Episode 53: Shaolin Temple

The next day, Hong Geolgae showed up to see Gwai and Tang Mujin, his arm wrapped messily in a dirty cloth.

The bite marks on his forearm were too obvious to ignore, so when asked about it, Hong Geolgae recounted everything that had happened the previous night, including his decision to follow Daepunggae.

“Finally found some peace of mind, have you?” Gwai asked, referring to the late Majonggae.

Hong Geolgae shook his head. “Not quite yet. But I know my master wouldn’t want me to stay stuck in one place.”

“I understand. I hope you achieve great things.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Unlike Gwai, Tang Mujin didn’t bother with long speeches. Instead, he gave Hong Geolgae a hearty slap on the back, masking his own feelings of reluctance.

“See you around.”

“Yeah.”

Hong Geolgae smiled, his face full of mixed emotions. To Tang Mujin, Hong Geolgae was a special friend, but in Hong Geolgae’s life, Tang Mujin was the only true friend he had. Such was the smallness of their village, Jueulchon.

Watching Hong Geolgae’s retreating figure, Tang Mujin felt a tightness in his chest. Trying to lighten the mood, he joked, “You didn’t leave because the old man was a terrible teacher, did you?”

“Every time you open your mouth, nonsense spills out,” Gwai retorted out of habit, though there was a grain of truth in it. Gwai’s teachings hadn’t quite suited Hong Geolgae.

But that was more about the student than the teacher.

Unlike the lean and balanced Tang Mujin, Hong Geolgae was built solid and sturdy. The soft and light martial arts techniques didn’t suit him.

The same went for the Hyunmu Divine Art. It was an internal energy technique Gwai had modified from an existing method, without considering how to teach it to others.

Without medical knowledge, mastering the Hyunmu Divine Art was difficult. Tang Mujin was an exception, quickly understanding and mastering it.

As for the Jasim Sword, it wasn’t a good fit for Hong Geolgae either. He didn’t use swords. In sparring, he wielded a wooden sword, but his style resembled swinging a club or staff more than swordplay.

His footwork showed some promise, but he was nearing his limits. Mastering footwork with an incompatible internal technique was impossible.

‘Still, Daepunggae is a renowned figure. He should do well,’ Gwai thought, organizing his thoughts before asking Tang Mujin, “By the way, how’s the repair of the wooden dummies going?”

“Smoothly.”

“How many have you made?”

“There’s still a long way to go, but for now, I’m focusing on connecting the waterwheel to the wooden dummy hall.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because it’s something that needs to be done. It’s not a task that’ll be finished in a day or two.”

“Well, it’s not my job, so it doesn’t concern me. Do your best.”

Tang Mujin had hoped for some help, but Gwai didn’t offer.

Tang Mujin initially thought the most challenging and time-consuming part of repairing the wooden dummy hall would be making the dummies.

But after a few days of swinging a pickaxe, he changed his mind.

‘This isn’t something I can do alone.’

To transfer the waterwheel’s power to the wooden dummy hall, he needed to bury a wooden beam underground, connecting the waterwheel to the hall.

Even if Dansoryeong handled the work from the waterwheel to the western wall of the Shaolin Temple, Tang Mujin had to manage from the wall to the wooden dummy hall.

The problem was that digging the ground and burying the thick wooden beam was far more grueling than he had imagined.

Dansoryeong was sweating profusely while swinging a pickaxe, but that was in the soft soil of the mountains.

In contrast, the ground within the Shaolin Temple was as hard as a rock, having been trodden by countless people for centuries.

And simply digging and burying the beam wasn’t enough. It had to be encased in a wooden frame to withstand rain, snow, and foot traffic.

The only saving grace was that this work didn’t require exceptional skill, just an endless amount of labor.

Under the orders of the head of the Chubo Hall, a few monks occasionally helped Tang Mujin, but it was far from enough. The monks were always busy.

‘I need a new approach.’

Tang Mujin put down his pickaxe and returned to the guest hall, deep in thought.

Since entering the Shaolin Temple, Tang Mujin’s routine had been fairly consistent.

He would rise early, either carving wooden dummies in the hall or crafting sample dummies with Dansoryeong.

