Volume One: At the Foot of Mount Zhongnan Chapter Twenty: Does Everyone Love Journey to the West?

From that day onward, every morning Li Mingyu would practice standing meditation and refine his swordsmanship alone. In the afternoons, when the children finished their studies, he would gather them on the open ground outside the village for training. Although his body was that of a child not yet five, his mind was already over thirty. By deliberate effort, applying both kindness and authority, he soon had the group of children completely under his sway, earning their deep admiration.

Each day began with assembling in ranks and jogging twice around the village as a warm-up, followed by half an hour of standing at military attention and another half hour of drilling in formation. After these basics, the children would assume horse stances, arms encircling an imaginary sphere, and stand in the primordial stance, for which Li Mingyu set a standard of remaining motionless for a full hour.

After more than ten days of such training, the children not only managed to stand firm in formation but could also hold the primordial stance for an hour without moving. Of course, their natural physiques were far inferior to Li Mingyu’s, and unlike Li Xuanba, none had the benefit of rare medicinal resources for building their foundation. Being so young, they could only proceed step by step, focusing on physical conditioning and basic training for now. Each evening, Xiao Hei would hunt down an animal to supplement the children's diet and strengthen their bodies.

Once he saw that the children had reached a certain level, Li Mingyu began teaching them military boxing. In later generations, the army's boxing techniques comprised three sets, each of varying difficulty; the first and second sets both consisted of sixteen moves.

The first set was primarily composed of fundamental skills and basic maneuvers for combat, concise and practical, suitable for self-defense, forming the foundation of the army’s martial arts.

The second set introduced techniques for throwing, disarming, and attacking—each move designed to defeat an opponent in a single stroke.

The third set, building on the features of the previous two, integrated the expansive and graceful movements of the Long Fist, with its agility, speed, and power, alongside the stable stances and vigorous force of Southern Fist, making it an effective means for soldiers to overcome adversaries.

Of course, even these were only the entry level for special forces. The hand-to-hand combat systems of future special units would blend the killing techniques of martial arts from around the world, with harsher and deeper training, emphasizing strikes to eyes, temples, throat, and groin—targeting vulnerable points for instant lethality, every move meant to kill or incapacitate.

Li Mingyu chose to teach the children military combat techniques rather than traditional martial arts for good reason—not out of disdain for the latter, which he himself was learning. He always believed that the martial arts of China, with their long history and profound wisdom, could, if mastered, hold their own against dozens of ordinary opponents. But for the children, modern military combat techniques were more suitable.

First, they were more scientific and systematic: knowing which parts of the body to strike for what effect, where pain would be greatest, how much force to use to kill or knock out.

Second, compared to traditional martial arts, which could take years just to get started, a decade to become effective, and decades to achieve mastery, military combatives were easier to learn. In half a year or a year, one could be capable of self-defense, with disarming, takedown, and anti-grappling moves all designed to defeat an opponent in one move, using any means necessary.

Traditional martial arts were better suited for crafting elite masters, while military combatives could rapidly produce large numbers of capable fighters.

Given the children’s current lack of foundation, they had to start from the basics, learning the first set. Li Mingyu watched as they faced each other in two rows, standing in horse stance, punching in unison, their shouts of “He! He! Ha! Ha!” echoing across the ground.

Hands behind his back, Li Mingyu paced between the lines, instructing as he went: “This boxing is the basis for all combat. To master it, remember these five essentials: Power in every move; fluid transitions; coordination of the body; clear rhythm; and a firm center of gravity!” He stopped to correct several children's postures.

“Fatty Wang, did you skip your meal or what? Your punches are as soft as cotton! Use the same energy you do when fighting for meat at dinner!”

“Zhao Erhu! Bow stance and straight punch, I said! What kind of bow stance is that? Front leg bent, back leg stretched—your back leg is like a limp noodle!” Whenever the children erred, Li Mingyu would scold and correct them, as if he were back in his former life as a hand-to-hand combat instructor for special forces.

The boxing routines were not difficult, and under Li Mingyu’s daily oversight—one might say, his daily discipline—the children became proficient in little more than ten days. What remained was endless practice and real-world application.

Time passed swiftly, and two months soon went by. After these months of arduous training, the children had shot up in height, their limbs grew strong and round, their little chests stood proud, and their backs straightened. Their vigor and bearing, even in speech and gait, were transformed. No longer were they snot-nosed troublemakers, but already showed the makings of iron-blooded young soldiers.

