Volume One: Flames of War on the Frontier Chapter Thirty-Eight: Master Faxian

Deng’er knew He Yu was joking. The Chen family stronghold relied heavily on her husband, so how could he simply leave at a whim? She pressed her lips together in a smile and said nothing more.

The two ascended the secret passage, step by step, until they reached the cave entrance. He Yu blocked the opening with a stone slab, tugged the rope that hung from the summit, and began to climb. Reaching the mountaintop, he hauled Deng’er up after him. Together, they found a concealed spot to hide the rope for future use.

He Yu thought to himself: “This paradise is truly a world apart, but getting in and out is terribly inconvenient. I must find a way to improve it, though I can’t let anyone else know.” After pondering a while without a solution, he let the matter drop.

Laughing and chatting, the two made their way down the mountain. The white horse spotted them, raised its hooves, and neighed toward the sky. Deng’er, feeling guilty, gently stroked its mane and said, “Dear horse, I’m so sorry for leaving you here alone. You must be hungry, but I’ll take you to graze now.” The white horse, intelligent as it was, affectionately nuzzled Deng’er with its neck.

He Yu untied the reins and let the horse graze in the forest for a while before leading it down the mountain. As the pair and their horse reached the foot of the mountain, they heard a carriage racing toward them. The carriage, drawn by two horses, thundered along the road, wheels rumbling. Riding alongside were five warriors, each dressed as a fighter.

He Yu was surprised: “It’s nearly noon—what are armed men doing in this remote region? Could they threaten the Chen stronghold?” The carriage was heading away from the stronghold, and the warriors’ attire was unlike that of the stronghold’s men or the Yanmen garrison—they looked more like brigands.

While he considered this, the carriage drew near. He Yu pulled Deng’er aside, and in a flash recognized the drivers as the two ferocious Han brothers, with whom he’d previously quarreled. Their vicious faces were memorable; he recognized them instantly.

Over the past half year, He Yu’s hair had grown out, and his attire had become much more refined—his appearance had changed greatly. The Han brothers, galloping by, failed to recognize him.

The mounted warriors, seeing a young couple at the roadside—the man handsome and refined, the woman of rare beauty—couldn’t help but stare. One of them muttered some crude remarks, causing the others to laugh uproariously, paying He Yu no mind.

He Yu was furious. To insult Deng’er so brazenly! He reached for his great sword, ready to act. Just then, a faint, lovely moan drifted from within the carriage—the voice of a young maiden.

The Han brothers were notorious; to snatch a girl in broad daylight and now to harass Deng’er—intolerable! He Yu pulled Deng’er onto the white horse, intending to pursue and punish them. At that moment, the sound of approaching hooves was heard, and a gaunt, elderly monk rode up.

The monk was tall, his robe simple, his brows kind, his eyes clear, his face exuding solemn dignity. “Villains, stop! Return my disciple! Villains, stop! Return my disciple!” he shouted anxiously as he pursued.

“Heh, you persistent old bald donkey! I’ll send you to your next life!” Two of the brigands, hearing the shout, drew their blades, wheeled their horses, and charged at the old monk.

The three horses met. The monk, skilled in riding, dodged the first blade, but the second seemed impossible to evade.

In that critical instant, He Yu drew his great blade and intercepted the attack. With a crunch, the brigand’s sword snapped in two. The other, seeing this, swung his blade furiously at He Yu.

He Yu smiled coldly, thrusting his sword with lightning speed—faster than the attacker. The blade pierced straight through the brigand’s back; with a scream, the man fell dead from his horse. The other, his sword broken, was terrified, dropped his weapon, clung to his horse’s neck, and fled in panic.

In the blink of an eye, one was dead, the other fled. The old monk rode over, put his palms together, and recited a scripture, as if offering prayers for the dead.

When he finished, he opened his eyes, pressed his palms together toward He Yu, and said, “Amitabha. Thank you for your aid, benefactor. Yet your heart is too quick to kill—an ominous sign. You should restrain yourself.”

Since coming to this world, He Yu had grown indifferent to bloodshed. He felt no remorse for killing a villain so decisively. “This monk is absurdly pedantic—if not for me, he’d be dead already.” He had no patience to argue, so he cupped his fists and said, “Master, your lesson is well taken. I shall take my leave.”

He turned his horse to go, but the old monk called out, “Benefactor, please wait. My disciple has been abducted—this is no trivial matter. Might I ask for your assistance?”

He Yu frowned inwardly. “This old monk is unreasonable—he scolds me for killing, yet now begs me to rescue his disciple. Truly demanding.”

Deng’er, also annoyed, refused: “There are too many brigands. We likely can’t match them. Master, you’d best seek help elsewhere.”

The monk, distressed at their refusal, seemed at a loss for words. Suddenly, he dismounted and prostrated himself. “My disciple’s identity is unique. Should misfortune befall, the people here will face disaster. Benefactor, you possess great skill—for the sake of the Buddha, I beg you, please help me. I am known as Faxian, and have some small reputation…”

Clearly, he gave his name to add weight to his plea.

“Faxian?” He Yu was startled. He suddenly remembered—a renowned monk in Chinese history, Master Faxian, who at sixty-five travelled west for the Buddhist scriptures, journeyed for fourteen years through thirty kingdoms, brought back many sutras, and wrote the Record of Buddhist Kingdoms.