But today, he left the guest hall late and wandered leisurely around the temple grounds.

Unbeknownst to him, his eyes bore a resemblance to Gwai’s—a look that suggested he was up to something.

As the sun began to set and dinner time approached, the monks of Shaolin were wrapping up their duties and dispersing. Tang Mujin quickened his pace towards the training ground in front of the Dharma Hall.

In Shaolin, monks go through various stages to find their place.

Among them, the novice monks honed their basic martial arts skills at the Dharma Hall.

Tang Mujin hid behind the building, observing the young monks. It wasn’t long before he spotted a suitable target.

A novice monk, around seventeen or eighteen years old. If Tang Mujin had a younger brother, he might be about that age.

‘Perfect.’

Tang Mujin casually moved towards the path the target was likely to take. He didn’t even consider the possibility that the monk might pass by without noticing him.

In the Shaolin Temple, the only people with hair were Tang Mujin and Gwai. Naturally, they attracted the curiosity of the young monks.

The target, mingling with his peers, approached Tang Mujin’s direction. The young monks slowed their steps, eager to strike up a conversation.

Tang Mujin, pretending to be lost in thought, suddenly looked up and clasped his hands together in surprise.

“Oh, I seem to be blocking the way. My apologies… Oh?”

He approached the monk he had singled out.

“Monk, do you have any discomfort in your body?”

“Huh? Not really.”

“Ah, but discomfort isn’t just about broken bones or immobility. It ranges from severe symptoms like coughing up blood or aching joints to minor ones like frequent coughing. For instance, the itch in your elbow.”

“What? How did you know?”

The monk’s reaction was large and honest, untainted by worldly experience. It was akin to the reaction of a plant hired by a street charlatan.

Shaolin monks rarely visited physicians unless they were seriously ill, so the reaction was even more pronounced.

But it wasn’t hard to deduce the monk’s itchiness. His elbow was red and swollen from scratching.

Even while talking to Tang Mujin, the monk habitually scratched his elbow.

“I’m currently working with metal and wood, but my main profession is medicine. The Tang family from Sichuan is quite renowned for it.”

“Sichuan!”

Just as Tang Mujin had found Henan to be a distant place last year, Sichuan seemed endlessly far to the Shaolin monk.

And people from faraway places always seemed impressive. Tang Mujin wore a meaningful expression.

“Meeting you here in Henan must be fate. May I examine your symptoms?”

The young monk, eager to converse and have his discomfort addressed, had no reason to refuse. He nodded enthusiastically.

“Please do.”

Tang Mujin calmly examined the symptoms.

The skin was red and swollen, with traces of blood from vigorous scratching.

The affected areas were covered with hard scabs. The dark red color suggested there was no pus underneath.

“It seems you’ve been dealing with this itch for quite some time. Do you sleep well at night?”

“I often wake up in the early morning and toss and turn.”

“Does your arm and chest feel hot, and your palms feel like they’re burning, waking you up?”

The monk’s eyes widened in surprise at the casual question.

“How did you know?”

“A skilled physician can tell. Your mouth must feel dry all the time, and even drinking water doesn’t quench your thirst, right?”

“Exactly!”

The young monk’s expression, along with those of his peers, changed dramatically. It was as if they were witnessing a fortune teller rather than a physician.

Undoubtedly, a mediocre physician in Shaolin would receive a better reaction than Hua Tuo diagnosing patients in a marketplace. Tang Mujin was getting into the spirit of it.

“You probably coughed a lot as a child. Do you have rough patches of skin like tree bark?”

“That’s right! I scratched my side so much it became like that.”

“And every winter, you suffer from stomach aches…”

This time, the reaction was subtle.

Even the most skilled physician couldn’t perfectly predict every symptom. They could only connect common and likely symptoms. Tang Mujin quickly changed the subject.

“…which could be very dangerous. It’s best to drink warm water in winter.”

“Understood!”

Fortunately, he wasn’t caught. Tang Mujin inwardly sighed in relief and continued.

“Now that we know the symptoms, let’s alleviate them. Please give me your arm.”

