The group entered the wooden corridor, each imagining what lay inside. Even Tang Mujin and Hong Geolge, who were well-traveled, couldn’t hide their curiosity, and Gwai, known for his wide-ranging knowledge, was no exception.
As they opened the triple doors and stepped inside, a cloud of dust rose, obscuring their view.
Cough, cough. Tang Mujin couldn’t help but cough, prompting the head of the Chu Bo Hall to speak sheepishly.
“We were planning to tear down the corridor soon, so we haven’t cleaned it in the last three or four years. Please understand.”
His demeanor had softened since earlier. Tang Mujin nodded in acknowledgment.
As the dust settled, the interior came into view.
The corridor, known as Mok In Hang, or “Wooden Man Alley,” was more of a narrow, elongated passage than a spacious room, living up to its name.
It stretched about ten meters long and was roughly a meter and a half wide. If people stood side by side, it could barely fit three or four.
However, this didn’t mean three or four people could walk through it simultaneously. Lined with dozens of wooden figures on either side, the actual space for passage was minimal—just enough for one person to squeeze through.
The head of the Chu Bo Hall addressed the group.
“I’ll return to the hall. If you need anything, let me know. I can’t offer much help, but I’ll do what I can.”
“How long can we stay?”
“Take your time. You’re the last ones who’ll ever see this place.”
The head’s words were no exaggeration. He believed that if anyone could restore the corridor, it would be Tang Mujin. If not, then no one could.
If Tang Mujin could repair it, that would be ideal. But if he couldn’t, they would simply demolish it and move on.
Once the head left, the three began to explore the corridor.
Most of the wooden figures were unimpressive. Their heads were crudely shaped, like hastily cut tree stumps, and their bodies were little more than logs of appropriate length. Their arms, roughly separated into upper and lower sections, ended in round metal fists.
“These look pretty shabby.”
The figures were all worn and decayed to varying degrees.
Some had heads nearly rotted away but relatively intact arms, while others had decayed arms but passable torsos and legs. The type of wood varied from figure to figure and part to part.
“Looks like different people have tried to repair them over the years.”
“Seems that way. Look at this.”
Gwai pointed to a figure lying at the far end of the corridor.
Unlike the others, this one was intricately carved, almost lifelike. Even Tang Mujin found it impressive.
Though it appeared older than the rest, its exterior was well-preserved, likely due to careful painting.
“Maybe this is what they originally looked like.”
“Probably.”
Tang Mujin imagined the corridor as it once was, lined with dozens of such finely crafted figures. It must have been quite a sight.
But Gwai seemed puzzled.
“Still, it’s strange. You could find plenty of people capable of carving figures like this. Offering such a huge reward to recreate these doesn’t make sense.”
Tang Mujin agreed. Given a few days, he could probably carve new figures for the entire corridor.
“Shaolin must be generous. Lucky for us.”
As Tang Mujin spoke, Hong Geolge chimed in from behind.
“No, it’s not that simple.”
“Why? Did you find something?”
“Take a look at this.”
Hong Geolge held a detached, decayed arm of a wooden figure. At first glance, it seemed ordinary.
But as he fiddled with the part where the arm connected to the shoulder, the elbow began to bend slowly.
“How did you do that?”
“Come here and see.”
Gwai and Tang Mujin approached to examine the arm.
To their surprise, the arm was a hollow cylinder, filled with intricate wooden components that seemed ready to crumble at any moment.
“Watch as I turn this rod.”
Hong Geolge twisted a component to the right, causing a gear at the end of the wooden piece to engage with another, setting off a chain reaction.
As he continued to turn the piece, the arm extended, bent, and extended again.
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
“This is…”
Tang Mujin had seen a similar mechanism before.
A system where rotating parts set others in motion, creating a chain of movement.
The waterwheels near Chengdu operated this way.
Though the waterwheels themselves turned slowly, the devices connected to them ground grain and even powered bellows in some forges.
The sight of dozens of waterwheels in motion was so awe-inspiring that even the well-traveled claimed they rivaled the Great Wall as one of the greatest structures in the land.
“Could it be?”
Tang Mujin examined the fallen, broken figures instead of those still standing.
Each figure’s cross-section was hollow, filled with a complex network of components. Not just the arms, but the torsos and legs as well.
The intricate parts within the figures seemed to tell Tang Mujin that they once moved like living beings.
Then he noticed something else.
The figures weren’t standing on their own two feet but were supported by thick pillars connecting their torsos to the ground.
Initially, he hadn’t paid much attention, but now those wooden pillars seemed significant.
“What’s up?”
“Hold on a second.”
Tang Mujin crouched under one of the better-preserved figures and tried turning the supporting pillar with both hands. It was stiff, but with enough force, it began to rotate.
As the pillar turned, the figure slowly moved its limbs.
But before it could complete a single motion, Tang Mujin felt something inside the figure snap.
The figure stopped, unable to finish its movement.
Yet even that small motion was enough to understand what these figures were.
Tang Mujin, along with Gwai and Hong Geolge, who had been watching idly, now wore expressions of shock.
“Incredible.”
“Who would’ve thought? Can the other figures move like this too?”
Gwai and Hong Geolge crouched down and turned the pillars under other intact figures.
Most were broken and didn’t move, but a few displayed various motions—swinging arms, extending legs, aiming elbows at vital points.
Watching this, Tang Mujin pondered another question.
