even walk straight at the sight of a pretty girl.
Back then, there were many people around him.
He had an elder brother.
He had a second brother.
He had a beloved.
He had friends.
A single drinking session could last from day to night.
A single fight could stretch from inside the city to out beyond the walls.
Later, one by one, those people passed away.
The old monk had lived too long.
So long that many familiar names felt like things from a past life whenever spoken aloud.
Sitting on the imperial throne naturally came with endless troubles.
To others, that position might have been the ultimate dream.
But to him, it was merely an uncomfortable pain in the rear, so he simply shaved his head.
He abdicated the throne and escaped into the Buddhist order.
He didn't even bother mentioning his name anymore.
Duan Yu.
That name...
...had not been spoken by anyone for many long years.
...
Decades ago.
The old monk had met the Sect Master Perfected One of the Quanzhen Sect—Wang Chongyang.
At that time, Wang Chongyang had already emerged victorious at the Mount Hua Sword Contest, taking the 《Nine Yin Manual》 and considering himself number one under heaven, traveling everywhere to seek experts to discuss the Dao.
The old monk was wandering through the mortal realm, and the two met at Mount Song.
Inside a small tavern at the foot of Mount Song.
Wang Chongyang sat at a table.
Looking at the white-eyebrowed old monk across from him.
The tea on the table had long gone cold.
Yet the two of them had already been debating for two full shichen.
From Confucianism to Daoism.
And from Daoism to Buddhism.
Wang Chongyang picked up his tea bowl.
"This poor Daoist still feels..."
"...that those who cultivate the Dao should accord with the Heavenly Dao, understand their true heart, discard delusion, and preserve truth."
The old monk smiled.
"Then what is delusion?"
"And what is truth?"
"When a person is hungry and wants to eat, does that count as delusion?"
"When one sees fine wine and wants to take a few sips, does that count as delusion?"
Wang Chongyang glanced at the wine jar at his hand.
"A monk harboring a passion for drink..."
"...I fear does count."
The old monk looked down at the wine.
"Then it seems this poor monk broke a precept today."
Having said that, he poured himself another bowl.
Wang Chongyang: "..."
This monk had no intention of reforming at all.
Wang Chongyang shook his head.
"Since Master has entered the Buddhist order, why are you still unable to let go?"
The old monk picked up a peanut with his chopsticks and popped it into his mouth.
"Who says entering the Buddhist order means one must abandon everything?"
"In my youth, this poor monk studied Confucianism."
"Later, I studied Daoism."
"And in my old age, I became a monk."
"Whether Confucianism, Daoism, or Buddhism..."
"...in the end..."
"...it is still just me, this single person."
Wang Chongyang frowned.
"According to Master's words, do the Three Teachings have no distinction at all?"
The old monk tapped the plate on the table with his chopsticks.
"There is, of course there is."
"This plate of peanuts is peanuts."
"That jar of wine is wine."
"Naturally, they are different."
"Yet once eaten into the belly..."
He patted his stomach.
"...don't they both end up as the exact same thing in the end?"
Wang Chongyang looked at him, remaining silent for a long moment.
"What thing?"
The old monk answered with utter seriousness:
"Tomorrow's latrine."
Wang Chongyang's face darkened.
"Master!"
The old monk burst into laughter.
"Just a joke."
"Why must Perfected Wang take it so seriously?"
The two debated like this.
From morning until the sun began to slant toward the west.
Neither could convince the other.
Wang Chongyang had just suppressed the Four Greats at the Mount Hua Sword Contest and claimed the title of number one under heaven, his spirits soaring high.
Yet the old monk before him spoke in a way that seemed completely absurd.
Yet after a few turns of conversation...
...every single phrase surprisingly held its own profound logic.
If they kept arguing...
...they likely wouldn't reach a conclusion even by tomorrow.
Wang Chongyang simply set down his tea bowl.
"This poor Daoist sees that Master's breath is deep and long, and your footwork is steady."
"Is Master a practitioner of martial arts as well?"
The old monk answered casually, "I've practiced a little."
Wang Chongyang stood up.
"Since debating the Dao cannot determine who is superior..."
"...why don't we test our true abilities in martial arts?"
The old monk hurriedly waved his hand.
"This poor monk is getting old."
"I don't like fighting."
Wang Chongyang gave a light laugh.
"We can stop at the first touch."
The old monk still waved his hand.
"Stopping at the first touch is still tiring."
Wang Chongyang: "..."
"Could it be that Master is afraid?"
The old monk looked at him and let out a sigh.
"You young people."
"Why do you all love to goad others?"
The corner of Wang Chongyang's mouth twitched.
He was already over fifty years old.
Still young?
Yet looking at the old monk's beard...
Well, in front of him...
...he really did count as young.
The two exited the tavern and began exchanging moves atop the peak of Mount Song.
Neither used weapons.
Wang Chongyang struck out with a palm first.
The first palm was merely a probe.
The old monk shifted his feet, and his body was already two steps away.
