As previously mentioned, the Shaolin Monastery clung to the slopes of Mount Song—one of the five sacred mountains of China. For here, in the empire of the dragon, mountains are equal to deities. Tradition attributes divine powers to mountain peaks. Songshan is not a single peak, but an entire mountain range stretching across the Dengfeng County. Its highest elevations are Mount Taishi in the east and Mount Shaoshi in the west. Shaolin lies at the foot of the latter. Its name reflects its mountainous setting—derived from the aforementioned Mount Shao, lin meaning "dense forest", and si meaning "temple". Thus: "the temple at the foot of the Shao mountains, in a dense forest."
On the fourth day after setting out from Chang'an, the monks arrived at Shaolin late in the evening. Lianjie was the only one among them who did not immediately cross the threshold of the temple. He stood in the courtyard, gazing at the temple's main gate—the Mountain Gate. It was one of those moments when a man's mind returns to a past that was better than his present, making him feel the passing of time all the more painfully. For a moment, he sensed the presence of his father, who had brought him here as a five-year-old boy and never appeared in his life again. A return to one's roots is not always joyful—sometimes you come back home only to find that no one is there anymore. Slowly, life itself becomes such an emptying house. Although Shaolin was the place dearest to his heart, none of his childhood companions with whom he had spent twelve years remained; the eldest monks were gone, and now their High Master was dying. An era was ending, and a new one was beginning. A new order, a new generation. Sometimes it was hard to grasp, but there was no other way than to accept it, lest one go mad.
At last, he tore his mind away from the loop of memories and moved forward. Passing through the Mountain Gate was like a child returned to its mother—a joy. He had returned to the place that had shaped him and taught him everything he could do and everything he believed in. The first to greet the masters and disciples in the atrium of the Mountain Gate was a statue of the Buddha Maitreya, successor to the Buddha Shakyamuni. Maitreya in Sanskrit means "loving-kindness." Lianjie bowed before the statue and moved on to the Pavilion of the Four Heavenly Kings. There too, he bowed to all four deities, each of whom protected and guarded one of the four directions of the world.
Another building through which Lianjie passed with no small amount of sentiment was the Hall of Great Strength, also known as the Temple of the Trinity – the heart of every Buddhist temple. It was here that each morning he recited mantras with the monks and other adepts, and in the evenings, the sutras. It was here that all the rituals of Buddhist practice took place, such as food offerings or the ordination of adepts. It was here, two years earlier, that he had taken a vow of silence before his master – Su Yu Chun.
That evening, the temple was full. All the monks and their disciples sat in lotus position, offering prayers for the dying High Master. The prayers were based on the teachings of the Buddha, recorded in the sutras. The monks recited the litanies with focus, while the Elder Monk accompanied them using a Muyu. Legend had it that the sutras, brought from India by a certain monk, had been swallowed by a fish. Since then, litanies have been accompanied by the Muyu, a wooden instrument shaped like a fish.
Lianjie paused on the threshold, watching the Elder Monk as he rhythmically struck the Muyu with solemn concentration. The monk clearly felt Lianjie's gaze and simply nodded for him to go on and not keep the master waiting.
Between him and the Residence of the Supreme Master of the Monastery still lay the House of Sutras and the pavilion housing the adepts' quarters. The closer he got to the inevitable confrontation with reality, the heavier each step up the temple pavilions became. Amid memories that came alive with every step, among thoughts that pricked like needles when one suddenly plunges into icy water, amid the fear of what he might hear from the dying master, and amid the uncertainty of whether he himself could bear the weight of the encounter, he still wrestled with the dilemma of whether to break his vows for such a moment, or remain faithful to them to the end.
He walked on through the deepening dusk until the first step of the pavilion, where Su Yu Chun lay dying, stopped him. It was as if an invisible barrier had suddenly risen before him. Lianjie gazed at the flickering candles visible through the windows. They burned throughout the chamber, casting cones of light onto the courtyard in front of the pavilion.
Lianjie sighed and stepped over the threshold. From the very entrance hall, there was an aura of peace, despite the death looming in every corner. The first atrium, just beyond the vestibule, had not changed a bit. Even the flowers around the small statue of the Buddha behind the writing desk where the master used to study and transcribe sacred texts were just as he remembered them from the day of his arrival. No piece of furniture had shifted position, and the colors still played together in perfect harmony. The master was known for his fondness for objects he had grown attached to. If the surroundings he had created allowed him to work, he believed that their harmony should not be disturbed.
