Chapter 309: Aren

Bai Lang knocked out those few monks and entered the Heavenly Kings Gate. He even had time to admire the Heavenly Kings statues on both sides; I must say these two twelve-foot-tall Vajrapani Bodhisattvas, one a great warrior the other a great strongman, their angry hum‑ha expressions are done really well. So well that Bai Lang, looking at these two Buddha statues, could sense the "flow" of true qi.

"When artistic standards reach a certain height, they connect with the unseen and the result is spirit and vigor. Reaching this level, the sculptor's skill can surely be called that of a grand master." Indeed, although it was gilded and painted, Bai Lang could tell at a glance that it was wood carving.

Moreover, it's not pieced together; given the Buddhist Sect's luxury, it must be carved from a single large piece of wood, at most the arms might be joined, but the torso, legs, and the small demon lotus pedestal beneath the feet are definitely one solid piece. Bai Lang leaned in for a close look; because of the arm pose, the arms are actually integral too, meaning these bald thieves used a piece of timber at least eighteen feet thick and eight to nine feet in diameter to carve this.

This is just the Heavenly Kings statues at the mountain gate.

Bai Lang spent even more time observing these Heavenly Kings statues than he did knocking out those monk‑soldiers; his martial arts include a style called Arhat Heavenly Kings Fist, and these two statues have indeed grasped the essence of that fist, so Bai Lang gained something as well—even though the Heavenly Kings Fist has been absorbed into the Southern Dipper White Tiger Fist.

This is the Fighting Buddha Bodhisattva of the Buddhist Sect; as for the Victorious Fighting Buddha, that "victorious" aspect is probably just one's own random thoughts, while the one who truly fights to the death against external Buddhist foes is the Dharma Protector Bodhisattva—namely these two. "Indeed it's marvelous; I really want to take these two away. But although the spirit is fully there, the concrete form is still a bit inferior to the wooden Buddha statues carved a few hundred years later in the Song dynasty. A pity, oh well, I'll find a place to hide this later, hoping it can survive a thousand years to become a national treasure." Bai Lang muttered.

Just not now—Bai Lang strolled inward. Behind the Heavenly Kings Gate lay a huge plaza paved with blue stone slabs, though there was hardly anyone about; the main hall was over a hundred steps ahead, and there were two lotus ponds with bridges of white marble railings across them.

Bai Lang would have liked to walk straight to the Bronze Hall, but he knew that was impossible. No sooner had he reached the lotus pond than the Buddha hall and the side‑gate passages on either side burst forth with a large group of muscular bald heads. Each one radiated killing intent, wielding assorted weapons, and even while running they carried a military air—covering each other front and back, left and right.

Bai Lang halted his steps, watching the bald heads form a formation—about a hundred of them emerged, led by a big bald head taller and heavier than the rest. Before that big bald head could call the formation, Bai Lang shook his head: "I had hoped to slip in silently, but it looks like I'll have to resort to genuine stealth after all."

"If I beat you all, my stealth will succeed," Bai Lang said, though he knew it was impossible—basically, once he'd taken down twenty or so monks, the others would flee, and even if not, the stronger ones behind would surely notice—otherwise one could only say that the Pure Thought Chan Monastery is altogether a loose sand.

Bai Lang thought it over, then decisively tossed aside his headscarf, revealing his heroic visage, bearing the utmost resemblance to Master Zhishen. He charged forward into the monkish ranks; with punches and kicks, staves flew and monks tumbled. Bai Lang had no intention to kill—still, as he said, these monks, aside from being well‑fed and strong as oxen from eating and drinking their fill, had no other faults; they could be called blameless.

But if the Imperial Jade Seal were still hidden here and the fact that it had been withheld from the Compassionate Voyage Quiet Studio were exposed, then only dead monks could be found here. Bai Lang felt that if he really intercepted the seal, he might inadvertently rescue this nest of bald heads—but then the hot potato would land in his own hands, which the wise do not take.

Thinking that, he did not let up at all—he raised his hand, and the iron‑bound door latch snapped, causing the oil‑soaked staves lunging up and down to shatter and fly off, meanwhile splitting the users' tiger mouths; then Bai Lang swept out with a flying kick, and in an instant a whole group of monks collapsed together.

Bai Lang pulled his punches—normally just a bump on the head then a faint to the ground. No monk ahead could stop his advance—the leading big monk was the first to go down. This fellow looked sturdy enough to match Bai Lang, but in fact he was a good‑for‑nothing. In the first exchange Bai Lang knocked his weapon from his hand and then struck his head, nearly splitting it open.

Once the big monk fell, no other monk could hold back Bai Lang; they toppled one after another. After about thirty monks had gone down, the rest shouted and fled. "They're already crack troops—see, religious fanatics can indeed form a army tough enough to take a beating." Holding out to nearly thirty percent "casualties"—though bloodless—is already quite good.

Bai Lang pressed on, then a Buddhist chant halted his steps. The simple "Namo Amitabha" was voiced by four people, their pitches high and low, yet without exception they were persons of profound internal force and mighty true qi.

The vibration of that chant made Bai Lang feel as if the air itself were shaken, and it quickly condensed into a huge golden Buddha image—of course only in his sensation and qi flow. Bai Lang heh‑hee laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and his whole body cracked with a chain of joint pops.

Instantly it was as if a fierce tiger's roar came from the void, and indeed a huge white tiger crouched in the plaza, roaring at the golden Buddha statue on the Buddha hall. "Sir, your killing intent is immense. Sadhu, sadhu." A comical voice rang out.

Bai Long saw four old monks appear before him—varied in height and build, some in ragged robes, others in immaculate, neat attire. "Hey, the Four Great Holy Monks?" Bai Lang asked, his tone devoid of any reverence.

"Namo Amitabha, we four are the useless ones," said another old monk who looked ordinary but had kind eyes and a benevolent face. "I don't know what brings Layman Bai to the Pure Thought Chan Monastery today."

It's no surprise that the old monk recognized him at a glance—given Bai Lang's stature and martial prowess, any force with a shred of ambition would have his likeness on file; perhaps even a detailed portrait already exists, so it wouldn't be strange for the Buddhist Sect's Four Great Holy Monks to know him. It would be strange if they didn't.

But "What are you doing in here?"—that question isn't easy to answer. If I said I came to look at the He Shi Bi, these monks would probably fight to the death—though I don't know how their brains got addled by gunfire, one can still gauge the seriousness; a Grand General of the Great Sui like Bai Lang knowing where the Imperial Jade Seal is hidden, if word got out it would surely provoke a nationwide swarm to besiege the Buddhist Sect—at the very least Wang Shichong would certainly move to seize it.