Chapter Thirty: Anecdotes from Shaolin

Lin Qingli wanted to say more, but Xu Qianfan rose to his feet, his voice deep and resolute: “People of the martial world act decisively—why linger in tears? From here, our paths as master and disciple part. If fate allows, we shall meet again.” With that, he swept his robe and wrapped his sword in its folds. He vaulted out the window and his figure vanished swiftly into the night. After bidding Lin Qingli farewell with tears, Qingyuan and Qingbai gathered their belongings and departed as well. Qingyuan and Qingbai headed for Kongtong Mountain, while Lin Qingli journeyed alone to the Tianshan Mountains in the northwest, seeking refuge with Zi Wuzhuo.

The martial arts of the Tianshan Sect emphasized nurturing one’s foundation, yet Lin Qingli’s heart burned only for vengeance. Impatient to advance, she practiced the Hunyuan Skill in the daylight, and at night, secretly trained in the Shura Technique she had found hidden in a wall. But her haste hindered her progress. In a month’s time, not only did she fail to improve, she regressed. Her heart was restless, and sleep eluded her. It was at this time that she encountered Li Chongyuan.

When Li Chongyuan and Lin Qingli descended from Tianshan to journey to the Central Plains, Li Duozuo was already on his way to Song Mountain.

Shaolin Temple, early morning. Young novices pushed open the temple gates and emerged with brooms to sweep away fallen leaves. Suddenly, one of the novices cried out, “Senior brother, come look—someone’s collapsed here!”

What is a ‘collapsed one’? It refers to someone who has died on the road. Though the Wu Zhou era was prosperous, there were always those in poverty—some fell dead from hunger or illness on the roadside, and these were called ‘collapsed ones’.

A few older novices hurried over and saw the collapsed figure lying beneath a tree at the gate, still breathing faintly. “This one is not yet dead—quick, call Master!” One nimble-footed novice dashed inside the temple.

Soon after, a robust middle-aged monk arrived, led by the novice. He first felt the wrist of the collapsed man to check his pulse. Though weak, it was steady—signs of exhaustion and hunger rather than illness. “Quickly, bring him inside,” he ordered. The novices clumsily carried the collapsed man into the temple.

After feeding him a large bowl of rice porridge sweetened with sugar, the man revived and opened his eyes, bewildered by the sight of so many shaved heads around him. “Where am I? Am I…am I dead?” he asked. The monk smiled, “Do not worry, you merely fainted. After some porridge, you are well again.” Gathering his strength, the man struggled to kneel, pleading, “Please have mercy, let me stay and become a monk here.” He knocked his head on the floor repeatedly. The monk hesitated, “You should know, I, Huicheng, am merely a guest monk—I cannot decide who enters the temple.” Still prostrate, the man kept knocking his head and begging, “Master, mercy! Master, mercy!” Helpless, Huicheng said, “Rise, and I will take you to see the Abbot. Whether you are accepted is up to him.”

In the abbot’s chamber, Elder Xuanhui looked at the man before him—sallow, emaciated, clothed in rags, legs trembling as he struggled to stand. Sighing, he said, “Amitabha. Your devotion to Buddhism is praiseworthy, but our temple is full—we cannot accept more. If you wish to take refuge, seek another temple, or study the Dharma at home. The teachings say: ‘All beings possess Dharma; all men are Buddhas.’ True enlightenment is found not in place, but in the heart. One thought to become Buddha—that is the principle.” The man pleaded, “My home was destroyed by floods—my wife and children washed away, not even their bodies found. I have nowhere to go. Please, Master, let me stay. If only I have a bowl of coarse rice, I will be content.” Xuanhui felt a surge of annoyance, thinking, “This fellow is shameless, treating Shaolin as a charity soup kitchen, coming here just to beg for food. If he persists, I’ll have the warrior monks beat him out with sticks.” Despite his irritation, he kept a kindly face. “You should know, Shaolin is large, but even we face hardship—many monks, little porridge. We rely on the donations of a few pilgrims; how can we feed a thousand mouths? If this continues, even I shall have to beg in town. Please forgive us. If you only seek a meal, that’s not difficult. I’ll have someone give you some silver—learn a trade, and you’ll always have food. Better than lingering here in misery.” The man wept, “You don’t understand, Master. I am a craftsman—illiterate, but I have worked as a mason for years. Twenty years ago, I even helped repair your scripture library. But in these times, floods everywhere, who builds houses? Even with skill, I cannot earn a living. Please, have mercy, don’t let me starve.” Xuanhui’s eyes brightened. “You truly have masonry skills?” The man replied, “Master, I dare not lie—you are all-knowing.” Xuanhui formed a plan. “Buddha is merciful. If you once repaired our scripture library, then you are connected to our temple. Very well—since your heart turns to Buddha, we cannot turn you away. Go to the Repair Yard as a novice. We have three lines: Xuan, Hui, and Jia. As a newcomer, you’ll be in the Jia line, and your Dharma name shall be Jianeng.” Overjoyed, the man kowtowed, “Thank you, Master, thank you!”