Here, he felt like the last fitting link, and nowhere else had he worked on the scriptures like in his own pavilion. The next two rooms had also remained unchanged. The only thing that caught Lianjie's eye was the additional shelves in the master's pavilion library, to which the master had evidently contributed much over the past two years. On the small terrace, where he used to meditate and train, nothing had been moved either. The last room along his path was the one where the master slept. It was there that Su Yu Chun now awaited him, and Lianjie froze in place, realizing that he would never again burst in here as a little boy and interrupt either the study of books or meditation. The only thing he could find now was a legend nearing the end of its life, laid out on a catafalque. No sound came from the bedroom. It was so quiet, as if he would find nothing there but a forgotten and dusty storeroom.
Lianjie clutched his chest as a thought pierced his mind — they had most likely arrived too late... but Shaolin monks are the strongest people to walk the earth. They do not simply pass defeated. They leave only when they truly choose to. They are not relentless all their lives just to surrender at the end. The master had never once broken his word. If he had waited for his disciple all these days, then surely he was still waiting. Lianjie reassured himself that it must be so, and finally pressed down the door handle.
The room was bathed in candlelight, the flames dancing in unison as if conducted by an unseen hand. A gentle wind, ever present during cool dusks over Songshan, slipped in through the windows, stirring the thin curtains that shrouded them. Everything was just as it had always been, in the master's favorite warm tones—gold, orange, red, and shades of yellow. Only the white canopy stretched around the catafalque, pulled up to the ceiling by a silk ribbon, marked a solitary island.
Lianjie approached it slowly, uncertain whether he feared peering through the misty folds of woven cloth or had already come to terms with the thought of death and yet another loss in this thorn-strewn life. The closer he came, the more he knew he must accept it—otherwise he wouldn't dare look.
When he reached the head of the bed, through the sheer mesh fabric, he saw his master's face. His eyes were closed, dark circles hollowed beneath them, his cheeks deeply sunken, and his mouth slightly open. His hands were folded on his chest, and it took a moment of close observation to notice the faint, fading rise and fall of his breath. The master looked somewhat like a man who had just lain down after a long, hard day and was beginning to drift into sleep, though his consciousness had not yet faded.
Gently, Lianjie pulled aside the canopy and sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to startle him with his sudden presence. He watched him for a while and noticed a glimmer under the master's left eyelid. A tear rolled down his cheek and disappeared into the pillow. The master had sensed who had come to him. With great effort, he opened his eyes and looked at Lianjie.
But in his disciple's gaze he found no former resolve, only a burnout more dangerous and devastating than anything else in life. The old man's eyes grew even more glassy in response, and Lianjie lowered his gaze to the floor, ashamed and angry at himself for bringing not comfort but disappointment to the dying.
Yet the master, with great difficulty, lifted one hand and placed it on his shoulder. Lianjie choked out a quiet sob and covered his eyes. They remained like that for a long time, until the young man overcame his first tremor of emotion.
The sky over Henan was ablaze with stars, and the wind had gone to rest. A completely windless night hadn't occurred here for a long time, just as the sky hadn't been so densely dotted with stars as it was tonight. The monks had even come out of the Palace of Great Strength to witness these wonders. They tried to discern signs in the sky that might reveal what the future holds, hoping it would unveil even a sliver of its secrets. Yet, apart from the vividly twinkling points, nothing foretold any prophecy.
Meanwhile, the dying master could read everything in his silent disciple without needing any words or confessions. He knew all his secrets and wounds. The night always favors the emergence of the worst, the most vile, and the most painful. And this very night showed that Lianjie hadn't rid himself of the wounds of the past. He hadn't forgotten them, nor had he come to terms with them. He lived burdened by guilt he couldn't forgive himself for. And he blamed his righteousness for everything. There was a time when he pointed to his best qualities as the cause of his misfortunes. This wastefulness was what the master wanted to spare him from:
"Do you remember what I told you about fire?" the master asked in a hoarse voice, and Lianjie turned his gaze to him, squeezing his withered hand with skin thin as paper.
