Stepping into the Spirit Void 12. An Unfriendly Visitor

Mo Dao followed Yuan Hui into the guest room at Famen Temple. Yuan Hui said to him, “Please rest here, benefactor. If you need anything, just call for Yuan Hui.” “Thank you, Master Yuan Hui!” Mo Dao replied gratefully.

Though Mo Dao’s wounds were healing swiftly, he still dared not lie flat on the bed. He could only sit upright, channeling spiritual energy to hasten the healing process. Curiously, perhaps because he had continuously used spiritual energy while fleeing, he sensed a change within his primordial spirit.

If the original primordial spirit had been like a well, now it resembled a small stream, and the rate at which it generated spiritual energy had increased noticeably. The benefits of this transformation extended beyond that. Mo Dao felt his eyes had grown sharper, granting him extraordinary clarity—even the fine patterns on the door were now plainly visible, which astonished him.

Moreover, he sensed changes within his body: his muscles seemed more defined, not obviously so, but the surge of strength was unmistakable. He tried punching in the air, and his speed was significantly improved. Satisfied, he nodded—if he could channel spiritual energy into his fists, perhaps he could become like those cultivators who specialized in martial arts.

Martial cultivators, unlike sword cultivators, focused their inner energy on their fists. Due to the differing properties of their energy, they couldn’t fly by wielding swords like their counterparts.

With this thought, Mo Dao infused his fist with a bit of spiritual energy—not too much, fearing the power might destroy the guest room. After all, it would be ungrateful to ruin the place after being rescued.

He punched again, and the wind from his fist, charged with spiritual energy, roared forth. With a loud bang, the floor was smashed, leaving a gaping hole, debris flying and dust billowing. Mo Dao hadn’t expected the spiritual energy to be so effective, that a punch from afar could yield such results.

Now a problem arose. When the monks returned, how would he explain this? The thought gave Mo Dao a headache. Sure enough, soon Yuan Hui, the young monk, entered.

Yuan Hui pushed the door open and exclaimed in surprise, then asked, “Benefactor, what happened here? Did those who pursued you return?” As he spoke, he prepared to call for help, but Mo Dao quickly stopped him.

“Wait, Master Yuan Hui, please don’t panic. It’s a misunderstanding—come, I’ll explain.” Mo Dao beckoned, and Yuan Hui approached, saying, “Please, benefactor, speak.”

“I just had a breakthrough, and accidentally caused this damage. I’m truly sorry. Please, tell me how much it will cost, and I’ll compensate you,” Mo Dao said, blushing with embarrassment, knowing he was at fault.

Yuan Hui merely smiled, “Benefactor, do not worry. It was unintentional; surely the Buddha will not blame you. Let me arrange another room for you.” This made Mo Dao even more embarrassed.

“No need, this room is just fine. Since I caused the damage, I should pay for it.” Mo Dao took out some money and handed it to Yuan Hui, who politely tried to refuse.

“Master Yuan Hui, please accept it. If nothing else, take it as a donation for incense,” Mo Dao urged.

“In that case, as incense money for the temple, I shall accept it on behalf of Famen Temple,” Yuan Hui said, pressing his palms together.

Mo Dao quickly returned the gesture. Yuan Hui called someone to sweep up the broken bricks and reminded Mo Dao to rest well before leaving. Mo Dao sighed, lay down on his side, and prepared for a nap.

At the entrance of Famen Temple, a figure clad in black glanced at the young monk standing guard, a chilling smile on his lips. His face was covered by a black cloth, revealing only sharp black-and-white eyes and gleaming white teeth. He wore gloves, hiding any hint of skin.

In his right hand, he grasped a peculiar pen, about fifteen or sixteen inches long, thick as a small wine cup, with a two-inch tip. The shaft was neither copper nor gold, yet flashed with a dazzling golden hue.

His left hand held a pristine jade tablet, thick as an inch, pocked with honeycomb-like holes, its handle five or six inches long, and the tablet itself about a foot square.

The two young monks sensed trouble and promptly asked, “What brings you to Famen Temple, sir?” The man in black did not answer. He struck with the jade tablet, the force overwhelming, sweeping both monks aside.

Ignoring their fate, the man in black pushed open the temple’s grand doors and entered. The temple guardians, seeing the doors thrown open and the intruder approaching, raised their guard.

Soon, word of the intruder reached Abbot Tianhong, who was recovering his strength in the meditation chamber. “Go find Master Tianxin. I have nearly exhausted my energy and cannot recover quickly,” Tianhong said, eyes closed.

