The World Of Swords Volume 1 Chapter 3

Before the door of the quiet White Horse Temple, only the young man’s call echoed.

“He went to challenge the Temple indeed.” Yu Long was shocked, though he’d already guessed as much.

The big man and his peers were also surprised by his courage.

The nine national clans were in the top tier of the whole world; only a few people had relationships with them, let alone challenged them.

Though the two monks had cultivated their hearts for a long time and few things could make them care, they were stunned by this young man’s request.

“Sorry, our temple is a place of meditation, not for killing and fights. And we have no interest in the martial world’s compet.i.tions; almsgiver, you’d better leave now,” one of the monks said after a while.

The young man looked at their faces and said, “You are not good enough to fight with me. Call Doukong out.”

“Uncle Doukong is studying the principles of Buddhism; he has no time to welcome visitors. I am sorry.”

“I’ll give you half an hour.”

“Almsgiver. . . ” The two approached him.

The inner strength of the young man came out as a wave toward the two monks, and their faces changed when their bodies were flung up and back. They had to use their own strength to steady themselves. Their feet dug out two deep ditches into the ground. When they stopped, they found the young man’s strength was like a huge wall between them which forbade them from going forward even one step.

“What a deep inner cultivation!” They exchanged a glance and their expressions turned more serious upon realizing the gravity of the issue.

They got the sense that this was not a matter they could settle themselves.

“Let me go.” One of the monks went into the temple.

Before the door of the temple, the visitors and martial artists were loitering in a circle, keen to see how the drama played out, but they kept a distance from the young man. The visitors in the temple saw more than a hundred people follow the young man outside; they were afraid to leave. Inside and outside the door, they left an empty s.p.a.ce of about nine hundred square meters for the young man.

After about fifteen minutes, an old monk came out with ten more young monks following him.

“Abbot Sishen!” some people yelled. The audience were in an uproar when they saw him.

The old monk had a benign face, with a string of white beads hanging from his neck; he boasted a short white beard and square face.

“Merciful Buddha!” The abbot saluted the audience, with his right hand lifted before his chest. And he said to the visitors in the temple, “Almsgivers, leave us if you have finished your lessons for today.”

The visitors took a look at the young man outside; some of them tried to sneak past and they succeeded. Then, one by one, they left. But they still dared not go near the young man.

 “Little almsgiver, would you like to come in and have a talk?” The abbot stretched out his hand to welcome the young man. He was highly respected not only in the world of martial arts, but in the study of Buddhism as well; his kindness was revered by everyone.

But the young man rejected his good intention. “Where is Doukong?”

“Little almsgiver, we welcome everyone to discuss the deep truths of Buddhism. If you want to compete in martial arts, please find somewhere else,” the abbot said, shaking his head.

“Don’t waste our time, old monk. After half an hour, if I don’t see Doukong, I will take away the stele of your temple.”

“Rude boy! How dare you act so willfully at our temple?” a monk wearing nothing to cover his chest came out to roar at him.

The monk was strong, with muscles like a stone or bronze sculpture.

The stele was the most important thing to a temple. Though they were indifferent to fame and wealth, the monks wouldn’t allow anyone to take it away from them.

Not only the monk stood out, but even the abbot himself had his eyebrows twisted for a moment.

“Little almsgiver, why do you force us again and again? There are many good martial artists in the world. You should go challenge them instead of us.” The abbot was still trying to persuade him.

But indeed, he had correctly guessed that the young man would not give up by listening to his words.

“Pinseng Doukong, invite the little almsgiver to our temple to have a chat.” One monk stepped out, quick as a bolt of lightning.

This monk was about thirty, good-looking, with an elegant att.i.tude usually reserved for outside folk. 

The young man looked up, to confront what lay before him. Doukong was surprised, but then smiled. He walked toward the young man, and though the Qi around the young man was like a wall which didn’t permit the two monks to cross, Doukong walked through it without any difficulty.

“Great! You are qualified to fight me.” The young man nodded, lifting the sword in his hand.

In the Fighting Hall of the temple.

About ten monks were standing at the edge of the hall; the abbot and his followers stood under the tablet engraved with the words “Fighting Hall.”

This was the place where the monks studied and practiced martial arts.

Some outside martial artists came to watch the compet.i.tion and the temple did not refuse them entry. They were sitting around the hall.

In the middle of the hall stood the young man and Doukong.

The young man was holding his sword with his right hand. He slightly pushed it into the ground and the ground cracked. The scabbard, lodged into the ground, stood all on its own. The young man slowly drew his sword.

“Little almsgiver, we are learning the art from each other, so no need to fight to death. Why not put your sword back in its scabbard?” Doukong’s face turned grave.

“No need to babble such meaningless tripe,” the young man answered rudely.

Clang!

The sword fully left the scabbard and the young man rushed at Doukong with a strong strength surrounding him.

 “What an arrogant young man!” Some of the audience chatted with each other, shaking their heads to show their discontent.

“The White Horse Temple is one of the nine national clans. Though the monks seldom fight with others, their martial art is deep and comprehensive. I don’t think this guy will win.”

“But this young man certainly has a good cultivation, so who knows. . . ”

During their conversation, the young man had flown up with his sword, slicing at Doukong.