Table of Contents
Evil Rises
Terror Unleashed
Heaven Burning
Theft of Innocence
Title Page and Acknowledgements
Also by Wesley Lowe
About the Author
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EVIL RISES
Introduction
The mysticism of ancient Chinese Shaolin martial arts fuse with contemporary electric action to give the Noah Reid Action Thrillers. The five full-length novels and prequel novella chronicles the rise to power of one of China’s most brutal gangsters, Chin Chee Fok, and his spectacular downfall by newly minted lawyer, Noah Reid. Using Chin’s illicit fortune to to aid at-risk youth, Noah battles Chin’s ruthless and psychopathic children, who are hell-bent on recovering their criminal inheritance.
This novella is the prequel to the Noah Reid series. In a simplistic world view, everything is either good or evil. It always was and always will be.
But that’s too easy and not realistic. Psychologists, behavioral scientists and our own experience tells us that evil does not just happen.
To everything there is a reason. Evil Rises is the story of how one of the most wicked men in China came to be.
It is the story before the story.
And then, a little boy that someday will become a man…
Please be warned. Many of the characters in these books are violent, immoral or depraved. Their behavior is often despicable but it is integral to the stories.
The Way of the Shaolin
The origins of Chinese martial arts go back over two thousand years. Ever-evolving, kung fu has had many influences. In addition to the physical disciplines of archery, muscle strengthening, sword fighting, boxing, dance and wrestling, there were intellectual and spiritual contributions. Military strategy, Buddhism, philosophy, astrology and health sciences all contributed to this developing way of life. Using their bodies as lethal weapons, generations of monk generals and soldiers waged battle for China with dazzling aerial acrobatics and hand weapon virtuosity. Martial arts were not at all systematized until later, and many styles emerged.
The mystical, spiritual and physical way of Shaolin kung fu appeared around AD 500. One of its founders was a monk who spent nine years meditating in a cave. When he came out, he initiated Chan, or Zen Buddhism, which emphasizes meditation as the means to enlightenment. However, long periods of meditation led to monks being weak and unhealthy. To counter this, they explored forms, techniques, nature and spirituality.
One select group focused on the Tiger, Crane, Snake, Leopard and Dragon—the Five Animal Styles of Shaolin kung fu were born. Many believed that when they adopted the appellation of an animal, it was not simply symbolic but that the power and psyche of the creature melded into them. For centuries, only the most devout adherents knew the secrets of Shaolin, passing it on from generation to generation, maintaining strict physical and spiritual discipline.
Today, many neglect the spiritual side of the Shaolin. Even worse, some fall away, using only the physical martial arts for their own evil purposes.
But there is a remnant of the true Shaolin. Deeply spiritual warriors grounded in a tradition of honor wage epic battles—sometimes for the sake of a single person and sometimes for the sake of a generation.
Ancient and modern clash and collide in the Noah Reid Action Thriller Series. Feats bordering on the supernatural. Barbarous cruelty... and yet with a twisted shred of honor.
To the committed, the spirit of animals flows ever strong. In the late twentieth century, one renegade Shaolin monk turned Triad leader chose the Tiger as his avatar. The tiger is ferocious, agile and one of the most powerful animals in Chinese astrology. Subtlety is not the tiger’s forte. It attacks with brute force and with relentless energy; it overwhelms its opponents. Totally Type A in personality, the tiger is driven, goal-oriented, focused and diligent. It will do anything to be the king of the lair, the top of the food chain.
Woe to those who stand in his way.
Chapter 1
Sixty Years Ago
There was a tiny village nestled in the craggy mountainous terrain of the Fujian Province. Because it was so hard to get to, civilization and Communism didn’t pay too much attention to it. People were farmers, grew rice, tea and sugar cane, but no one was rich. After all, farming in an area that was “eight parts mountain, one part water and one part farmland” was not a recipe for economic success. Most of the villagers lived in one of the several tulou, or giant earth huts, each of which housed about one-hundred-fifty members from a family clan. Life was simple and sleepy.
But that didn’t mean it was boring. People delighted in fishing in the small rice paddies or singing Chinese opera with a whiny, nasally twang. In the last couple of months, a backsliding Shaolin martial artist appeared. No one in the hamlet knew his real name but, with a daily consumption of at least two of the most wicked and foul-smelling bottles of moonshine this side of the Pacific, it was easy to see how he got the moniker of “the drunk.”
Everyone called him that.
Everyone, that is, except for twelve-year-old Wudan. To Wudan, the drunk was a man of exceptional power. After all, he was a martial arts master who could break boards with his head and leap almost five feet from a standing position. Rumor had it that the drunk never had to buy food because he hunted bears and wild boars, killing them with his bare hands.
For the few moments he was sober, it was obvious from the way he talked that he was a man of exceptional learning. His knowledge of Scriptures was phenomenal, and he must have been part of an exceptional monastery.
