Volume One: The Young Monk Returns to the Secular World Chapter Forty: Some Kind of Pavilion, Some Kind of Tower

At that moment, footsteps sounded from behind.

“Indeed, that was a formidable trap. I nearly fell for it myself,” came the abbot’s voice from the rear. He emerged slowly from the outhouse.

His expression was grave, as if pondering some weighty matter.

“Abbot, you mean…” Elder Huiren stared at him in astonishment, never expecting that even an abbot with twenty-five levels of inner strength would praise the mechanism’s ingenuity.

“Fortunately, I have mastered the art of ‘Walking on Water’,” the abbot said, patting Elder Huiren on the shoulder.

When Zhuge Yixiu heard those words, he couldn’t help but picture the abbot standing atop a pool of filth, not sinking in, then leaping lightly and returning to the outhouse.

This could hardly be called walking on water—it was more like walking on… well, something else entirely!

“But, Abbot, the most cunning part of this trap is that, even if you managed to escape, you were left without any paper!” Zhuge Yixiu’s sharp gaze cut straight to the heart of the matter.

The abbot discreetly withdrew his hand from Elder Huiren’s shoulder just as Zhuge Yixiu finished speaking, though not before he had furtively wiped it several times.

...

The atmosphere became awkward in the extreme.

Even if he had been slow to react before, Elder Huiren understood now.

Damn it! The abbot had wiped his hand, and on the old monk’s own robes no less, cleaning away the traces of filth…

“Zhuge Yixiu, you blockhead…” Elder Huiren erupted in rage, yanking his wayward disciple by the ear. Of course, he dared not direct his anger at the abbot, so he could only unleash it on the ever-composed Zhuge Yixiu.

“Don’t blame me, blame that Xiao Yan—he’s the real mastermind here.” Zhuge Yixiu was always shrewd; even when selling out his companions, he did so with composure.

But as they mentioned that name, they realized the little rascal had vanished—taking with him the silver coins from the outhouse!

...

Jinshan City was a prosperous metropolis. Even before dawn, the streets bustled with life, and vendors lined both sides of the road.

From time to time, young men from wealthy families, their clothes askew, would emerge from a resplendent building nearby, looking thoroughly spent—no doubt after a night’s campaign of “not returning until the fortress fell,” they had barely rested before hurrying home.

Passersby would occasionally glance up at the building, where a prominent golden sign hung above the entrance, bearing the ambiguous name: “Something Green, Something House.”

Yes, that was its name.

In the quiet morning, the stage that usually hosted exotic dancers was instead occupied by an old storyteller. Only a handful of young gentlemen, still hungover, lingered below, sipping tea as they waited for the fog of drink to lift before heading home.

No one came for the stories.

The storyteller, however, was perceptive. He kept his voice low, knowing full well the House had only invited him to fill the stage—whether he drew an audience was of little consequence.

“Ladies and gentlemen, today I won’t recite any of those tired, well-trodden tales. Instead, I’ll speak of recent great events at the Jinshan Monastery!” the old man announced, setting aside his book as inspiration struck.

A young hero, having just found a seat, paused for a moment upon hearing this, but soon recovered and settled in.

“Jinshan Monastery? What could possibly happen in a monastery that’s worth telling?” a plump young man, dressed like a noble, scowled and shouted.

“Exactly! What’s so interesting about a bunch of bald monks? You’d do better to tell yesterday’s tale, that ‘Something Golden, Something Plum’ story… that was more to my taste! Heh heh…” another bald merchant muttered.

The storyteller looked momentarily flustered. He’d tossed aside his book—should he pick it up and revert to the old stories?

But he was no stranger to such scenes. Regaining his composure, he pressed on, “Ladies and gentlemen, have you ever heard of Da Vinci? If not, surely you know of Master Chen the Uncarved from the Chen Sword Sect? Both these figures met their match at Jinshan Monastery…”

He deliberately dropped the names of two legends known throughout the martial world, then squinted to gauge his audience’s reaction.

Sure enough, many of the men seemed to sober up, some even sitting upright.

Anyone frequenting such a place was not lacking in money, but in power and status. Thus, tales of heroes and warriors were what they truly craved.

The storyteller chuckled lightly and fell silent, watching the crowd with a smile that was difficult to describe—almost idiotically cheerful.

“You old fox, you really know how to keep us in suspense! Here, take these coins—give us a good story, and there’s more where that came from!” The bald merchant, shrewd as ever, tossed a handful of silver onto the floor.

“Very well.” The old man beamed, pocketing the coins before clearing his throat and beginning, “Of late, the martial world has been calm, yet one place has been rocked by an earth-shattering storm.”

“It all began with a nobody—a man named Xiao Yan.”

The storyteller’s cadence rose and fell, making his tale compelling. Yet the crowd of idle gentlemen was not so easily swayed, and they protested, “What nonsense is this? Who cares about Xiao Yan? Never heard of him. Don’t go spinning tall tales just because you’ve been paid… We want heroes! Tell us about Chen the Uncarved!”

“But don’t you know? Chen the Uncarved was defeated by Xiao Yan! I heard he broke three ribs!” The storyteller, seeing their reaction, dropped a bombshell, holding up three fingers for emphasis.

“That’s impossible! You shouldn’t say such things—if the Chen Sword Sect hears, you’ll be in serious trouble…” the bald merchant warned, shaking his head.

“Yes, risking your life for a few coins isn’t worth it…” another young noble chimed in.

“It’s true!” the old man insisted. “A wandering hero told me himself, and I witnessed it yesterday when passing by the Chen Sword Sect. You can’t imagine the scene—filth everywhere! Chen the Uncarved was covered head to toe, and I could smell it from a distance.”

“That can’t be! Chen the Uncarved is a master—he could even take on the abbot of Jinshan Monastery.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Did you know someone has already conquered the Eighteen Arhat Formation at Jinshan Monastery? That alone is worthy of the history books. And, as it happens, the one who succeeded was also named Xiao Yan.”