Volume One: The Young Monk Returns to the Secular World Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Martial World Games

This was an ultimate killing move that could not be evaded!

Die, you weakling!

Yet, the opponent, whose internal power was only at the seventh level, did something utterly unimaginable—a movement Chen Budiao knew all too well.

The opening stance of the Chen Sword Technique—Swallow’s Return.

The Ash Sword spun around the Dung-Scooper Treasure once, then soared into the sky, and, as if a fiery phoenix, the mass atop the Dung-Scooper Treasure came crashing down upon him…

Amid the chorus of screams from the crowd, Chen Buqun seemed to be calling out to him, though his voice trembled with panic…

With his eyes narrowed to mere slits, he saw the faint curl of Xiao Yan’s lips, mouthing words at him: “Eat shit…”

“Why… why…”

Chen Budiao raised his head in a final, anguished cry, before a wave of unbearable heat overwhelmed him and he fainted dead away…

…

The sun was setting; the evening glow bathed Golden Mountain Monastery in red. The assembly bell rang out, and countless monks hurried toward the Hall of the Arhats. The Arhat Hall of Golden Mountain Monastery.

Elder Hui Ren was gathering the Eighteen Arhats, preparing to head out. Xiao Yan stood in the center of the crowd.

He gave the Dung-Scooper Treasure in his hand a casual twirl, causing the martial artists watching to take several steps back in fright.

“Take this to the river and wash it…” Xiao Yan beckoned Lin Dong over and spoke in a low voice.

“Uh… Master, what about him?” Lin Dong ran over, pointing at Chen Budiao, who lay on the ground covered head to toe in excrement.

“Bury him. He reeks…” Xiao Yan glanced over and replied coolly.

“Uh…” Lin Dong was stunned, so shocked he nearly dropped the Dung-Scooper Treasure.

“I’m joking—he’ll live.” Xiao Yan glanced around, then fixed his gaze on Chen Buqun. “You, take your brother away. Quickly.”

“Oh…” Chen Buqun seemed not to have fully processed the situation, responding absentmindedly without moving. After all, his brother was now a man of excrement—where was he supposed to start?

Seeing this, Xiao Yan didn’t push further. He turned his attention to the gathering of martial artists.

“Anyone else wants to challenge me?” Xiao Yan took a step forward, his tone cold and indifferent.

The martial artists shook their heads so vigorously it seemed their necks might snap.

Who would dare! Even the renowned master Chen Budiao had been turned into a man of filth by him. And even if someone could defeat him, they’d risk the same fate. What would be the point?

Only a fool would face him now.

Imagine it: “So-and-so the Great Hero fought Xiao Yan of Golden Mountain Monastery for eight hundred rounds, and in the end, as a man of excrement, prevailed.” Such a tale would be the laughingstock of the martial world.

“Oh? So you’ve all come to Golden Mountain Monastery just to experience our five-star latrines? You’re most welcome.”

Xiao Yan’s lips curled into a gentle, genial smile as he greeted them.

But none of these martial artists were fools; the threat was as plain as day.

Either pay up to use the latrine, or be turned into a man of excrement.

What choice was there?

A glance around revealed a shared resignation in everyone’s eyes—there was no choice at all.

Who would willingly become a walking disgrace?

In the martial world, reputation was everything. To be humiliated before so many heroes would mean being a laughingstock for life.

…

The next moment, dozens of so-called heroes bolted toward the donation box as if unleashed hounds. Some, unable to remember how many times they’d used the latrine, threw all their belongings into the box just to be safe.

…

“Hey! You there, master, keep your underwear on… Put it back on, quickly!” Xiao Yan frowned, pointing at an old man who had stripped naked, about to toss his undergarments into the box as well.

The old man’s face flushed crimson. Abandoning his underwear, he turned and fled down the mountain.

“Good grief…” Xiao Yan shook his head and muttered, “What a bunch of idiots…”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Elder Hui Ren arrived with the Eighteen Arhats. He hadn’t even reached the crowd before shouting, “Who dares make trouble at Golden Mountain Monastery!”

But as he surveyed the chaos before him, with martial artists stripping and throwing their clothes into a box, he was utterly dumbfounded.