The young monk obediently extended his arm. But when Tang Mujin naturally pulled out a needle from his pocket, the monk’s face showed clear signs of fear.

“It’ll sting a bit.”

Dang Mujin carefully inserted acupuncture needles into the points of Hyupbaek, Gongchoi, and Yeolgyul. As he moved on to the Eumun and Gye-maek points near the ear, the monks watching him wore puzzled expressions.

“Why are you putting needles in the ear when the problem is with the arm?”

“The body’s meridians are interconnected, influencing each other. By needling the ear, I can treat the arm, and by needling the palm, I can address stomach issues.”

After a brief pause, Dang Mujin slowly removed the needles.

“Does it feel less itchy now?”

The young monk looked uncertain as he examined his arm. Tentatively, he scratched it, expecting the itch to worsen, as it usually does.

A look of surprise spread across his face.

“It really doesn’t itch anymore!”

“Wow, is it already healed?”

The murmurs among the monks grew louder. Before the excitement could escalate, Dang Mujin interjected.

“I’ve only temporarily relieved the itch with acupuncture. Proper treatment takes time, especially for skin conditions.”

“Ohhh.”

Acknowledging limitations often builds trust. The monks showed no trace of doubt in their eyes.

“We shouldn’t use Sopoongsan. Baekhogagyejitang would be more suitable. Come to the guest hall tomorrow morning, and I’ll prepare the herbal medicine for you.”

With the treatment concluded, Dang Mujin glanced around to see young monks eagerly raising their hands.

“I twisted my ankle a while back, and it still hurts when I stand up.”

“I feel like there’s something stuck in my throat. Can you fix that too?”

“Sometimes I get these headaches that feel like my head is being squeezed. What could that be?”

Dang Mujin, maintaining a calm demeanor, lined up the young monks.

“Alright, I’ll see each of you one by one. Please come in order.”

Without asking for anything in return, Dang Mujin treated the minor ailments of the young monks. He also shared stories of his travels through Sichuan and Jinan, keeping them engaged.

After four days of treating the monks’ minor illnesses, Dang Mujin picked up a pickaxe and resumed his work.

While caring for patients is a physician’s duty, Dang Mujin had a different motive.

Not long after he started digging, he sensed a presence behind him. Turning around, he saw a familiar face—the young monk whose boil he had treated.

Having already met, there was no awkwardness. The young monk approached naturally and asked, “Are you busy today?”

Dang Mujin replied politely, “I’d like to treat more patients, but I have pressing work to do.”

Back in Chengdu, Dang Mujin’s father, Dang Jesun, often treated patients without charging them.

One might think people would forget about the cost of medicine, but that wasn’t the case. The burden of gratitude is heavier than one might expect.

Even without being asked, people would bring payment when they could, whether it was a few coins or a couple of measures of grain.

However, some truly couldn’t afford to pay.

Those individuals would repay with labor instead, helping in the kitchen or bringing back a bundle of pine branches from the nearby mountains.

The young monk hesitantly offered, ”…Can I help you?”

“No, it’s fine. You must be tired from your training. Go and rest.”

Refusing like this only made it harder for the young monk to leave.

He glanced around and spotted the pickaxes lined up next to the wooden dummy. For some reason, there were eight sturdy pickaxes ready.

The monk picked up a pickaxe and stood a little distance from Dang Mujin.

“Should I dig here?”

“No, really, it’s fine. But if you insist on helping, a bit to the left would be perfect.”

A few days later, Dang Mujin no longer needed to wield a pickaxe. He had transitioned from laborer to overseer.

Sitting in the shade, he attended to the monks’ minor ailments while the young monks dug the ground on his behalf.

Accustomed to physical work, the monks made impressive progress.

Watching this, Gwaeui approached and asked, “Aren’t you worried about using the monks like this? Some of them can be quite particular, like Agugyesung or the Precepts Master.”

“The Precepts Master visited the other day and said it was fine as long as it was after training.”

“Why?”

“He said helping with secular tasks is a great merit for monks, so it’s actually beneficial.”

Gwaeui’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re a sly one, aren’t you?”

“Let’s call it mutual benefit.”

Dang Mujin sat in the shade, watching the monks swing their pickaxes.