Episode 201: The Confession Cave

The old man made a suggestion that seemed loaded with meaning, but Hong Geolgae found it utterly unappealing.

Naturally, the monks of Shaolin abstain from alcohol.

While Tang Mujin and his companions weren’t monks and thus weren’t bound by such restrictions, the idea of sneaking alcohol into the monastery felt wrong on many levels.

Moreover, wasn’t this old man the very demon locked away in the Confession Cave?

Hong Geolgae recalled the troubled look in Manryeokseung’s eyes as he gazed at the Three-Eyed Buddha.

Tang Mujin, indebted to the Shaolin, could afford to let his acquaintance with the Three-Eyed Buddha slide. But if Hong Geolgae were caught doing favors for the old man, there would be no such leniency.

Besides, the very notion of befriending a demon was repugnant to him.

Unlike Tang Mujin, who didn’t consider himself a righteous martial artist due to his unorthodox master, Hong Geolgae firmly believed he was a warrior of the righteous path.

He glanced at Namgung Myeong.

Had anyone else made a similar offer, Namgung Myeong would have likely quipped, “Why not teach me that martial art instead?”

Yet, Namgung Myeong showed no interest in the martial arts the old man offered. He, too, took pride in being a righteous martial artist.

Thus, Hong Geolgae declined the old man’s proposal.

“I have no intention of learning new martial arts. Mastering what I’ve already learned is challenging enough.”

“I see.”

The old man didn’t seem disappointed. In fact, he appeared relieved, as if he had expected Hong Geolgae’s response.

As Hong Geolgae and Namgung Myeong prepared to leave the cave, the old man called out to them.

“Wait. I have a favor to ask.”

“What is it?”

“Please don’t tell anyone I asked you to bring me alcohol.”

It was a simple request, one they had no reason to refuse. After all, they had no intention of boasting about sneaking into the Confession Cave.

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

The old man resumed crafting his elixirs, and Hong Geolgae and Namgung Myeong left the cave.

The very next day, a minor issue arose. Unable to curb his boredom, Namgung Myeong began teaching the young monks some sleight of hand, only to be caught by the head of the monastery.

“Namgung, what exactly are you teaching them?”

“It’s a method to train dexterity. It can be quite useful for mastering techniques like the Golden Thread or the Air Palm.”

“Though I’m not a martial monk, I doubt this aids in spiritual practice.”

“As you said, you’re not a martial monk. A martial monk would see it differently.”

Namgung Myeong’s brazen excuse didn’t fool the head monk, who had observed martial arts for decades.

The head monk shadowed Namgung Myeong all day, watching him with a stern gaze.

Eventually, Namgung Myeong couldn’t withstand the pressure and retreated to the village below. Hong Geolgae thought it was for the best.

With Namgung Myeong gone, Hong Geolgae found himself with ample free time.

Tang Mujin was busy with his recovery, Hyun Gong was occupied with sparring, and young Wang Jincheong was too engrossed in playing with the other young monks.

“Free time is a blessing.”

Hong Geolgae spent his leisurely hours practicing the Dragon’s Eighteen Palms, techniques he had learned from a wandering monk in Luoyang.

A few days later, as Hong Geolgae lay in bed, his thoughts drifted. The face of Ma Jeon-gae, his late master, surfaced in his mind.

The memories began with the image of his benevolent master and ended with the moment Ma Jeon-gae accepted his fate.

Hong Geolgae then recalled the villagers who had turned their backs on him and the makeshift grave he had built for his master with nothing but his bare hands and a crude stick.

Normally, his thoughts would have stopped there, but this time, another thought emerged.

His old master. The even older hermit in the Confession Cave.

The grave covered in red earth. The iron door of the Confession Cave, rusted and untouched for years.

Hong Geolgae had been by Ma Jeon-gae’s side until the end.

But the hermit in the cave had no one, and likely never would.

The old man would die alone, unknown to the world, his body left to decay on the cold ground, unlike Ma Jeon-gae, who had been buried.

This realization weighed heavily on Hong Geolgae’s heart.

Unable to shake the feeling, he tossed and turned before finally getting up and heading to the Confession Cave. He had no intention of bringing alcohol.

When Hong Geolgae arrived at the cave, the old man was sitting quietly where he had been making his elixirs.

The old man didn’t react to Hong Geolgae’s presence.

