by Jin Yong
“Of course – for me, it’d take more than a lifetime to read that many books. There would be so many words I wouldn’t recognise. I wouldn’t gain any martial insights.”
“There are some exceptionally clever people in this world. But, I can tell you, nothing good – no, indeed, only the very rotten – comes of running into one of their kind.” Zhou Botong gave a sad sigh.
Lotus is exceptionally clever, Guo Jing said to himself, but meeting her is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Huang Shang was now a martial master, but he still worked as a government official. One year, a very odd religion appeared in his jurisdiction. Some people called it Manichaeism, others the Religion of Light. Apparently, it was brought over by the Persians in the west. They worship neither the Grand Supreme Elderly Lord, nor the Great Sage, the First Teacher Confucius, nor the Tathagata Buddha. Their deity was an ancient demon from abroad. And they don’t eat meat – only vegetables!
“I told you the Huizong Emperor was a devout Taoist, didn’t I? When he found out about the Manichaeans, he sent an imperial edict ordering Huang Shang to lead an army and get rid of these apostates and infidels.
“Who would have thought that there were so many martial masters among the hearers and elects of the Religion of Light? Or that they fought without fear of death? They were more than a match for the useless imperial army. After a few battles, they completely crushed the soldiers led by Huang Shang. But he refused to give up. He challenged his enemies to single combat and he killed a handful of their legates as well as a smattering of their protectors.
“Some of the people he killed were disciples of major martial schools. Suddenly, their martial uncles, aunties, brothers, sisters, godfathers and godmothers – you name it – came out of the woodwork, bringing friends from other kung fu branches to demand revenge. All of them cursing him for violating the moral code of the wulin.
“Huang Shang tried to explain. ‘I am a government official. I’m not part of your martial world; how would I know your rules?’ But these aunties and uncles with their many mouths cried, ‘How could you have learned kung fu without being part of the wulin?’ ‘Did your shifu teach you how to fight, but not the code that governs us?’ To which Huang Shang replied, ‘I have no shifu.’ Of course, they swore on their lives that he was lying and kept on bickering. What do you think happened next?”
“They fought?”
“Indeed! They started exchanging blows, but Huang Shang’s moves were very odd. It was like nothing anyone had ever seen before. In no time at all, he killed a few more aunties and uncles. But, although Huang Shang’s kung fu was exceptional, one man cannot prevail against a mob. Eventually, he was injured and ran for his life. They were so angry, they sought out his family and took it out on them, killing his parents, his wife, his children. Every last one of them.”
Guo Jing sighed at the needless loss of life. A voice within told him, Death haunts the martial arts. If Huang Shang had gained no martial knowledge, tragedy would not have befallen his family.
“Huang Shang ran away to a wild, desolate place, far, far away, and kept himself hidden. He had memorised every single martial move his enemies used on him, and spent every waking moment devising countermeasures – so he could kill them and avenge his family.
“After who knows how long, he finally cracked them all. He was so very happy, because, even if they now all attacked at once, he could deal with them on his own! He left his hideout to seek revenge, yet each and every one of his adversaries had disappeared. Do you know why?”
“Did they hear about his new kung fu? Were they hiding in fear?”
“No, no. My martial brother asked me to guess, when he told me the story, too. But I couldn’t get it, even after seven or eight tries. Now, it’s your turn. Try again.”
“I won’t get it, even if I try seventy or eighty times,” Guo Jing said sheepishly.
“Don’t be so useless, boy! You can’t admit defeat already!” Zhou Botong chuckled. “Well, I’ll spare you the agony. They were all dead.”
“Huh? How? Did Huang Shang’s disciples kill them? Maybe his friends?”
“No! You’re ten thousand li off the mark!” Zhou Botong shook his head wildly. “He never had any disciples. Remember he was a civil servant? His friends were all scholars. You know, reciting poetry and writing prose. They couldn’t kill a thing!”
“Was there a plague?” Guo Jing scratched his head. “A disease that wiped out all his enemies?”