But when he left, he really left. No more ascetic life for him. The drunk drank too much, partied too much and womanized too much.
And one more thing: he was one helluva martial artist, and that’s what fascinated Wudan.
The village tough tried to hit on a very cute seventeen-year-old peasant girl and, when she resisted, he slapped her to the ground.
“That is not allowed,” yelled the drunk as he dispatched the hooligan with a rapid fire combination of fists and legs to the hooligan’s head and torso.
“Do it again,” cried Wudan, who had also been the bully’s victim.
The drunk beckoned the wannabe bruiser to come at him. “Come on, come on, come on, you fat, stupid and ugly warthog.”
Incensed, the would-be warrior pulled two knives from his pockets. Waving them in the air, one in each hand like a windmill gone berserk, he flew at the drunk, screaming, “You useless old man. You have insulted me for the last time.”
The drunk stood his ground. When the punk arrived, the apostate monk quickly jumped into the air. To Wudan, it seemed like the drunk leapt higher than a house. As the drunk descended, he kicked at the thug’s legs and the swirling knives, knocking them out of the punk’s hands.
The drunk landed behind the young man, who whipped around and challenged the monk to battle.
The drunk merely rolled his eyes as the fool charged at him.
At the last possible millisecond, the drunk stepped aside and delivered an elbow to the head of his assailant.
The attacker buckled, and then the rest of the tough’s gang showed up.
It was comical and pathetic to watch this drunken martial artist as he dispatched the three gang members so easily.
The drunk belched, then swished his arms to the pose of a Ti
ger and leapt at his first attacker. Two hammer fists later, the thug lay sprawled out on the ground.
As the next victim rushed at him, the drunk spread his arms out like a Crane with a huge wingspan. When the dupe arrived, a quick clapping of the drunk’s arms together on the temples knocked his prey out.
Seeing their comrades so easily dispatched sent the rest of the gang running in retreat.
“Teach me, Sifu. Teach me everything,” cried Wudan.
“Not now. Maybe not ever. I’m busy.” The monk pinched the bum of the young girl now deserted by the gang. She, like Wudan, was also captivated by the performance.
The girl tittered and gave the monk a kiss. He looked at her very seriously. “Hung Gar, the Tiger and Crane system, has other ways to be useful. Do you want a personal private demonstration?”
The girl nodded enthusiastically and locked her arm in the drunk’s.
The monk winked at the boy. “If you want to learn, I cannot teach you. You must go to the ends of the Earth. You must go to Heaven.”
The boy began to cry. “I’m too young. I don’t want to die to learn these tricks.”
The monk released the girl, dashed up and grabbed the boy. He tossed him ten feet in the air, then ran and caught him.
The monk slapped him. “These are not tricks. This is part of the Way. Anyone can beat someone else up, but to truly be a master of the Shaolin, you must dedicate yourself to training, to the life of Heaven. Heaven is not a place where you go when you die. It is a secret monastery in the Yellow Mountains.”
“How do I find it?” Wudan asked.
“You must go to Shaolin Paradise in Shanghai.”
“And they will teach me there?”
“No,” said the monk. “That is the start of your journey.”
“I have never been anywhere but our village.”
The monk nodded. “To get to Heaven will be your first lesson.”
“Then I will go to Shanghai.”
“When you get there, ask for Sigong Zhang.”
***
“You cannot change my mind. I am leaving tomorrow,” Wudan told his mother and father that night over supper.
“That is foolishness.”
“I am twelve years old. I am a man now. I can do whatever I want.”
“If you leave, you will never come back. You may get captured and sold into slavery. You may starve to death.”
“Better to die trying than never to try at all,” said the boy, wise beyond his years.
“We will never have grandchildren if you do this,” the boy’s father said sadly.
“You will have no need of grandchildren. I will have more influence than a thousand sons and grandsons. Our name will live forever.”
That night, the boy’s mother cried herself to sleep.
She and her husband never saw their son again because Wudan left before sunrise.
***
Too poor for any other mode of transportation, Wudan walked barefoot for six hundred arduous miles to Shanghai. With no money, he learned to be resourceful: To eat plants and bark or the leftover scraps from a banquet; to sleep in an open field or in the home of a stranger. He didn’t mind—this was the adventure that would transform his life.
After six weeks, he arrived in Shanghai and found Shaolin Paradise.
It was amazing! There were monks everywhere doing the same kinds of tricks the drunk so impressed Wudan with. Breaking boards with their heads, running and leaping over a dozen prostrate monks… but there was something else, too. In another part of Paradise, there were people meditating and studying Scripture. At supper, he walked to the communal hall and joined in. Nobody asked him for money, but nobody wanted to associate with him, either.
This went on for a few days and then, on the fourth day, Wudan began to notice little things. Some of the students were not performing their exercises particularly well. This was understandable, but what was not was that their masters were not correcting them. In the library, while most students were diligent, there were a few who slept or doodled on the table. Again, no one offered a word of chastisement.