“Is he asleep sitting up?”

Not wanting to disturb him, Hong Geolgae sat quietly, observing his surroundings.

After about half an hour, he noticed something odd. Even if asleep, the old man’s chest should have been moving with his breath, but there was no sign of it.

“Could he have died in just a few days?”

Though he had no reason to feel guilty, Hong Geolgae approached the old man with a sense of remorse.

“If I was going to visit, I should have come sooner to witness his final moments.”

But as Hong Geolgae neared, the old man suddenly inhaled deeply and chuckled.

“Did I look convincingly dead?”

“How did you do that? I checked, and you weren’t breathing.”

“I wasn’t not breathing; I was breathing very slowly. Have you heard of the Turtle Breathing Technique?”

“I’ve heard the name.”

Feigning indifference, Hong Geolgae was inwardly impressed.

He had heard of the Turtle Breathing Technique but had never seen anyone actually use it.

What practical use could there be for pretending to be dead? It couldn’t be easy to learn, either.

The old man seemed slightly displeased with Hong Geolgae’s lack of enthusiasm.

Then, an unusual voice echoed around them.

-How about this?

Hong Geolgae looked around. It was clear the old man had spoken, but the voice’s origin was impossible to pinpoint. It didn’t even sound like the old man’s voice.

“Was that you, sir?”

-Yes.

Though Hong Geolgae couldn’t use sound transmission, he knew the old man’s trick was more than simple ventriloquism. The voice seemed to come from all directions, as if multiple people were speaking at once.

“What kind of trick is that?”

The old man replied in his normal voice.

“It’s a little trick I came up with, so it doesn’t have a name. If I had to call it something, maybe Six-Directional Sound Transmission. What do you think? You can gossip without anyone knowing.”

“That’s impressive.”

Seeing Hong Geolgae’s genuine amazement, the old man smiled, his wrinkled eyes crinkling with delight.

Hong Geolgae realized the old man was lonely. He craved human warmth and conversation, which was why he was showing off his tricks.

It was easy to guess why the old man was more active than when they last met. The arrival of Namgung Myeong and Hong Geolgae had disrupted the old man’s long-standing solitude.

The old man picked up a well-dried elixir and offered it to Hong Geolgae.

“I have nothing else to offer a guest but this elixir. Please, have one.”

Though he wasn’t hungry, Hong Geolgae felt compelled to humor the old man and reached out.

But just as the old man pretended to hand over the elixir, he deftly twisted his hand and caught Hong Geolgae’s wrist. It wasn’t threatening or forceful.

“Is this a test of skill?”

In martial arts, practitioners often engage in wrist-grappling games to gauge each other’s skill in techniques like the Hand of the Great Master or the Golden Thread.

It’s a contest of strategy, not strength or speed.

And Hong Geolgae was quite confident in such contests.

Though lacking in speed and internal energy, he had learned numerous hand techniques and palm arts, giving him an edge in strategic battles. Even against Namgung Myeong or Tang Mujin, Hong Geolgae often came out on top.

“Time to show my skills.”

Hong Geolgae employed the Great Hand Technique, a method taught by Daepunggae, who insisted it was essential for any member of the Beggars’ Sect.

He moved his hand slowly, curling and uncurling his fingers, bending and twisting his wrist to target the old man’s wrist.

Yet, the old man, moving just as slowly, easily countered Hong Geolgae’s attempts.

“The Great Hand Technique won’t do.”

Next, Hong Geolgae tried the Cloud Crane Scattering Hand.

This was a technique from the Kunlun Sect, which Daepunggae had belonged to before joining the Beggars’ Sect, allowing Hong Geolgae to learn it.

The Cloud Crane Scattering Hand was the most complex and refined technique Hong Geolgae knew, boasting an impressive win rate against his friends.

But the old man effortlessly neutralized it.

“What?”

Hong Geolgae tried every technique he knew: the Eastern Autumn Hand, the Golden Dragon Art.

The old man countered each one with ease, smiling all the while.

“You’ve learned quite a bit.”

The old man’s skill was far beyond what Hong Geolgae had anticipated.

Flustered, Hong Geolgae racked his brain for any other techniques he might have learned. Nothing came to mind.

“Well, there is one.”

The Crumbling Rock Hand, taught by Ma Jeon-gae in his youth.

But unlike other martial arts, it was a crude technique and was quickly overpowered.

