Inside the inn, the candlelight burned dim and yellow, casting shifting shadows across the faces of the crowd. The night wind swept through the hall, and the flickering light danced upon the mottled walls, as if countless unseen eyes were peering into this buried tale of the past.
One of the patrons who had spoken earlier clenched the hem of his robe tightly over his knees, his knuckles turning pale. His voice trembled slightly as he said, "For Master Liaoyin to stand up against the Western Sacred Sect at such a critical moment… such fearless devotion to the Buddhist path is truly admirable! But… why would the Western Sacred Sect go so far as to form such an irreconcilable grudge with Shaolin over this?"
Old Qian slowly set down his teacup, the base striking the wooden table with a dull thud. His gaze lowered, as if recalling the brutality of that day. "The moment they exchanged blows, Chen Jinfeng struck first—'Bang!' Her palm slammed heavily into Master Liaoyin's shoulder!"
Before his words even settled, a loud clang rang out from the corner. The inn servant, too engrossed in the tale, had dropped his copper kettle, spilling scalding water across the floor. Yet no one paid him any heed. All held their breath as Old Qian continued, "Though the strike did not hit a vital point, it forced the Master back several steps. Beneath his robe, his flesh turned dark purple in an instant…"
An uproar broke out. A traveler in a bamboo hat slammed his palm against the table. "What a vicious palm technique!"
"Seeing the Master falter," Old Qian went on, "Chen Jinfeng halted her attack and sneered, 'Master, you are gravely wounded—you are no match for me. If you kneel and apologize to the Western Sacred Sect before all present, I shall spare your life!'"
Imitating her tone, Old Qian's voice rose sharply, shrill as the cry of a night owl. A chill ran through the listeners—it felt as though that cruel and seductive woman stood right before them.
"Despite the searing pain in his shoulder, Master Liaoyin straightened his back and thundered, 'To die today for the Buddhist path—though I die, I live!'"
"Bravo!" Several martial men in the inn could not help but shout, their fists clenched tight.
For a moment, even the wind seemed to stop. The inn door creaked slightly open, and a cold gust carrying the scent of pine and blood drifted in. The candle flames wavered, casting shadows like a battlefield upon the walls, recreating the tragic scene of that day.
Old Qian lowered his voice. "Chen Jinfeng's gaze then shifted toward the senior monk Benguang…"
Seeing this, Benguang hurried forward, palms pressed together. "Martial Uncle! The Western Sacred Sect shares a karmic link with Buddhism. Though our teachings differ, they lead to the same truth. Why fight to the death? If you would only lower your head, this matter could be resolved!"
At these words, Master Liaoyin's eyes widened in fury. "Benguang! Since you have taken the tonsure, you must uphold the true Dharma! This witch deceives the people and leads them astray—this is the path of demons! And you, a disciple of the Buddha, would aid her wickedness?"
His voice rang like a great bell, shaking even the rafters. The crowd fell silent in awe. Outside, the wind rose suddenly, and a night bird cried out as it fled into the darkness, as if trembling at his solemn vow.
With a long sigh, the Master said sorrowfully, "Perhaps… you seek to protect Shaolin. But I am old. Today, I seek only to prove the Way with my death."
With that, he slowly sat cross-legged, palms together, eyes closed, chanting sutras. The low, resonant sound of his voice echoed like an ancient bell in the mountains, sinking deep into the souls of all who heard it.
Silence fell over the inn. Only the occasional crackle of the candle wick broke the stillness, sharp and jarring like the whisper of fate itself.
Old Qian continued, "Seeing that the Master would rather die than yield, Chen Jinfeng shouted, 'Mad monk! If you insist on death, I shall grant it to you!'"
"Master Liaoyin laughed. 'To die in such a cause—what joy!' Before his words faded, he leapt forward, striking toward Chen Jinfeng!"
Old Qian suddenly sprang to his feet, sleeves sweeping through the air as he mimicked the Master's final attack. The crowd could almost see that aged yet unyielding figure—like a wrathful guardian deity—charging at his foe. Some held their breath; others gripped their weapons. No one dared make a sound. Even the candle flames seemed frozen in place.
