Volume Two: Inheriting the Legacy, Brocade Robes Stained with Blood Chapter 124: Clearing the Scriptures

Yang Ning felt a mix of annoyance and, more significantly, astonishment.

He knew that the young monk Zhenming’s martial arts were far superior to his own. That backward somersault just now had been as light and effortless as a cloud—a feat Yang Ning could never hope to replicate. He had originally dismissed the boy as an ordinary, frail novice, but he realized he had been sorely mistaken; the young monk’s prowess was truly formidable.

The young monk was not only agile and powerful but also possessed astonishing speed. Yang Ning’s own combat skills were by no means weak, yet he hadn't even had time to react under the boy’s hands.

"Junior Brother Ning, shall we go perform our noon lessons?" the young monk Zhenming asked again.

Yang Ning realized he had encountered a formidable character. Not only was the boy strong, but he was also incredibly stubborn, treating his master’s words as imperial decrees. If he were to act tough now, he would likely only suffer more.

Yang Ning understood the wisdom of "a gentleman takes his revenge after ten years" and, more importantly, "a wise man knows when to yield." He climbed to his feet, brushed off his clothes, and asked, "Tell me, little... little Senior Brother, where did you learn these skills of yours?"

"They were taught to me by my master," Zhenming replied.

Yang Ning gave a thumbs-up. "It seems your master must be a remarkable person, and you clearly have great talent. Your martial arts seem even a bit better than mine."

"Junior Brother Ning, have you ever studied martial arts before?" Zhenming asked. "Your skills do not seem very good."

Yang Ning cursed inwardly, thinking, *You damn monk, why do you have to poke at my sore spot? So you’re better at martial arts—do you have to be so brutally honest?* Despite his frustration, he forced a smile. "You are right, little Senior Brother. I haven't practiced much... By the way, are you naturally gifted with great strength? I saw that you were incredibly strong just now."

Zhenming looked puzzled. "Is my strength great? I wouldn't know. My master brought me up the mountain when I was very young, and I have lived here with him ever since. I remember that when I was six, Master began teaching me the *Qing Jing Sutra*. I practiced according to its verses, and since then, my strength has grown day by day, and my body has become light as a swallow!"

"Wait!" Yang Ning immediately raised a hand to stop him, his eyes widening. "What did you say? Your strength and your ability to tumble are... because you practiced the *Qing Jing Sutra*?"

"Yes," Zhenming said. "Why do you ask, Junior Brother Ning?"

Yang Ning grabbed the young monk by the arm and laughed. "Little Senior Brother, why do you only tell half the story? You should have just said that the *Qing Jing Sutra* can be used to practice martial arts."

Yang Ning had assumed the *Qing Jing Sutra* was just an ordinary Buddhist text and had no interest in studying it. But hearing this, he realized it was likely something extraordinary. He knew this world was filled with strange experts and formidable masters. While his own combat techniques were refined, using them against such people would lead to a pathetic end. Seeing this young boy easily toy with him showed that his own skills were insignificant in this world. To survive, he had to become stronger. If this sutra could truly improve his martial arts, he would certainly study it diligently.

Zhenming looked blankly at him. "The *Qing Jing Sutra* can be used to practice martial arts? I didn't know that." He added, "However, practicing it does make learning martial arts twice as effective. Master said the sutra not only clears the mind and cultivates energy but also opens the meridians. He also said this sutra must never be taught to others, though I don't know why he wants me to teach it to you now."

Yang Ning paused, thinking, *If this sutra can clear the meridians, could learning its verses help me heal my own injuries?*

Zhenming pressed his palms together and walked out of the courtyard. He looked back, and this time, Yang Ning followed obediently. The young monk walked to the side of a massive bell and sat cross-legged on a rock by the cliff. The rock was polished as smooth as a mirror, clearly from years of people sitting there.

Across from this rock was another, equally smooth. Yang Ning figured the master and disciple must have been meditating there for years. He didn't stand on ceremony, sat down opposite Zhenming, and smiled. "Little Senior Brother, do you both practice here?"

"The energy here is pure, which is very beneficial for cultivation," Zhenming answered honestly. "I have been practicing here with Master since I was six."

"No wonder your martial arts are so formidable," Yang Ning said, giving a thumbs-up. "Little Senior Brother, I suspect your skills must be top-tier here at the Great Bright Temple."

Zhenming immediately shook his head. "No, no. There are many brothers in the temple, and they are all better than me."