The old man, however, seemed particularly intrigued by the last technique Hong Geolgae had demonstrated, the Pahoksoo.

“It looks like the Pahoksoo of the Beggars’ Sect, but something’s off. It’s quite different from the one I know.”

“In what way?”

“I’ve never learned it directly, but this is how I remember the Pahoksoo.”

The old man moved his hands in a complex pattern, demonstrating the technique.

At first glance, it resembled Hong Geolgae’s version, but the movement of the fingers was entirely different.

The Pahoksoo performed by the old man’s thin, branch-like fingers felt far more powerful and formidable than Hong Geolgae’s.

Hong Geolgae hesitated before responding.

“Perhaps it’s because I didn’t learn the proper Pahoksoo.”

“That might be the case. But I sense there’s a bigger reason. You must have learned it at a young age, didn’t you? Before you were ten.”

“How did you know?”

“It’s obvious. It was modified to teach a child. I can see the adjustments made for a child who doesn’t have the grip strength or finger strength of an adult, and for shorter fingers. It’s not perfect, but it couldn’t have been easy.”

Hong Geolgae’s face flushed with embarrassment.

He realized, perhaps for the first time, that while he respected his master, Ma Jeonga, he also felt ashamed of the martial arts he had been taught.

After standing there in a daze for a while, Hong Geolgae suddenly stood up.

The old man, slightly taken aback, spoke.

“Leaving already?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t been here long. It’s not much, but why not have some byokgokdan before you go?”

“No, thank you.”

Before entering the cave, Hong Geolgae turned back to the old man whose name he didn’t know.

“I’ll come back tomorrow. Thank you, sir.”

Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of Hong Geolgae’s gratitude, or maybe the promise of his return, but the old man finally broke into a bright smile.

“Please do.”

Namgoong Myung had escaped to the lower village to avoid the head of the Chubo Hall, yet meals were still being delivered to the guest quarters at the Shaolin Temple, including Namgoong Myung’s share.

The meals were simple, nothing special—rice mixed with grains and some boiled or stir-fried vegetables, typical of the temple’s humble fare.

Usually, Wang Jincheong, with his hearty appetite, would eat Namgoong Myung’s share as well, but today, for some reason, he left it untouched.

Hong Geolgae, pondering what to do with the leftover meal, thought of the old man in the cave.

The man, though frail, had mentioned he only ate three byokgokdan a day.

Though it wasn’t intentional, Hong Geolgae felt he had received a small lesson from the old man, and thought it wouldn’t hurt to bring him the leftover food.

“It’s not like it’s alcohol. This should be fine.”

Hong Geolgae, as beggars often do, shaped the food into rice balls and wrapped them in clean leaves.

There were no meat dishes or fancy cuisine, but the aroma of the oil wafted through the leaves.

It was incomparable to the bland, tasteless byokgokdan.

“He won’t refuse it, will he?”

Hong Geolgae dashed to the cave with the speed of a bird.

Today, the old man was facing the cave, not sitting with his back turned.

As soon as he saw Hong Geolgae, he spoke.

“You’re here.”

“Yes, I am. Please, take this.”

“What is it?”

Hong Geolgae handed the still-warm rice balls to the old man.

The old man, startled by the unfamiliar warmth and savory smell, slowly unwrapped the leaves with a tense expression.

When the rice balls were revealed, the old man’s face lit up with such joy that he looked as if he might burst into tears.

Contrary to Hong Geolgae’s worries, the old man devoured the rice balls ravenously.

Knowing that eating too quickly after a long fast could be harmful, Hong Geolgae hurried to stop him.

“Careful, you might get sick.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine…”

The old man, tears streaming down his face, finished the rice balls with a blissful expression.

His face, once withered and dry, now seemed to bloom like a plant after a spring rain.

For the first time, Hong Geolgae truly felt that the old man was alive.

“If you were that hungry, you should have eaten more byokgokdan regularly. You said three a day was enough, but you could easily eat thirty in one sitting.”

Hearing this, the old man blushed deeply and lowered his head.

“Thirty? I could eat that much. I was known for my appetite in my younger days. People used to say I ate all the offerings myself… But I can’t do that anymore.”

One word from the old man’s story caught Hong Geolgae’s attention.

“Offerings? Were you a monk?”

The old man nodded with an embarrassed smile.