To move the figures, the pillars beneath them had to be turned. But who or what turned those pillars?
Did dozens of people crouch beneath the figures, manually turning the pillars? That couldn’t be. The corridor was too narrow for that many people.
Tang Mujin’s gaze shifted to the floor beneath the pillars.
He tapped his heel on the ground. Thud, thud. A hollow sound echoed. The floor was empty beneath.
Without hesitation, Tang Mujin pried open the floor of the corridor. Beneath lay a network of precisely cut and grooved wooden beams, each connected to the pillars supporting the figures.
The floor was too narrow for a person to fit, and the beams extended into an unknown distance.
In other words, the power to move the corridor came from outside.
The three were speechless.
The structure beneath the floor was vast, intricate, and overwhelming, even in its broken state.
They imagined the corridor as it was three hundred years ago.
Back when it was operational, the entire structure would have moved like a living organism.
The figures would have ceaselessly extended their limbs, blocking anyone trying to pass through.
The corridor was a living manual of martial arts.
Countless monks must have gained enlightenment facing these figures, elevating Shaolin from a mere mountain temple to a martial arts powerhouse.
Gwai, after staring at the structure beneath the floor for a long time, spoke quietly.
“Now I understand the head’s reaction. Anyone claiming they can fix this is either a fool or a fraud.”
Anyone who grasped the corridor’s grandeur and mechanical precision would never think of repairing it. They’d shake their head and walk away.
Conversely, anyone who stayed, claiming they could fix it, was either ignorant of its complexity or a con artist.
“This isn’t something an individual can repair. Now I see why the monks offered anything to the one who could fix it. Anything but the Jade Fire Palm? No, if you could fix this, they’d forgive you for stealing the Jade Fire Palm and the Great Elixir.”
The enigmatic figure spoke, fixing a steady gaze on Dang Mujin.
His eyes seemed to ask, “Even so, maybe you can do it. Can you fix it?”
Dang Mujin closed his eyes, pondering for a long while before shaking his head.
“I can’t fix this.”
“Is it because there are too many intricate parts?”
“No, that’s not it. If I had the time, I could replicate every worn or broken piece. But I have no idea where those parts go, how the automaton operates, or even how it’s supposed to move.”
A sense of regret welled up inside Dang Mujin.
If only he had been here two or three hundred years ago, he might have been able to repair the automaton. If the old, worn parts had held their place, he could have replaced the broken ones and set it in motion again.
Hearing Dang Mujin’s despondent response, the enigmatic figure spoke cheerfully.
“If that’s the issue, it’s too soon to give up.”
“Is there a way?”
“There might be some records. Let’s ask the head of Chubodang.”
When the three of them entered Chubodang, the head asked, “Can you repair the automaton?”
“It doesn’t seem easy at the moment.”
“Are you giving up?”
“I’d like to investigate a bit more.”
Despite Dang Mujin’s negative assessment, the head of Chubodang’s expression brightened.
In his experience, people who saw the automaton had two reactions: those who threw up their hands, claiming it was beyond repair, and those who confidently asserted they could fix it.
The former were genuinely there to repair it, while the latter were either frauds or fools.
But Dang Mujin acknowledged the difficulty without completely giving up. This was the response the head had been waiting for. He nodded slightly.
“In that case, there must be a reason you’ve come to me. Is there anything I can assist you with?”
“Do you have any records related to the automaton? I heard there’s a library at Shaolin.”
The head shook his head.
“The library doesn’t have anything on the automaton. Only martial arts texts and Buddhist scriptures. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“Oh…”
Dang Mujin’s face fell. The head of Chubodang thought for a moment before adding, “But there might be someone who can help, though I’m not sure how much.”
“Who would that be?”
“Head west after leaving the gate. Not far from here, there’s a rather large hut. The owner might know something.”
The enigmatic figure and Hong Geolge returned to rest at the guest house, while Dang Mujin set out alone, heading west.
As he searched for the hut, he spotted a woman he had seen a few days earlier, hard at work. She was sweating profusely, sleeves rolled up, swinging a pickaxe to dig into the ground.
Knowing he’d get an earful if he approached too closely, Dang Mujin kept a respectful distance, scanning the area.
Soon, he found the makeshift hut, not far from a waterwheel.
As he hesitated, wondering how to meet the hut’s owner without alerting the woman, she straightened up, spotted him, and frowned deeply.
She approached, pickaxe in hand, ready to swing if necessary.
“Last time you had the nerve to deny it, and now you’re sneaking back? Get lost!”
She raised the pickaxe threateningly, but Dang Mujin was not as easy to intimidate as he seemed.
He used his swift footwork to approach her and smoothly disarmed her of the pickaxe.
“What?”
In an instant, the man before her moved like a ghost, and the pickaxe was gone from her hands.
Startled, she backed away, her eyes still sharp but her legs ready to flee.
Dang Mujin handed the pickaxe back to her, speaking calmly.
“I’m not here to cause trouble or break anything. I just have a question.”
Perhaps because she had the pickaxe back, or maybe realizing it wouldn’t help much, she seemed to regain some composure.
”…What do you want to ask?”
“The head of Chubodang suggested I seek help from the owner of this hut. Could you tell me where Mr. Dan is?”
“Mr. Dan? I’m the only Dan here, Dan Seol-young.”
Dan Seol-young eyed Dang Mujin warily, her expression full of suspicion.