Yang Ning was shocked. He thought about how the monk had mentioned there were four or five hundred monks in the temple. If everyone else was stronger than this boy, what kind of terrifying place was the Great Bright Temple? He couldn't help but ask, "Have you fought or sparred with them? How do you know their skills are all better than yours?"

The young monk was stunned for a moment before replying, "I have never fought anyone. I usually only spar with Master. In the Great Bright Temple, studying Buddhism is first, and martial arts is second; all disciples must train."

Yang Ning breathed a sigh of relief. "If you haven't sparred with them, how can you be sure they are all better?"

The young monk scratched his bald head. "I am dull-witted, and my progress is slow. I haven't been training for long, so the others must be better than me."

"Little Senior Brother, you said not to speak falsely, yet here you are, merely guessing," Yang Ning sighed. "Without sparring, you can't judge who is better. You might be dull-witted, but perhaps there are others even duller whose progress is even slower. Don't go around saying everyone is better than you; if people actually believed you, it would be terrifying!"

"Why would it be terrifying?" the young monk wondered aloud. "But I suppose I am guessing, so I was wrong. Within the Great Bright Temple, there shouldn't... shouldn't be anyone duller than me." He paused. "Every year, the temple holds a Martial Dharma Assembly, and all the monks attend. I have watched my brothers spar; their skills are truly exquisite, and I feel inferior."

"Then why didn't you participate?" Yang Ning asked. "If you entered the ring, you might not lose to them."

He wasn't just buttering the boy up; he had been easily defeated by him. If this boy were the worst in the temple, then anyone could step on Yang Ning. The thought was depressing. He needed to prove that Zhenming was actually talented to feel better about his own situation. But the young monk was oblivious, continuing his humble act. Yang Ning felt a flare of irritation, wishing he could throw a rock at that bald head.

Unaware of Yang Ning's inner turmoil, the monk added fuel to the fire: "Only those who are very skilled are allowed to spar at the assembly. My skills are insufficient, so I cannot participate. Besides, I am Master’s only disciple, and he has warned me not to contend with others, especially not with my brothers in the temple. That is why he has never let me enter."

"So it's not that your skills are lacking, but that your master won't let you participate," Yang Ning concluded, then asked in surprise, "Your master only has one disciple?"

The young monk nodded. "Yes. Apart from the Abbot, all the high monks of the 'Jing' generation have their own disciples. The other uncles have at least twenty or thirty each. Only Master has taken me as his sole disciple." He looked at Yang Ning and added, "But since Master asked me to teach you the *Qing Jing Sutra*, he must be preparing to take you as his disciple."

Yang Ning thought for a moment and asked, "Little Senior Brother, have you heard of the Shaolin Temple?" The temple he was most familiar with was Shaolin; in many books, it was the pillar of the martial arts world. He wondered if it existed in this world.

"Shaolin Temple?" the young monk asked curiously. "What kind of place is that?"

Yang Ning thought it impossible for him not to know Shaolin. "It is the greatest temple in the world. Like your Great Bright Temple, it has many warrior monks. How does the saying go... ah, yes: 'All martial arts under heaven originate from Shaolin.' Have you heard that?"

The young monk shook his head. "I have not. But as far as I know, the Great Bright Temple has always been the number one temple in the world."

Yang Ning laughed. "Perhaps you don't go down the mountain enough. Your Great Bright Temple only has a few hundred people; it can't really be called a 'great' temple. True great temples have thousands of followers. Compared to them, the Great Bright Temple still has a long way to go."

"Then I am indeed ignorant," the young monk said earnestly. "Master has never mentioned Shaolin to me, so I do not know of it." He murmured, "But if it were the greatest temple, Master would have told me. He has spoken of dozens of famous temples, and I remember them clearly—but never Shaolin." He fell silent for a moment before saying, "When Master returns, I will ask him. Junior Brother Ning, do you know how to circulate your energy?"

"Circulate energy?" Yang Ning frowned. "You mean breathing?"

The young monk thought for a moment. "It is like breathing, but... also quite different. Circulating energy is the foundation of martial arts. Only by circulating energy throughout the body can one move freely and have abundant strength!" He paused. "The *Qing Jing Sutra* teaches how to regulate breath and circulate energy."

Yang Ning was now certain the sutra was a martial arts manual for energy cultivation. Duan Canghai had previously said that his problem was having too much internal energy trapped within him without the method to circulate it, leaving him unable to harness it. It was as if someone had brought him an umbrella just as it started to rain—exactly what he needed.