The Warrior Monk

As Gwang Eom-ra clutched the sword, it writhed like a wild beast, desperate to escape his grasp.

All Manryeokseung could see was Gwang Eom-ra’s back. But the blood splattering everywhere made it clear what was happening in his arms. It was a massacre, the blade tearing through Gwang Eom-ra’s body, a vivid image in Manryeokseung’s mind.

“Aaaah!”

Gwang Eom-ra was not the kind of person who could endure such pain without screaming. He wasn’t particularly stoic or composed, nor did he believe in holding back his cries.

So he screamed with all his might, loud enough to make even those fighting for their lives against the cult leader turn their heads.

“Aaaah, aaaah!”

Yet, even as he screamed, Gwang Eom-ra couldn’t release his grip on the sword. It’s one thing to act bravely once, but it takes true courage to do it a second time. Gwang Eom-ra knew he wasn’t that brave.

In truth, when Gwang Eom-ra had pleaded with Dang Mu-jin, recounting the tragic tales of the Je-gal clan and promising to repay his blood debt, it was mostly an excuse. A way to gain the sympathy of the righteous martial artists and be accepted into their ranks without suspicion.

“Dang Mu-jin! I’m going ahead!”

As the swordplay targeting Dang Mu-jin ceased, Hong Geol-gae, who had been protecting him, was freed to join the fray against the cult leader. Now, only three remained at the back: Dang Mu-jin, Manryeokseung, and the dying Gwang Eom-ra.

Dang Mu-jin shouted to Manryeokseung.

“Carry him!"
"What…?"
"Carry Gwang Eom-ra!”

Following Dang Mu-jin’s command, Manryeokseung hoisted Gwang Eom-ra onto his back. Blood from Gwang Eom-ra’s wounds soaked into Manryeokseung’s robe, quickly turning it damp.

Dang Mu-jin pointed towards a tavern by the river.

“Get inside the tavern! Now!”

Was he planning to treat Gwang Eom-ra? As a physician, Dang Mu-jin would want to assess his condition, but shouldn’t I be fighting the cult leader instead? Manryeokseung thought, even as he ran towards the tavern Dang Mu-jin had indicated. The sign above the entrance read “Dungsun Tavern.”

Inside, a few faint presences could be felt. Several people were huddled in the kitchen corner, some recognizing Dang Mu-jin. But neither he nor Manryeokseung had time to acknowledge them.

Dang Mu-jin laid Gwang Eom-ra on the floor and began to remove his clothes.

The sacrifice you’ve shown today has atoned for your sins, and all your punishments are lifted. As the abbot of Shaolin, I thank you. That’s what he wants to hear. If I say that, Gwang Eom-ra can let go of his regrets and pass peacefully.

But Manryeokseung couldn’t bring himself to say it. Instead, he looked at Gwang Eom-ra with eyes full of anger.

It was a kind of stubbornness. Manryeokseung believed that the resentment he held couldn’t be erased so easily.

Forgiving Gwang Eom-ra here would be a betrayal. A betrayal of his master, of decades of mentorship, of Shaolin itself.

Memories of his master, Shinsung, flooded Manryeokseung’s mind. The day he became Shinsung’s disciple, the times he was scolded for dozing off during morning prayers, the day Shinsung became the abbot and Manryeokseung sincerely congratulated him. The years spent together, like father and son, sometimes like strangers, sometimes like friends.

In Manryeokseung’s life, no one held a place larger than Shinsung.

That’s why he couldn’t forgive Gwang Eom-ra. Even a thousand of Gwang Eom-ra’s lives couldn’t replace Shinsung’s one. How could Gwang Eom-ra think he could wash away Shinsung’s blood with his own life? It was absurd.

‘I’m grateful you saved my life, but I can’t forgive you for that alone. Don’t presume to demand my forgiveness.’

Manryeokseung thought this, saying nothing, and turned away from Gwang Eom-ra.

It wasn’t treatment; it was a kind of self-consolation. You risked your life to save me, but I tried my best to treat you, so I owe you nothing. A pitiful self-justification.

Gwang Eom-ra understood Manryeokseung’s thoughts. He grasped Manryeokseung’s arm with a desperate expression. His hand was cold, yet its grip was surprisingly strong for someone on the brink of death.

Gwang Eom-ra wheezed, as if he might die any moment.

“Look, look, catch…”

Manryeokseung closed his eyes tightly, ignoring Gwang Eom-ra’s gaze. He repeated to himself:

Bastard. Did you think you could be forgiven so easily? Did you think the bond between master and disciple was so shallow?

Though he thought it, he didn’t say it aloud. Instead, he avoided Gwang Eom-ra’s eyes, raising his head slightly before opening them.

And then, Manryeokseung saw the Thousand-Armed Avalokiteshvara.

The setting sun’s light seeped into the tavern, illuminating the image of the Thousand-Armed Avalokiteshvara carved into the wall. An unexpected sight, yet so beautiful and perfect. The Avalokiteshvara gazed down with compassion at Manryeokseung and the dying Gwang Eom-ra below.

Was this mere coincidence? Manryeokseung murmured to himself.

“Guanyin Bodhisattva…”

And for the first time in a long while, he heard his master’s voice. Shinsung asked Manryeokseung:

• Cheongyu. You became a novice monk the day you entered the Shaolin temple and shaved your head, didn’t you?

Manryeokseung replied.

“Yes, I did.”

Shinsung’s voice came again.

• And the day you mastered the Zhuang Qi Gong, you became a martial artist, didn’t you?

Manryeokseung answered once more.

“Yes, I did.”

Finally, Shinsung asked Manryeokseung:

• Then why have you not yet become a warrior monk? Why does the Buddha not reside before you?

Manryeokseung couldn’t answer. He didn’t understand what his master was trying to convey.

He asked himself in his heart.

I’m sorry, I can’t help with that.

A child who crosses the threshold of the Shaolin temple shaves his head and becomes a novice monk. Almost all novice monks learn martial arts, and each year, dozens, even hundreds, become martial artists.

But sometimes, monks who become engrossed in martial arts forget their monastic vows. Such individuals may be excellent martial artists, but they cannot be called warrior monks.

Yet now, Manryeokseung attains enlightenment and is reborn as a warrior monk.

In the place where a resentful martial artist fell, where a monk with a freshly shaven head reflects on the Buddha’s teachings, a Shaolin warrior monk is born.

Manryeokseung gently laid the body he had been holding onto the ground. His robe was soaked with blood.

He picked up the tattered gloves he had worn. Blood dripped from his fists, but he paid it no mind.

Then, he clasped his hands in prayer towards the motionless Jegal Yeon-mun and murmured.

“May you be reborn in the Pure Land.”

The Shaolin warrior monk took one last look at the Thousand-Armed Avalokiteshvara. Then, he turned his steps towards the outside, where the mountain breeze blew.