Wudan remembered the drunk telling him that Shaolin Paradise was not Heaven but the starting point. He understood now. Heaven must be a place of strict discipline, of true learning.
He asked for directions to Heaven, and most gave him a strange or blank look. “You are in heaven now,” was a common refrain.
But Wudan knew this could not be true. Heaven must be perfect, and the inattention and cavalier attitude of so many in Shaolin Paradise showed that it was full of imperfections.
Wudan approached the oldest monk in his chambers and asked how to get to Heaven. The monk pointed in the direction of nonexistent mountains and said, “There.”
“How do I get there? Where are the directions?” the boy asked.
The monk replied, “That is your second lesson. To see what cannot be seen. To find what cannot be found. To discover what is not there.”
“How can I begin a second lesson when I haven’t completed the first?”
“Your first lesson is complete. You came here on your own. You learned charity. You learned about people. About whom to trust and when to trust them.”
“The quest was part of the training?” asked Wudan.
The boy understands! The aged monk smiled. “You will be a great Shaolin master, maybe even a grandmaster someday.”
The monk took the boy back to the courtyard and introduced him to a stern-looking monk.
“This is the sentry. He will guide you to Heaven.”
The boy bowed to the sentry, then to the monk.
The two left immediately as the monk watched wistfully on.
He had been watching Wudan from the moment he arrived at Shaolin Paradise. The monk inhaled. He was always excited. Excited, but cautious as well. After all, so many had fallen away.
Only time would tell whether he assessed Wudan correctly, and he would likely not be alive to find out if he was right or not.
***
It took Wudan and the sentry another six months to get to Heaven. It was only a hundred miles away, but the sentry’s responsibility was not only to guide him in body but to prepare him spiritually. Wudan had never been to school and was illiterate. He had also never been exposed to the Scriptures, or meditation, either. And while the drunk was happy to show off his martial arts prowess, he was no kind of teacher.
It was the sentry’s responsibility to introduce Wudan to all of these. To teach him to read, to meditate, to study Buddhism and the basics of martial arts.
It was the journey not only to Heaven but the path to the Shaolin.
All this time, the sentry never told Wudan his name nor did the boy ask. The boy told the sentry about his life in the village, his family and about the drunk who inspired him to come. The sentry made him write the story down. “You learn by doing.”
It was a philosophy the sentry applied to the martial arts as well. Introducing Wudan to the Five Animal Styles of Shaolin kung fu: Tiger, Crane, Snake, Leopard and Dragon was only the beginning. While there were no dragons or tigers in the Yellow Mountains, there were plenty of snakes and wild boars that Wudan learned to contend with.
Learning by doing was the best education Wudan ever experienced.
One morning after meditation, the sentry pointed to an almost-camouflaged enclave on a mountain.
“We are here.”
The now-thirteen-year-old boy left the sentry and joyfully scrambled up the beautiful arbored mountain.
All told, a year of false starts, false directions, false leads and intense training―but ultimately he found Heaven, the home of Hung Gar, the home of the truest Shaolin in the world.
The boy saw monks streaming out of the monastery. He thought they were greeting him, and he waved eagerly.
“Hello! Hello!”
But when the monks arrived, they did not stop but continued downhill until they met up with the sentry.
There, the monks prostrated
themselves in front of him.
Wudan clambered down the mountain to join them.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The sentry stood erect. “I am Sigong Zhang. I am the leader of Heaven.”
The boy stared wide eyed. “You are the one the drunk told me to look for. Why didn’t you tell me? And why didn’t you tell me who you are?”
Sigong Zhang nodded.
“I am the drunk’s brother.”
Chapter 2
Twenty Years Later
If achievements were something to be honored in this humble monastery, thirty-three-year-old Wudan and his best friend, Jingsha, would be the pride of Heaven. They knew the teachings better, they spent more hours in meditation and mastered the Hung Gar Tiger and Crane style of martial arts faster than anyone could ever recount.
They were at the height of their physical prowess and about to spar. This had been part of their daily routine during their entire tenure in Heaven. Over the years, as they learned and developed more moves, their exhibition of dynamism, accuracy and athleticism was performed with ever more jaw-dropping and gravity-defying acrobatics and velocity.
Virtuosic poetry in motion.
The two men approached each other in Heaven’s courtyard, bowed and made the Shaolin handsign to each other.
They then retreated to the perimeter of the circle of monks.
Wudan ran three steps and did a handspring ten feet in the air, landing firmly on his feet. He folded his arms across his chest, challenging Jingsha to come after him.
Jingsha started circling his arms like a propeller on steroids. He dashed to the right side of Wudan, deliberately missing him with his arms but then kicked out his left leg—his goal was not to attack with his arms but to use them as a decoy.
The Noah Reid Series: Books 1-3: The Noah Reid Action Thriller Series Boxset Page 1