“No, no, no, you’re still very wrong. His enemies were all over the country, from Shandong in the north-east, to Huguang in the south, in Hebei, in the two Zhes. How could they die of the same plague? Hang on, actually, there is one plague every one of us will fall victim to eventually. You can run to the ends of the earth and you still won’t escape it. Can you tell me what it is?”
Guo Jing started listing every illness he knew: typhoid, smallpox, measles, malaria . . . Zhou Botong kept shaking his head.
“Foot and mouth!” Guo Jing slapped a hand over his mouth in a fit of giggles, then knocked himself on the head. “I am so silly. It only affects cattle – not us!”
“You’re getting further from the answer!” Zhou Botong laughed at Guo Jing’s wild guesses and felt very smug that he knew the answer. “Huang Shang journeyed to far-flung corners of the country, and at last he tracked down one of his foes. When they had first fought, she was a girl of sixteen or so. Now, she was an old grandma of nearly sixty . . .”
“How? Did she disguise herself? Pretend to be an old lady so Huang Shang wouldn’t recognise her?”
“No, she really was that old. Huang Shang had scores of enemies. Each one a martial master. Their kung fu came from different schools and branches. Imagine the complexity, the variety! How much time and effort do you think it would take to break down each of their most deadly moves? He spent day and night alone, deep in the mountains, thinking about kung fu. He even dreamed about kung fu. He thought of nothing else, and, meanwhile, a good forty years flew by!”
“Forty years?”
“Yes, if you put your heart and soul into the martial arts, forty years will disappear very quickly indeed. I’ve been here for fifteen, and it doesn’t feel more than a day.
“The girl Huang Shang fought was now a wrinkly old woman, sickly and infirm. She lay in bed, gasping for breath. She’d be dead in a few days, without him lifting a finger. All the hatred and grievances Huang Shang had been harbouring all those decades vanished in an instant. Instead, he looked after her, spoon-fed her congee and medicine.
“Brother, everyone dies one day – this is the plague none of us can hide from. When death comes to you, there’s no escape.”
Guo Jing nodded solemnly.
“My martial brother and his disciples talked about cultivating nature and nurturing life, day in, day out, but can they really become immortal? I don’t believe in that longevity business. That’s why I refused to be a rotten monk.
“Huang Shang’s enemies were in their forties, fifties and sixties the first time they fought,” Zhou Botong continued, after a pause. “Of course no-one was left alive, forty years later. Actually, he needn’t have wasted his energy coming up with countermoves. He could have just competed with them to see who could live the longest. He managed to stay in the game for forty years, so the Lord of the Heavens took care of his foes for him!”
Guo Jing began to question whether it was right to seek out Wanyan Honglie to avenge his father’s death, but Zhou Botong would not give him a moment’s peace to think.
“Kung fu is a store of infinite fun. What else in life is worth doing? Even fun things get boring and flavourless after a while. Only the martial arts grow more interesting the more time you spend with them. Don’t you agree?”
Guo Jing gave a non-committal grunt. He never saw kung fu learning as fun. How he had suffered, acquiring martial knowledge in the past decade, forcing himself onwards, head down, teeth clenched. It was his stubbornness
that pushed him through. There was nothing fun about any of it.
“Hey, why aren’t you asking me what happened next?” Zhou Botong noticed his audience had grown reflective.
“Oh, so . . . then what?”
“You have to ask, or it’s no fun for me!”
“Yes, brother, do tell me what happened next!”
“Well, Huang Shang thought to himself, I too have grown old, I don’t have many years left. All the amazing martial discoveries he had made over those forty years would die with him. He knew he too would fall prey to that inevitable plague in a few years’ time. He couldn’t let his efforts just go to waste like that, could he? So he wrote down everything he knew in two volumes. Do you know the name he gave the book?”
“What?”
“Guess!”
After a lengthy silence, Guo Jing asked, “Is it the Nine Yin Manual?”
“Isn’t that the stupidest question you’ve ever heard? Have we talked about anything else today?”