At dusk, after the day’s practice and their meal, Li Mingyu would as usual sit atop a large stone and vividly recount the tale of Havoc in Heaven to the children.

He meant to foster camaraderie, but though his outward appearance was youthful, his mind was that of a man in his thirties—he could not spend his days playing with children. Unlike in his previous life, where drinking and chatting with his comrades built bonds, that was now impossible. In the end, he turned to storytelling.

Having been a soldier in his past life, he was adept at analyzing modern combat tactics or explaining how to kill with a single blow, but he had never read many books and had little to draw upon. After much thought, he pieced together a version of Havoc in Heaven.

At first, he only wanted to entertain the children and pass the time, but given how lacking entertainment was in this era, the story became wildly popular—even many adults in the village became devoted listeners.

Why not tell the tale of Journey to the West? Because at this time, the Tang dynasty had not yet been founded, Emperor Taizong Li Shimin had not ascended the throne, and the master monk Xuanzang might not even have been born. Creating new characters as substitutes risked getting entangled in his own inventions, so Li Mingyu decided to focus on the episode of Havoc in Heaven.

The children’s happiest time of day was when Li Mingyu began his stories. After a hard afternoon’s training and a hearty meal, they would sit and listen, drawn into those thrilling adventures—pure delight!

As soon as Li Mingyu cleared his throat to signal the story’s start, the children would sit up straight, attentive. When he described the ten thousand heavenly soldiers attacking the Water Curtain Cave of Flower-Fruit Mountain, their faces grew tense with worry for Sun Wukong, fighting alone. When he told of Erlang Shen’s epic battle with Sun Wukong, the two locked in a fierce and indecisive struggle, and the Supreme Lord Laozi’s sneak attack with the Vajra Bracelet, the children’s faces showed fury, their little fists clenched tight, eager to help the proud and rebellious Great Sage Equal to Heaven.

One day, Li Mingyu was just telling the part where Sun Wukong’s rebellion against Heaven draws the attention of the Buddha, who wagers with him. In the end, Sun Wukong cannot escape the Buddha’s palm and is imprisoned beneath Five Elements Mountain.

The children listened with eyes brimming with tears, all grieving for the monkey king and asking when the Great Sage would see the light again. Li Mingyu thought, “When will he reemerge? When the Tang dynasty is established, Li Shimin ascends the throne, and the monk sets out for the scriptures—then, naturally.”

As he was handling the children’s questions and sending them off home, a robust voice came from the side: “Greetings, young friend. I have listened to your stories these past days, and they are truly marvelous. In all my decades, I have never heard such tales—may I ask, where did you hear them?”

Li Mingyu looked up. The speaker’s age was indeterminate; his hair and beard were entirely white, yet his voice was strong, and his skin as soft as a baby’s, without a single age spot marring his face. He looked kindly, dressed in a plain, well-washed Taoist robe, immaculately clean. This was the old Taoist who had moved to the village and built a thatched hut a dozen days ago.

A dozen days earlier, the Taoist had wandered into the village with a basket, found the place peaceful and pleasant—a rare haven amid the chaos of the world. With the permission of Li Xuanba and Zhou Jian, he settled on a patch of ground outside the village and built a hut.

Seeing how respectfully others treated the Taoist, Li Mingyu had once asked his master who the old man was. Li Xuanba only replied that he was a reclusive master, not to be slighted, and said nothing more.

Over the following days, Li Mingyu observed the Taoist’s odd behavior. Unlike other Taoists, who spent their days reciting scriptures, meditating, or concocting elixirs in pursuit of immortality, this one would either wander the mountains with his basket or stay shut up in his hut for days with bottles and jars, tinkering with unknown things.

One evening, returning from the mountains, the Taoist happened to hear Li Mingyu telling the story of Sun Wukong learning from the Bodhi Patriarch. He was immediately captivated, becoming a regular listener ever since, always sitting quietly, stroking his beard, and smiling as he listened—never speaking, until today.

Li Mingyu, seeing it was this mysterious old Taoist, was not keen to engage. Though his master Li Xuanba had warned him to respect the man, to Li Mingyu—a man who had traversed a millennium—what master could impress him? Had the old Taoist ever seen airplanes and tanks? Missiles and nuclear bombs? Did he know what a rifle or artillery piece was? Could he comprehend hegemonism?