Faxian’s pilgrimage predated the Tang Monk’s by more than two centuries. Could this venerable monk before him truly be the famed Faxian?

He Yu quickly dismounted, helped the monk up, and asked, “Might you be Master Faxian, seeker of the Dharma in the West?”

A flicker of confusion crossed the old monk’s face. “To journey west for the Dharma has long been my wish, yet worldly affairs have kept me, and I have not yet embarked. How does benefactor know of this?”

He Yu smiled faintly, neither confirming nor denying. He turned to Deng’er and said, “My dear, stay here with Master—don’t wander off. I’ll be back soon.” Faxian was a great monk whose contributions to Chinese culture were immense; he must not be left in peril.

Deng’er, ignorant of Faxian’s renown, simply disliked meddling and disliked being left with a monk. She pouted. “No, husband, I want to go with you.”

With the brigands’ numbers unknown, He Yu would be unhampered alone, but hindered with Deng’er in tow. Caught between options, Faxian interjected, “Not far from here is a small temple—Ninefold Monastery. The abbot is an old friend. If you wish, young lady, you can rest there and wait for the benefactor’s return.”

Deng’er knew she would only be a burden if she insisted, so she relented, urging He Yu to be cautious.

Seeing Deng’er’s assent, He Yu mounted his horse and asked, “Master Faxian, I’ll go rescue your disciple. What does your disciple look like?”

Faxian replied, “My disciple is fifteen, dresses as a boy, but is truly a girl. As for her appearance… ah… she is exceedingly beautiful—impossible to mistake.”

Though over sixty, Faxian was clearly embarrassed to praise a young woman’s beauty in public. He stammered.

He Yu concealed a smile. “Master Faxian is a venerable monk, but harbors worldly thoughts—too naive. Clearly, his cultivation hasn’t reached the highest level.” Then another thought: “The people of Jin are broad-minded, but a great monk taking a female disciple is unusual. Faxian says she’s unmistakably beautiful—just how beautiful can she be? Could she compare to Deng’er?”

Speaking of beauty, none could surpass Tuo Ba Yan, whom he’d met at the horse market half a year before—her allure was unmistakable at a glance. Could Faxian’s disciple be even lovelier? Impossible! The old monk simply hasn’t seen many women and is easily astonished.

He Yu dared not delay. Urging his white horse forward, he followed the carriage tracks. The horse galloped for four or five miles, until he saw the carriage entering a narrow valley.

The valley was steep, sheer cliffs on both sides, with a single narrow path between—a treacherous place. He Yu hesitated. “If there’s an ambush in the valley and they block both ends, charging in blindly could mean death.”

Yet if he didn’t pursue, the carriage would soon vanish. Boldness matched with skill, He Yu gritted his teeth and spurred the white horse into the gorge. The brigands, seeing him pursue, whipped the carriage ahead, but dared not confront him directly.

“Villains, stop! I have words with you…” He Yu shouted as he chased, the rugged mountain road hindering his speed.

No sooner had his cry faded than a thunderous rumbling split the air. Sand and stones flew, blinding his eyes. Countless boulders and massive logs tumbled from the cliffs above.

“A trap—just as I feared.” He Yu bitterly regretted meddling. Faxian’s disciple deserved rescue, but his own life mattered more. He turned his horse to retreat, but several huge rocks crashed down, shaking the earth and blocking the path entirely.

“With the way back cut off, forward is the only option.” Years of special forces training brought He Yu’s mind to clarity: “Staying put is certain death.” In desperation, he lashed his horse forward. If he could just reach the carriage, the brigands above would hesitate to attack for fear of harming their own.

The white horse, stung, surged ahead—only for dozens of huge logs to crash down, blocking their advance.

He Yu leapt off, sword at the ready, but barely had he taken a few steps when a volley of arrows rained down. In an instant, his white horse was transformed into a pincushion, blood staining its coat as it collapsed with a pitiful scream—there was no saving it.

He Yu drew his great sword, parrying arrows as he searched for shelter—but the cliffs on both sides were sheer, leaving nowhere to hide.

“Is this where I die?” he thought. “If I die, what will become of Deng’er?”

A flood of regret and fear swept through him; in that moment, his entire half-year in this world flashed before his eyes.

Suddenly, he felt a jolt in his back—two arrows struck and fell to the ground. The impact hurt, but not terribly. Judging by the force, these were clearly fired by crossbows. Without the snake-scale vest for protection, he’d be skewered like a candied fruit.

He Yu felt like crying. Looking up, he saw only a sliver of blue sky above, with brigands darting atop the cliffs, loosing arrows.

Suddenly, darkness descended—a great net dropped from the sky, enveloping him. In the narrow pass, he couldn’t dodge, and was smothered beneath it.

Blinded, He Yu slashed and stabbed with his great sword, but only managed to cut a few small holes. The net was made of some tough, resilient material—his sharp blade was of little use.

He struggled desperately, like a trapped beast. Suddenly, a second giant net dropped over him, pinning him even more tightly.

Entangled in two nets, He Yu knew escape was impossible. “This is the end,” he thought.

A clamor of gongs rang out from the cliffs, and the brigands charged down, pinning him through the nets.

He tried to resist, but cold steel pressed to his throat. Through the mesh, he saw spearpoints and tridents.

One of the brigands shouted, “Move again and you die, little thief!”