Guo Jing grinned. “I don’t want to be wrong.”
7
“HUANG SHANG EXPLAINED EVERYTHING I’VE JUST TOLD YOU in the Manual’s preface, that’s how my martial brother came to know of it, and he told me. Huang Shang hid the book very well. For decades, no-one knew about it. But, one day, it surfaced. Of course, every martial artist under the heavens wanted a peek. They would do anything to get their hands on it. It was chaos.
“My martial brother said that at least a hundred wulin masters have died trying to get hold of the Manual over the years. And, when they did, it didn’t matter how well they hid themselves; once they started learning the Manual’s kung fu, it only took a year or two before they were discovered. Then hordes of martial men would hound them for the text. This kept happening, so no-one who got hold of the Manual ever lived long enough to learn much. So much bloodshed, all because of one book.”
Guo Jing was horrified by the death and destruction the Manual had caused. “If Hurricane Chen hadn’t taken the Manual, he could have easily lived a quiet, happy life with Cyclone Mei in a village somewhere,” he said. “Even Apothecary Huang might not have found them. If Cyclone Mei hadn’t got hold of it, she wouldn’t be alone and blind. The Manual has only brought harm to the world.”
“What? No, no, no, you’re wrong! The Nine Yin Manual contains the most wondrous, mystical kung fu. Just one glimpse can ensnare a martial man for life. It may bring death, but so what? Everyone dies eventually! Didn’t we just agree on that?”
“Brother, perhaps you’re a little obsessed with the martial arts.”
“Of course I am. Nothing is as enriching and fascinating as learning kung fu. Most people are stupid. They worship books because they are the means to becoming a government official, or they love gold and jade, or beautiful women – those are the stupidest. None of these things can give you a sliver of the enjoyment you get from martial training.”
“I’ve learned a little, but I’ve never experienced any enjoyment practising kung fu.”
“What? Why do you learn, then?”
“Shifu says I should—”
“You really are hopelessly stupid!” Zhou Botong shook his head with dramatic disapproval. “Skipping meals is of no import; sacrifices, I can make many. But I would never give up on learning kung fu!”
Guo Jing pretended to agree. He suspected his brother’s single-minded focus on the martial arts had left him a little unhinged. “I’ve seen Twice Foul Dark Wind practising the kung fu from the Nine Yin Manual. The moves were truly evil and malicious. They should never have been written down.”
“That can’t be! The Manual comes from an honourable orthodox tradition. Twice Foul Dark Wind must have got it wrong.”
Nothing Zhou Botong said could persuade Guo Jing. After all, he had been at the receiving end of Cyclone Mei’s infernal talons and had seen her take lives without a crumb of remorse.
“Oh, I know what you mean! Huang Shang did write down some nasty moves used by his enemies. You’ve got to master the really bad moves before you can overcome them. So, he set down the training methods for both – the moves and the countermoves – but the purpose of the Manual was to subdue malevolent kung fu, not to spread it. I’m sure the Heretic’s wicked little apostates learned the vicious skills, instead of the ways to vanquish them.”
Zhou Botong did not realise that Hurricane Chen had only managed to steal the second volume of the Manual, and that, without the foundation of internal strength explained in the first volume, it was impossible to learn the countermeasures. That was why Twice Foul Dark Wind only acquired relatively basic techniques, like Nine Yin Skeleton Claw, Heartbreaker Palm and White Python Whip, and had to give up on the ways to overpower them.
The Hoary Urchin took a moment to bask in his own glory for having uncovered the twisted truth behind Twice Foul Dark Wind’s kung fu, then he turned back to Guo Jing. “Where did we get to?”
“You were telling me how the heroes of the wulin fought over the Manual.”
“Oh, yes . . . So, more and more people got embroiled. In the end, my martial brother Wang Chongyang, Lord of Peach Blossom Island Apothecary Huang and Chief Hong of the Beggar Clan all got involved. Together – with two others, as you know – they decided to hold a contest at the summit of Mount Hua, and the greatest among them would be accepted as the custodian of the Manual.”