"But… the Master was gravely wounded. After dozens of exchanges, his strength began to fade." Old Qian's voice sank low, like rain tapping softly on tiles. "Seizing the opening, Chen Jinfeng shouted, 'Your life is mine!'"
"Bang! Bang!" Old Qian struck the air with both palms, as if the blows landed upon the hearts of the listeners. "One strike to the abdomen, another to the chest! Master Liaoyin was sent flying like a severed kite, crashing heavily to the ground!"
Inside the inn, some covered their faces, others bowed their heads. Devout believers softly chanted, "Amitābha…" Tears welled in many eyes. A single drop fell into a cup of wine, sending ripples across its surface.
"Spitting blood, the Master forced himself upright… seated cross-legged once more, palms joined…" Old Qian's voice trembled. "He slowly closed his eyes and chanted, 'I bow to the Western Pure Land… the great guide who leads all beings…'"
The chanting grew fainter… and then ceased.
Master Liaoyin had passed into nirvana.
A gust of wind slipped through the door, stirring the candlelight. On the wall, the flickering glow formed the silhouette of a meditating monk—like the Master still lingering in silent vigil over the world.
Soft sobs filled the inn. An old woman rose trembling, clutching her prayer beads as she whispered her devotions. In the corner, a wandering swordsman silently stood and bowed three times toward the night beyond the window.
Old Qian drew a deep breath. "After his passing, the Master's body did not decay. His face remained as though alive. The Abbot of Shaolin, overcome with grief, decided to enshrine him in gold, for future generations to revere."
"When can we see his golden body?" a young warrior asked eagerly.
Old Li answered, "It is said… on the fifteenth day of the seventh month, Shaolin will open its gates for public veneration."
The hall erupted in shock. Behind the counter, the innkeeper accidentally knocked over his abacus, wooden beads scattering across the floor. Yet he paid it no mind, his voice trembling. "When that day comes… I shall close my shop for three days and bring my whole family to Shaolin!"
From the kitchen came the sharp sound of breaking porcelain—a long-cherished Guanyin statue had slipped from the cook's hands and shattered. The crowd shuddered. Even the swallows beneath the eaves took flight, vanishing into the darkening dusk.
At that moment, someone softly chanted, "Namo Amitābha…" The sound spread through the room like the tolling of bells, as though heaven and earth themselves bowed in mourning for the monk who had given his life for the Way.
A patron, eyes filled with reverence, asked eagerly, "Sir, when will we be able to behold Master Liaoyin's golden body?"
Old Li, his brows deeply furrowed, replied sorrowfully, "It is not yet certain. But it is said that Shaolin plans to open its gates on the fifteenth day of the seventh month."
Hearing this, many devout followers' eyes turned red with emotion. They began to make plans on the spot, agreeing to travel together to Shaolin and pay their respects. In Buddhist tradition, only monks like Master Liaoyin—who devoted their lives to cultivation and earned universal respect—could achieve such merit. Their bodies would not decay after death, and they would be enshrined in gold, becoming "flesh-body bodhisattvas" for future generations to venerate.
Meanwhile, Li Jian and his companion had come downstairs for breakfast, intending to enjoy a leisurely morning. Instead, they found themselves drawn into this vivid tale of the martial world. Before they knew it, they had finished eating, completely absorbed in the story.
Soon after, they left the inn, mounted their horses, and rode toward Xuzhou.
Just then, several passersby came rushing from the opposite direction, their faces filled with panic. As they ran, they shouted, "There's a fight ahead! Four men are attacking an old man! They're trying to seize a blade called the Wolong Saber! The old man says it belongs to the new Chief of the Loyalist Hall—that it's no ordinary weapon!"
In an instant, the news spread like wildfire. Crowds surged toward the scene.
Hearing this, Li Jian and his companion felt their blood ignite. They exchanged a glance, then spurred their horses forward without hesitation, determined to see for themselves what was unfolding.