A monk had rushed over earlier to warn him, so he’d brought reinforcements…

But now…

“Where’s Chen Budiao, Hero Chen?” Elder Hui Ren looked at the scattered mess, then at the martial artists undressing, and scratched his bald head in confusion.

Had the world gone mad? Were heroes now into streaking?

“Junior Hui Ming, where’s Chen Budiao?” Elder Hui Ren soon spotted Elder Hui Ming nearby and hurried over to ask.

Elder Hui Ming pointed to the “man of excrement” being carried down the mountain by Chen Buqun. “That’s him…”

Elder Hui Ren thought Hui Ming must have misheard, so he repeated, “I’m looking for Chen Budiao…”

Elder Hui Ming looked at Hui Ren, then solemnly pointed again at the excrement-covered figure and nodded with grave certainty.

Elder Hui Ren was at a loss. He looked at the martial artists joining the streaking parade, then at Lin Dong washing the Dung-Scooper Treasure by the stream, and his mind simply could not process it.

What had happened? Wasn’t a great battle supposed to break out? Weren’t there supposed to be casualties?

Why did it all look so harmonious… was this a sports meet?

“Elder Hui Ming?” Elder Hui Ren probed hesitantly.

“Xiao Yan!” Elder Hui Ming didn’t bother explaining; he simply pointed at the little monk not far away, who was humming a tune.

With that, Elder Hui Ming sat down cross-legged, beginning to heal his internal injuries, ignoring Elder Hui Ren.

He had, after all, been injured in his bout with Chen Budiao.

Elder Hui Ren could only shake his head and look toward the little monk humming his strange tune as he strolled over: “Three circles to the left… three circles to the right… let’s all exercise together…”

The onlookers found it baffling.

“Is that a sword technique chant?” the blunt Arhat with the pagoda asked, puzzled.

No one answered.

“Xiao Yan!” Elder Hui Ren called out, “What exactly happened here?”

Xiao Yan paused, shrugged, and spread his hands. “Nothing much happened… what could have happened?”

“And Chen Budiao? Who injured him?”

Elder Hui Ren asked, glancing at the excrement-covered figure.

“Oh, that guy? I did,” Xiao Yan replied honestly.

“You… A monk does not lie,” Elder Hui Ren said sternly.

He had sparred with Chen Budiao a year ago, when he himself was at the twenty-fifth level of internal power and Chen Budiao at the nineteenth—he had barely won.

How could someone like Xiao Yan possibly handle such a master?

Elder Hui Ren didn’t believe it for a second. Still, knowing Xiao Yan’s eccentricity, he didn’t press the matter and went to ask someone else.

“Zhuge Yixiu, what exactly happened?” His gaze found the unruffled figure of Zhuge Yixiu amid the crowd.

In truth, Zhuge Yixiu hadn’t witnessed the duel—he’d only arrived later to watch the spectacle. But being Zhuge Yixiu, legendary for his composure, he instantly donned the mantle of detective and pieced together the likely sequence of events.

“Master, it must have been like this: Hero Chen Budiao used the latrine but refused to pay for paper, trying to pass off a stone as silver. He triggered the mechanism inside and fell into the pit,” Zhuge Yixiu deduced, his eyes gleaming with insight.

“But Hero Chen Budiao is an experienced veteran—ordinary traps shouldn’t work on him,” Elder Hui Ren mused, stroking his beard.

“This was no ordinary mechanism, Master. I designed it myself, with some insignificant help from Xiao Yan. But that’s beside the point—the important thing is, theoretically, unless your internal power exceeds twenty levels, there’s no escaping. If you don’t believe me, Master, would you care to try it yourself?” Zhuge Yixiu maintained his air of absolute composure.

Elder Hui Ren froze, his gaze turning unfriendly. If even Hero Chen Budiao, at twenty levels of internal power, could fall in, and this shameless disciple was suggesting he give it a go—what were his motives?

Still, he didn’t doubt the effectiveness of the mechanism. Even if he didn’t fully trust this staid, portly disciple, he believed in the unpredictable cunning of Xiao Yan—after all, this was the genius who had crafted the Dung-Scooper Treasure and concocted excrement ash just to get through the Eighteen Arhat Formation.

At last, the ever-shrewd Elder Hui Ren nodded in satisfaction, glad to have gotten to the bottom of things.

As the sun set, Xiao Yan returned to the meditation hall, carrying a large chest of gleaming silver…