Wang Chongyang's palm missed, his brows furrowing on the spot.
"What fast footwork."
The second palm.
The third palm.
The fifth palm.
Wang Chongyang struck faster and faster, the force of his palms kicking up withered leaves from the ground.
Yet the old monk did not strike back once.
A step east, a step west.
Though right before his eyes, every attack missed by a mere half inch.
Wang Chongyang stopped and said:
"Master, if you keep dodging like this..."
"...it won't be any fun."
The old monk said with a pained expression:
"This poor monk just dislikes trouble."
"Since Daoist Wang insists on sparring, then this poor monk will play a few moves with you."
No sooner had his words landed...
...than Wang Chongyang's palm reached right in front of him.
The old monk raised a hand, his sleeve sweeping upward.
Pa!
The two palms collided and separated instantly.
Wang Chongyang took half a step back.
The old monk remained standing where he was.
"Again!"
This time.
Wang Chongyang got serious.
Palms, fingers, fists, grappling techniques.
Move after move of Quanzhen martial arts poured out.
The old monk finally began striking back as well.
Yet from beginning to end, he never delivered a heavy blow.
When Wang Chongyang struck with a palm, he merely pressed against his wrist.
When Wang Chongyang thrust out a finger, he swept his sleeve, guiding him half a step to the side with the momentum.
In the blink of an eye.
Fifty moves.
Eighty moves.
One hundred moves.
Sweat had broken out on Wang Chongyang's forehead, and his breathing grew heavy.
Yet the old monk opposite him remained just as he had been.
Except for an added remark:
"Ouch."
"Getting old... my back feels a bit sore."
Wang Chongyang nearly choked on his own breath from anger.
Your back feels sore? I'm almost out of breath!
When they hit over one hundred twenty moves...
...the old monk suddenly stepped backward.
He pressed his palms together.
"Not fighting anymore."
"Not fighting anymore."
"This poor monk lacks stamina."
"If we keep going, I fear I'll be lying down right here."
Wang Chongyang stood on the spot, his chest rising and falling slightly.
Looking at the old monk whose breathing had barely even quickened...
...he was left temporarily speechless.
He wasn't stupid; he knew clearly in his heart that from start to finish...
...the other man had never truly used his full power.
Several times, when he clearly could have struck him square in the chest with a palm...
...he had turned his palm into a sleeve at the final moment, gently guiding it away.
If it had come down to deciding victory and defeat...
...he likely would have lost after fifty moves.
Wang Chongyang marveled inwardly:
Although I am not one to fight aggressively, I believed no one in this world could defeat me after the Mount Hua Sword Contest. Who would have thought such a master existed?
There truly are heavens beyond heavens, and peaks beyond peaks!
This old monk did not compete for the title of number one under heaven...
...yet he could render the number one under heaven completely humbled.
Seeing that he didn't speak, the old monk smiled gently.
"Perfected Wang."
"It was merely a spar, please don't take it to heart!"
Wang Chongyang nodded. "I have been enlightened."
Those three words...
...were spoken with complete and total conviction.
The old monk pointed at the cloth bundle Wang Chongyang had set to the side:
"This poor monk heard that the prize of the Mount Hua Sword Contest was the 《Nine Yin Manual》?"
"Could you lend it to this poor monk for a quick read, so I may broaden my horizons?"
What kind of item was the 《Nine Yin Manual》?
The entire jianghu had almost been torn apart over it.
Eastern Heretic, Western Venom, Southern Emperor, Northern Beggar, Central Divinity.
The five had gathered at Mount Hua.
And fought for seven days and seven nights.
In the end, it was Wang Chongyang who obtained the manual.
His sole purpose was to prevent this manual from continuing to bring chaos to the jianghu.
Now, someone casually opened his mouth and asked to read it.
Had it been anyone else, Wang Chongyang would have already shown them out.
Yet the old monk before him...
If he truly wanted to snatch it by force, could he even stop him?
The man had the ability to take it by force, yet chose to politely ask right here.
This instead put Wang Chongyang in a bit of a dilemma.
The old monk saw through his thoughts:
"Daoist Wang, how about this?"
"This poor monk won't make things difficult for you."
"Let us compare our drinking capacity."
"If this poor monk wins, you only need to lend it to me for a quick browse."
"I will only read it; I will not take it or copy it."
"If this poor monk loses..."
"...then act as if it were never mentioned today."
Wang Chongyang looked at the old monk, thinking to himself:
This old monk...
If you win, you gain an advantage. If you lose, it's as if nothing happened?
Fortunately, this monk is open-hearted and doesn't seem like an evil person. Forget it.
Wang Chongyang felt that since today's debate on the Dao yielded no winner and he had effectively lost the martial contest, if his drinking tolerance were inferior as well, it would be far too humiliating.
In his youth, when organizing a volunteer army to resist the Jin, he had often drunk wine and believed his drinking capacity was by no means poor. He smiled and said:
"Very well, then I shall have a drinking match with Master!"
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