Chapter 82: The Bag Monk

Unaware, time slipped away slowly; outside, the moon hung high, yet Zhao Ti still kept his eyes closed, his expression half-joyful, half-sorrowful, as if radiating solemn majesty, leaving Li Qingluo utterly spellbound.

She had never seen what the Xiao Wu Xiang Gong looked like when fully cultivated—even Ding Chunqiu had never fully mastered it—but now, observing his unusual demeanor, she couldn’t help but feel suspicion.

Ding Chunqiu wasted years trying to cultivate Xiao Wu Xiang Gong, and she gained nothing at all—could this Prince of Yan possibly master it in just a few hours? Impossible, absolutely impossible…

At this moment, Zhao Ti’s internal Qi surged violently; he felt Xiao Wu Xiang Gong wasn’t difficult per se, but incredibly complex—extremely complex, to the extreme. The more one practiced, the more one forgot the previous Qi pathways; hundreds or even thousands of pathways were impossible to forget, yet the mind grew muddled, leading to total failure and the need to start over.

The true principle of all forms is called Wu Xiang; when principle manifests, it is named; when principle transcends all forms, it is without form—thus it is called Wu Xiang. Small yet without form, a mustard seed contains the universe, leaving no trace—hence, Xiao Wu Xiang.

The power of this art lies in imitating other martial techniques; once Xiao Wu Xiang Gong is mastered, and one understands the movements of another martial art, one can use Xiao Wu Xiang Qi to trigger and replicate those movements—even surpassing the original’s effect—so that those unfamiliar with the art cannot detect the imitation.

Even for techniques without forms, such as Yi Yang Zhi or Pi Kong Zhang, which rely purely on internal Qi to inflict damage, Xiao Wu Xiang Gong can imitate them and produce similar effects.

But this is nearly useless, because imitating movements can be memorized by watching an opponent fight, while imitating internal Qi projection requires knowing the exact Qi pathways, then using Xiao Wu Xiang Qi to traverse those same pathways to replicate them.

Yet if one already knows the Qi pathways of such an internal art, one must already possess that internal art—so there’s no need to imitate it with Xiao Wu Xiang; one simply uses the original art directly.

Zhao Ti had already cultivated Xiao Wu Xiang Qi, which now resembled a vast net extending from his dantian in all directions, weaving through the twelve regular meridians, the eight extraordinary vessels, and the three hundred and sixty visible and hidden acupoints, forming countless pathways, along which the Xiao Wu Xiang Qi endlessly flowed.

But remembering these pathways posed no problem for Zhao Ti, for he possessed perfect recall—he never forgot what he saw or heard; any experience, once encountered, could be fully recalled at will.

As he manipulated Xiao Wu Xiang Gong within his body, he was somewhat astonished: this art could not be mastered merely by high martial talent; memory was one factor—though not everyone needed his perfect recall, one still needed exceptional memorization skills—and one also needed true understanding and insight into the meaning of “Wu Xiang.”

As the internal Qi pathways multiplied, he suddenly, for no apparent reason, recalled the Buddha statues and Bodhisattvas enshrined in temple halls, then the celestial deities in grand monasteries—serene, natural, solemnly radiant, pure and unblemished, neither increasing nor decreasing.

Then, for no reason, he recalled Jiumo Zhi’s slick, fake-Buddha appearance, and the painting on the Bei Ming Shen Gong scroll—a woman with Li Qiushui’s face, yet seductive and alluring, like a celestial demoness dancing.

You xiang. Wu xiang. Wu xiang. Wu xiang…

Zhao Ti’s Xiao Wu Xiang Qi surged rapidly, flowing like lightning and wind; each pathway split into countless new ones, surging toward the middle dantian, the Jiang Gong—yet not entering the Tan Zhong point, instead circling it once, then spreading outward to both sides…

At that moment, a faint “rustle” suddenly came from the other side of the Langhuan Jade Cave.

Li Qingluo turned her head in confusion; the cave was vast, the two sides far apart, with over a dozen bookshelves between them obscuring the full view. She felt the sound didn’t originate inside the cave—it seemed to come from the opposite mountain wall.

She quickly turned to Tong Guan, only to see him make a hushing gesture.

Li Qingluo immediately quieted her breathing, her gaze rising over the tops of the bookshelves, fixed on the distant cave wall.

The Mantuo Mountain Villa was built on a small island deep within Taihu; the island had a small hill, and the Langhuan Jade Cave was carved directly into that hill.

Li Qingluo’s expression suddenly changed—could someone have entered the hill from the other side and be tunneling toward the Langhuan Jade Cave?

The hill on the island was no harder than soil and rock on land; it already contained many natural caves, and since the hill was small, the two sides were actually quite close—easy to tunnel through. If one didn’t know the cave’s location, fine—but if one did, it was entirely possible to tunnel from the other side.

She was stunned—how could this thief know of the Langhuan Jade Cave’s existence? Could he be the one who stole the seven scrolls of Xiao Wu Xiang Gong?

But if he already had Xiao Wu Xiang Gong, why return? And if he’d stolen the scrolls before, he must have discovered the mechanism—he could enter through the main gate—so why tunnel through the wall?

As she thought, Li Qingluo’s face turned icy with rage—this thief intends to dig a secret passage and empty the entire cave!

Of course—he wants to steal every secret manual inside! He finds the main entrance too conspicuous, too slow to move everything at once, too likely to be caught—so he devised this scheme?

She clenched her teeth, her hand instinctively resting on the hilt of her waist sword.

Tong Guan beside her shook two fingers warningly; Li Qingluo froze, but her face was grim, her hatred for the thief burning fiercely—he was trying to destroy the very foundation of her Mantuo Mountain Villa.

At that moment, the sound from the opposite stone wall grew louder, drawing near—but the digging was poorly aimed; the noise was too loud, clearly coming from higher up on the cave wall.

Tong Guan gave Li Qingluo a glance; both lowered their bodies slightly, revealing only their eyes above the bookshelves, motionless as they stared at the distant mountain wall.

After a moment, the wall groaned, then a fragment of stone “clattered” to the ground.

The noise inside instantly ceased—dead silence—clearly, the person within hadn’t expected the stone’s fall to be so loud.

After another long pause, faint scraping sounds resumed; from a point about five or six feet above the ground, soil and rock began sliding down, a black hole expanding slowly from the size of an egg to roughly three feet wide.

Li Qingluo held her breath, staring at the wall—inside was pitch-black, no light—but after a few breaths, an arm suddenly reached out.

Moments later, a monk’s head emerged, then the monk leapt out swiftly, landing without a sound.

He wore simple monk’s robes, his bearing radiant, his face faintly glowing as if with inner luminescence—like a pearl or jade, naturally brilliant.

Li Qingluo stared, stunned, then fury surged within her—this was a thief-monk!

The monk leaned against the wall, glancing around; finding nothing amiss, he pulled a cloth sack from his robe and began swiftly stuffing the scrolls from the nearest bookshelf into it.

His movements were swift and fluid; in moments, he had filled several rows, then approached the last row—but something felt off. He walked to the far end of the shelf and peered toward the other side—and his gaze met Li Qingluo’s directly…