Chapter 152: All Truth, No Filter

After the rain stopped, Chu Tianshu landed alone and did not head straight for the southern Shaolin monastery’s gate.

He asked an old farmer by the roadside, then went to see the fields the southern Shaolin monks had reclaimed.

They had turned wasteland into farmland.

Back then, the southern Shaolin did this not only to gain fame and align with court trends, but also out of practical need.

But over the years, the southern Shaolin no longer relied on these fields for survival.

The scale of their reclaimed land had grown so vast that the monastery lacked enough personnel to manage it all, so they leased portions to farmers.

Still, the monastery regularly sent monks to oversee the remaining fields.

Farming isn’t just about scattering seeds and waiting for autumn—it involves countless tasks for farmers.

So it was common to see monks working in these fields almost every day.

Their gray monk robes were tucked into their belts, and their pant legs rolled up to the knees.

Barefoot, they walked through the soil, searching for weeds and pulling them out one by one.

Chu Tianshu stood beside the field for a while, watching their movements.

Songshan Shaolin claimed seventy-two supreme techniques, and the number of non-supreme martial arts far exceeded that.

The southern Shaolin claimed thirty-six supreme techniques, also called the “Thirty-Six Treasures.”

Some of these thirty-six techniques were inherited from Songshan Shaolin in ancient times.

Others were created by successive disciples or adapted from martial arts gathered from the Jianghu.

As a major martial sect, they could not afford to neglect martial arts.

The southern Shaolin dared to develop so many side businesses without fearing the neglect of their martial skills

because several of their supreme arts were specifically designed to cultivate inner harmony through farming and grinding grain.

Moreover, the southern Shaolin’s hard qigong was famed throughout the Jianghu—blacksmithing was also a form of cultivation.

In Chu Tianshu’s view, what this world called “hard qigong” was essentially the realm of training force.

Even if someone brought Taiji’s Immortal Force here, it would likely be classified as hard qigong.

But according to Jianghu rumors, hard qigong in this world had never reached the refined level of “Threefold Unity.”

In fact, everyone treated hard qigong as a crude substitute.

Most martial artists began training internal energy before their bodies even reached three or four hundred jin of strength.

Only those who, after years of internal training, still could not generate internal force, and refused to give up, would desperately train hard qigong.

In contrast, several of Shaolin’s supreme techniques were dedicated to hard qigong—this alone set them apart drastically from other sects.

After observing for a while, Chu Tianshu walked along the edge of the field until he reached the boundary between farmland and forest.

Every autumn, the southern Shaolin abbot personally reclaimed one mu and three fen of land.

This was not for profit, but to uphold tradition.

The ground where Chu Tianshu stood was the field the southern Shaolin abbot, Master Miao Fan, had reclaimed last year.

As expected, this autumn, he would push further into the forest.

No monk would clear the trees there in advance for the abbot.

This was also a place for the abbot to demonstrate his strength.

Chu Tianshu saw large boulders overturned into the woods and walked over.

These stones were jet-black and dense, buried underground for years; even after being dug up half a year, they still exuded the smell of earth.

Smaller stones showed no obvious signs of human damage.

But larger stones bore indentations and missing corners.

The fractures were covered in white cracks, starkly contrasting the stone’s original color.

The largest boulder was bigger than a high-quality adult coffin, its shape cluttered with protrusions.

Chu Tianshu stopped beside the massive stone and circled halfway around it.

On this stone rested half a palm print, with the most numerous and longest cracks radiating outward.

Chu Tianshu stared at the force mark, as if witnessing the scene from half a year ago.

The old monk rolled up his sleeves, bent low, and poured all his internal force into one effort to heave the boulder from the ground.

As the force succeeded, excess internal energy spilled out, leaving this mark on the stone.

“Such profound internal force…”

Chu Tianshu began to speak, then heard footsteps slowly approaching from afar; his heart stirred, and he sighed, “What a pity. What a pity.”

He touched the boulder, shaking his head as if gazing at a coffin, his tone brimming with regret.

“Such a waste.”

“Namo Amitabha Buddha.”

A calm Buddhist chant rose from behind him.

Chu Tianshu turned around.

An old monk stood there, his face ancient and plain, his forehead prominently bulging, his eye sockets deep but his gaze bright, his beard streaked with black and white, neatly combed.

Over his gray robe, he wore a black silk kasaya embroidered with gold thread, radiating solemn dignity.

“I am Miao Fan. May I ask why you sigh here?”

Master Miao Fan had been sitting in meditation in his meditation chamber for too long; seeing the light rain had just stopped and the forest breeze must be fresh, he came out to stroll and enjoy the scenery.

Yet as soon as he arrived here, he saw a young man circling the large boulder he had dug up last year, sighing endlessly…

“It’s Master Miao Fan.”

Chu Tianshu was also slightly surprised. “I am Chu Tianshu. I intended to visit the monastery to offer incense to the Buddha and pay respects to the masters, but I never expected to meet you here.”

Master Miao Fan clasped his hands and smiled. “A young man with a sincere heart for the Buddha—how admirable, how admirable.”

He studied Chu Tianshu closely, his expression subtly shifting.

Chu Tianshu’s skin was smooth, his eyes bright—clearly well cared for.

Yet his breathing carried a long, even rhythm, devoid of any irregularity.

Even the healthiest ordinary person’s breath had faint, uneven fluctuations.

Commoners couldn’t detect it, but masters heard it instantly.

If Master Miao Fan closed his eyes, Chu Tianshu’s presence might be entirely undetectable.

“Amitabha Buddha. Your bearing is extraordinary—you are clearly a master of the Jianghu.”

Master Miao Fan smiled. “No wonder you sigh beside this boulder.”

“You must have noticed that my internal energy was not perfectly smooth back then—I wasted some force, leaving this cracked palm print.”

Chu Tianshu shook his head. “That flaw is minor—it’s not why I sighed repeatedly.”

“I was wondering: does the abbot of Songshan Shaolin need to perform his martial skill annually outside the monastery, like you do?”

Master Miao Fan’s heart tightened, but he remained calm. “I do not boast my martial skill—I merely follow monastery rules, personally reclaiming wasteland each year.”

“Martial arts and Buddhist teachings both require cultivation in every aspect of life. Since I practice martial arts, I naturally use them while reclaiming land.”

He spoke slowly. “That’s all.”

“Do you truly believe that?”

Chu Tianshu suddenly fixed his gaze on him.

Just moments ago, this young man’s eyes had swept over Master Miao Fan, but lightly—his attention had rested more on trees and rocks.

Now, his sudden, piercing stare made Master Miao Fan feel his eyelids twitch.

“If you truly believe that, and the abbot of a great monastery holds such limited vision of the current situation…”

Chu Tianshu spoke with startling boldness.

“Then the southern Shaolin isn’t merely cautious—it’s teetering on the brink of collapse!”

Master Miao Fan remained composed. “Your alarmist words—what is your true origin?”

“Hah! If I were merely alarming you for show, why would the abbot of southern Shaolin care to listen?”

Chu Tianshu laughed. “As for my origin…”

His expression turned solemn.

“To be frank—I am an heir of Zongheng.”

(End of Chapter)