“So that was how the Manual ended up in Immortal Wang’s possession?”
“Indeed!” Zhou Botong grew visibly excited as he approached his favourite part of the tale. “I told you that my brother taught me all the kung fu I know, didn’t I? He and I were close friends before he became a monk. He used to say that I was too obsessed with the martial arts and had no grasp of the Taoist way – attaining peace through inaction and all that. And he said again and again that I should not become a monk, even though I belong to the Quanzhen Sect. I couldn’t agree more! Who in their right mind wants to be a monk?
“You know, of my seven martial nephews, Qiu Chuji is the best fighter, but my brother liked him the least. He thought Qiu placed too much emphasis on his kung fu and neglected his Taoist self-cultivation.
“Brother loved talking about how martial learning is about practice, hard work and improvement, yet the search for Tao – the Way – isn’t about fame or fortune, it’s about looking for a path to return to the natural self. So kung fu and the Taoist practice are, in actual fact, antagonistic. Ma Yu inherited my brother’s philosophical side, but his kung fu can’t measure up to Qiu Chuji’s or Wang Chuyi’s.”
“How did Immortal Wang balance the two opposites, being a Taoist and a martial master?”
“He was so naturally endowed. He could understand martial theories and ideas, just like that, whereas I have to work so hard to get there . . . Where did we get to? Why did you distract me, asking all these irrelevant questions?”
“You were telling me how Immortal Wang got the Nine Yin Manual.” Guo Jing chuckled, amused by Zhou Botong’s childlike mood swings.
“That’s right! So, Brother brought the Manual back. He put it in a wooden casket and placed it under a flagstone. Under his prayer cushion. The spot he always sat in when he meditated. He didn’t look at it. He wasn’t interested in the instructions contained within. It was all very strange, and I kept asking him why. But he just smiled and said nothing. But I didn’t give up, and eventually he told me to work it out for myself. Now, why do you think he put it there?”
“Was he worried people would steal it? Or take it by force?”
“No, no! You’re way off the mark!” Zhou Botong kept shaking his head. “Who’d be so stupid? To steal from the leader of the Quanzhen Sect would be asking for death!”
Guo Jing thought long and hard. “Actually, perhaps it should be hidden away. No, in fact, it would be better to burn it.”
Zhou Botong looked at Guo Jing sharply. “Brother said exactly the same thing! How did you get it, this time? You haven’t got anything right all day! Brother told me he tr
ied to destroy the Manual a few times, but he couldn’t summon the resolve to go through with it.”
“Well, Immortal Wang was already the Greatest Martial Master Under the Heavens,” Guo Jing mumbled, his face flushed with embarrassment. He wasn’t used to being praised. “He’d be the greatest whether he learned the kung fu in the Manual or not. I don’t think he went to Mount Hua to prove his martial prowess. He was there for the Manual. But not for what it contains. He just wanted it for the sake of the heroes of the wulin. So it couldn’t cause more senseless killing.”
Zhou Botong looked up at the sky and said nothing for a long time.
Did my words offend him? Guo Jing was unnerved by his sworn brother’s silence.
At last, Zhou Botong sighed and turned his eyes to the ground. “How did you come to that conclusion?”
“I don’t know how to put it.” Guo Jing scratched his head. “So many lives were lost because of the Manual. It doesn’t matter how valuable the content is, it should still be destroyed . . .”
“What you said makes good sense, but somehow I just can’t see it that way. My martial brother also said that, though I’m naturally gifted and very interested in martial learning, I’m too obsessed with it and I don’t have any real urge to help people or make the world a better place. Because of this, he said, however hard I work, my martial skills will never reach beyond a certain level. Of course, I didn’t believe him. I used to think he was wrong.
“Tell me plainly, what does learning to fight, to wield weapons, to swing fists and launch kicks have to do with the size of one’s heart? What does it have to do with personality and magnanimity? Yet, in my fifteen years on this island, I’ve begun to understand . . .