Had Li Mingyu been willing to let go of his pride, he could have easily passed himself off as a reclusive sage by reciting a few famous poems and spouting insights gleaned from later generations’ analyses—he would have made a veritable Zhuge Liang! So his reply to the Taoist was less than respectful: “What if I made it up myself?”

The old Taoist, well-mannered, showed no anger, but cupped his hands and replied, “Your story is indeed exquisite—so much so that even I am enthralled. But today, hearing such an ending, I feel indignant. Sun Wukong, who received the true teaching of the Bodhi Patriarch in the Caves of the Slanting Moon and Three Stars—a Daoist of the highest order, his skills godlike—why should he end up subdued by the Buddha of the West, trapped beneath the Five Elements Mountain? I’ve observed for several days, and your words do not show reverence for the Buddhist school. Why, then, do you exalt Buddhism at the expense of Daoism?”

Li Mingyu found this amusing. So the old Taoist was indignant that a great Daoist figure like Sun Wukong should be suppressed by the Buddhist patriarch, with the unspoken implication that Daoism was not as powerful as Buddhism. As the saying goes, “True enmity lies among peers”—even monks and priests were locked in open and covert struggle.

As for the old Taoist’s question, Li Mingyu rolled his eyes. “Go ask Wu Cheng’en why he favored Buddhism over Daoism. I just tell the story the way the TV series did. If you’re upset by the monkey’s defeat, what will happen when I get to the part where Sun Wukong joins the Buddhists, protects the monk on his journey, and becomes the Victorious Fighting Buddha? You’d probably leap into the river!”

Though he thought this, he didn’t say it aloud. This old Taoist, so persistent in his questioning, was rather tedious. It reminded Li Mingyu of how, in his past life, every visit to a temple or monastery meant being fleeced for tickets, with a bowl of plain noodles costing fifty, a stick of incense thirty, and a visit never costing less than a couple hundred. Sacred sites and places of retreat had become dens of smoke and noise, monks and priests mere professionals—by day chanting and putting on a show, by night carousing and living it up.

With such unpleasant memories, Li Mingyu felt no warmth for their kind. With a laugh, he replied, “Buddhism and Daoism are all the same to me. The original intent of the sages was good: to guide people to virtue, cultivate themselves. But some monks and priests don’t work, living off the people, presenting themselves as enlightened or virtuous while secretly being the worst of criminals. If you don’t pay dearly, don’t expect blessings or exorcisms. Temples face south, but if you lack money or will, don’t bother trying to enter! Frankly, Buddhists have sold out emperors several times, but Daoists at least maintain a better appearance.”

The old Taoist, hearing his mockery, wanted to retort, but recalled that, indeed, as Li Mingyu said, some among his own kind cared only for money, having long abandoned Daoist ideals of quietude and detachment.

He had come to the mountains not only to escape the coming chaos but also because the conflict between Buddhism and Daoism had grown fierce. Since the Southern and Northern Dynasties, Buddhism had flourished, suppressing Daoism to ensure its own dominance. Daoists, unwilling to remain in decline, had fought back. The struggle only intensified, and there was little of the reclusive hermit’s peace left. The old Taoist, respected by many, was pestered by fellow Daoists to take the lead against the Buddhists, but had grown weary and retreated to the mountains.

His lips moved, but in the end he only sighed and said, “You are right. Temples face south, but if you lack money or will, don’t bother entering! Well said, well mocked! Some among us have indeed gone too far. Daoists seek immortality, Buddhists pursue the next life—different means to the same end. Why argue over which is superior? I have been too attached. I accept your lesson.” With that, the old Taoist, deeply dispirited, hung his head, sighing as he turned to leave.

Li Mingyu, having spoken, felt regret. The misdeeds of a few could not be blamed on this old man, who, after all, deserved respect for his age. So he called out, “Old Taoist, I have another Daoist story—about Jiang Taigong, who descended the mountain by the order of the Three Pure Ones to assist King Wu in overthrowing King Zhou, appointing gods along the way. Would you care to hear it tomorrow?”

The old Taoist, halfway gone, brightened at his words and replied, “In that case, I shall be here tomorrow, eager to listen!”