What is the Repair Yard? It is a separate branch of Shaolin, dedicated solely to maintaining the temple’s buildings. Its monks neither practice martial arts nor chant scriptures, nor are they required to shave their heads or bear the ritual burn marks. They are given monk robes; transfers from other branches are treated better, but new arrivals lack even proper papers. Their days are spent laboring—fixing roofs and walls year-round, never idle. It is the hardest, most thankless branch in Shaolin, often a place for misfits who cannot stay elsewhere or who have broken temple rules. The monks there are more laborers than monks. Why did Xuanhui first refuse, then accept him? Because he saw that Jianeng was a mason. This year’s rains were heavier than usual, causing leaks everywhere. Repairing buildings requires skill, not just strength—the monks of the Repair Yard could only carry bricks and stones. Every time repairs were needed, the temple had to hire outside masons, costing much silver. With Jianeng, he could serve as master mason and work for food, saving the temple money.

Led by Huicheng, Jianeng paid respects to the head of the Repair Yard, Huiguang, received gray monk’s robes, and settled into Shaolin.

Jianeng proved diligent—he swept the courtyard without instruction, and when fixing roofs, he climbed up and laid bricks and tiles with both arms spinning like wind. Even three strong men carting bricks could not keep up with him. The monks, admiring his speed and skill, nicknamed him ‘Eight-Armed Buddha’. Jianeng only responded with a foolish, bashful smile.

In recent days, torrential rain had soaked the temple, causing leaks everywhere. It would have been tolerable, but even the scripture library was leaking, damaging many texts. Abbot Xuanjing was so anxious he lost sleep, sighing day and night. When the weather finally cleared, he hurried to have the books aired out, and ordered Xuanhui to find someone to repair the library. Xuanhui said, “Abbot, this time we need not look for masons outside. The Repair Yard has a new novice called Jianeng, skilled in brick and tile work—the monks call him Eight-Armed Buddha.” Xuanjing frowned slightly, “If the lower monks joke, so be it. But you, as Abbot, should be more careful. However skilled this novice may be, he is still a craftsman—how can you call him Buddha?” Xuanhui quickly replied, “Thank you for your guidance, Abbot, I shall remember.” Xuanjing paused, “Have you investigated Jianeng’s background?” Xuanhui answered, “Not fully, but he was found collapsed at the gate, rescued by Huicheng. When he revived, he begged to stay, claiming he once helped repair the library. Seeing his skill and pitiable state, I took him in. He is hardworking, never shirks any task, and seems honest—should be trustworthy.” Xuanjing said, “It appears so, but caution is always necessary. Go check again.” “Yes, Abbot.” Xuanhui left the abbot’s chamber and went straight to the Repair Yard, where he found Jianeng washing himself with water at the entrance, bare-chested. Seeing Xuanhui, Jianeng hurriedly threw on his greasy, twisted monk’s robe and bowed, “Greetings, Abbot.” Xuanhui smiled and waved, “No need for formality—you’ve worked hard these days.” Jianeng grinned, “Master, if not for your kindness, I’d have starved by now. How could I have today?” Xuanhui said, “Seeing how hard you work, I feel guilty—this temple has a thousand mouths to feed, but it cannot all fall on you. As it happens, the Manjusri Branch needs someone to chant scriptures—would you like to go there and recite and strike the chime?”