The young monk obeyed and went to Master Tianxin. Upon hearing of the black-clad intruder, Tianxin, along with several other senior monks, rushed to the temple entrance.

When Master Tianxin arrived, he was stunned by the scene before him. The disciples of the Wu generation lay beaten on the ground, their fate uncertain; some of the Yuan generation disciples were still struggling against the intruder.

Master Tianxin called out sternly, “What grudge or enmity do you bear against our temple, to harm our disciples so viciously?” The man in black gave no reply. After forcing several monks back, he charged toward Tianxin.

The black-clad man struck with his jade tablet, its force so tremendous that even Tianxin was impressed. Yet Tianxin, prepared and vigilant, met the attack with a powerful double palm strike.

He used half his inner strength in this blow. The two forces collided mid-air with a resounding impact, raising dust from the ground.

Masters’ duels lasted but an instant. Tianxin’s arms were numbed by the rebound, his body swaying, while the man in black stood unmoved, unaffected by Tianxin’s attack.

Tianxin was startled: such formidable power! He hesitated for a moment, raising his right hand for a full-force strike. Just then, Master Tiantai, his junior brother but equal in martial arts, rushed forward.

“Brother, step back. Let me exchange a few blows with this villain!”

“Do not underestimate him, brother. Be cautious!” Tianxin warned, then stepped out of the fray. Though he suspected the man in black was among those who had pursued Mo Dao, something felt off.

If the intruder had come for Mo Dao, why slaughter the temple’s disciples? Famen Temple wasn’t as powerful as Jade Void Palace, but as one of the eight great sects of the capital, it was not to be trifled with.

Even Heaven Blade Pavilion wouldn’t send just one person against Famen Temple, for the temple had the backing of the reclusive master Liaokong, whose strength was said to have reached the pinnacle of the Golden Core stage.

Liaokong was, over centuries, Famen Temple’s foremost prodigy, master of all seventy-two martial arts of the temple, each perfected to a remarkable degree. He preferred roaming mountains and rivers, never assuming the abbotship of previous generations.

Though a Buddhist monk, he refused the temple’s support and lived in seclusion. In his travels, he befriended seven renowned martial artists, forming a bond of life and death.

Those seven were said to possess unparalleled skills, but lived in seclusion, seldom interfering in the affairs of the martial world. They were respectfully known as the Eight Hermits—scholar, farmer, artisan, merchant, fisherman, woodcutter, monk, and Daoist—each identified by their past and attire.

Liaokong rarely meddled in mundane matters, but if Famen Temple faced annihilation, he would not stand idly by. Even Jade Void Palace dared not provoke Famen Temple lightly.

While Tianxin pondered, Master Tiantai had already struck twice at the man in black, his palm winds carrying tremendous force, aiming to subdue his foe in one blow.

The man in black paid no mind to Tiantai’s attack. With a flick of the jade tablet, it traced an elegant arc of white light in the air, using the technique of "four ounces to move a thousand pounds" to divert Tiantai’s powerful strikes.

Though the palm winds were fierce, the man in black redirected them effortlessly, dispersing them to either side. Monks standing nearby were forced back by the redirected force, retreating several yards like a receding tide.

Tiantai was bewildered by the strange move, so easily neutralizing his powerful attack, but a plan was forming in his mind.

Gathering himself, Tiantai shouted, “Villain, try this move, ‘Return to Origin!’” With that, he pressed his palms together and unleashed a series of strikes, each imbued with an eerie energy.

This “Return to Origin” palm technique was designed to counter the “four ounces to move a thousand pounds” method. Tiantai’s force shot forth like arrows, relentlessly targeting the man in black.

In that brief moment, Tiantai had deduced the intruder’s strange technique. Hearing the force behind “Return to Origin,” the man in black was visibly shaken and retreated several steps.

Tiantai saw his foe forced back and sought to press his advantage. Unexpectedly, the man in black, knowing the technique’s power, dared not face it head-on. With a light sway, he leapt out of range.

Then, with a swift movement, he wielded his strange pen. Blood-red poison spurted from its shaft, spraying like rain upon the heads of the monks to the right.

The monks, engrossed in the duel, never expected the man in black to suddenly attack the bystanders. Those caught off guard were struck by the poison, and cries of agony rang out.

Master Tianxin looked over and paled. More than twenty disciples on the right had been splashed by the blood-colored toxin and collapsed, wailing. He recited a silent prayer, then urgently commanded, “All disciples, retreat to the sides at once. Do not let yourselves be harmed by the enemy’s poison!”