"Fire is brightness. But before it blooms and dispels darkness, it must destroy something. It engulfs the wood, encloses it in its merciless flames, and begins to dry it. It expels all the sap from it, extracts the moisture, and causes the water to escape with a hiss. Once it has taken away its vitality, it makes it black, charred, and ugly. It causes it to emit a biting stench. However, the longer it consumes and dries it, the more beautiful it becomes. All the dark and ugly afflictions disappear. Because ugliness is the opposite of fire. Finally, when it completely engulfs it, it ignites it, transforms it into itself, and makes it as beautiful as it is. In the wood, none of its ugly traits remain, only the subtle shape of fire. It is hot and warms. It is glowing, illuminates, and shows the way. It is much lighter than it was before. The world was created from good, Lianjie," the master said, squeezing his hand more firmly. "It is meant to endure on good. All the evil that came to you could have emerged from good. Like that fire. Returning to oneself doesn't happen immediately, my boy. It must go through tragic moments of shedding oneself, destroying what is dirty, and burning, so that warmth and light can emerge into the world. And so it is with us. Wrongs and failures clip our wings. But what destroys you can turn out to be your savior. It can rebirth you like a phoenix rising from the ashes. You've allowed this consuming fire to burn for too long. Let it destroy what is unnecessary and ignite the true light."
Lianjie listened as if someone were playing a harp. He would give anything to return to the dawn when he first heard it. At this very moment, he would give up all his future incarnations just to turn back time and avoid his suffering. The master coughed heavily. Lianjie immediately came to his senses. He was ashamed that, lost in thought, he hadn't thought to offer him water. He took a shallow, small cup from the table, filled it with water, and carefully poured it into his master's mouth. Su Yu Chun asked for another and again took his hand. Now he was finding it harder to breathe. A cold shiver ran down Lianjie's spine. This weakness meant that death was standing right above the bier, precisely measuring its duty. There was little time left.
"A man cannot escape his weaknesses. He cannot completely extinguish desire. It is in him. And it burns him from within. But we must watch over that fire. You must believe, Lianjie. In your life, the consuming fire will turn into one that builds—one that brings you love and fulfillment. It has not yet burned through you entirely. It still wounds. I know what happened to you, Lianjie, and I know how much you need to make peace with it. Let go of the guilt, and then you will see more deeply and farther. Remember darkness and light. Night and fire. The dark flame, painful, dull, and bitter. The sweet flame, tender, lively, and exalted. They can only come together through love. Do not lose your love for people. Try to speak with them again. Darkness can be purifying, but do not let it possess you. Endure it humbly until the pain passes through you. Then, the long-lost harmony will return."
The master slightly closed his eyes. He had spoken for a long time, and weariness began to sap the last of his strength. He held Lianjie's hand much more weakly now. It nearly slipped from his grasp had Lianjie not squeezed it more firmly. The master had only one breath left. Wei saw the approaching end in his clouding pupils. His eyes immediately filled with tears. The master was clearly gathering the last of his strength to say goodbye.
"Perfect yourself and work hard without harming anyone. That is the greatest thing we can achieve as humans. That is why we live. To prove our humanity and find our place in the world. And you will find yours, Lianjie. I'm certain that one day you will believe again. And if someday…" — the master rasped, trying to take a deeper breath — "… if someday you meet Shen Ru'an, tell him…"
Here, the master grew even weaker, so Lianjie leaned his ear to his lips and listened to his last words, whispered in the faint breath of finality. The master reached deep into his most hidden fears, longings, and doubts. A choked sob once again shook Wei, and he needed a moment to compose himself. Only then did he realize the master's hand was completely limp. His journey had ended. With the utmost care and reverence, Lianjie laid the frail, delicate hand back on his chest. The old master had breathed his last so quietly that Lianjie hadn't even noticed it. His eyes brimmed with tears again as he understood that the master's energy had faded and all movement had ceased. The master had passed peacefully, happily, reconciled with himself and the world. His face looked as if he were still alive, merely sleeping the sleep of the just. In Lianjie's heart, a pang of envy rose for that harmony and unity with the universe, which he had been so desperately seeking for so long.
His meditations brought no relief, no answers, and the master's death only added to his pain and uncertainty. In recent months, thoughts of impermanence and the passage of time had consumed him. He pondered how, under its merciless flow, all things a man builds and accomplishes are doomed to decay.
He remembered his master at the peak of his martial genius—the most beautiful style of combat ever seen in Henan. The master used to say that when a natural genius appears in one, somewhere nearby another must exist, so that beauty may have a successor and continuity in its artistry. He said beauty is a virtue, and when it is paired with skill, it becomes art itself. The master considered Lianjie his very reincarnation, somehow born still in his own lifetime.
Just as emperors saw celestial signs as a mandate to rule, the master saw in the gifted and graceful young man a sign from Buddha—that the world of karmic threads could touch us, guard us from mistakes, and guide us when our destiny is written in the stars. In such moments, the Buddha descends to earth to ensure his precious incarnation does not stray and waste what was given. Lianjie, too, tried to think of his turbulent fate in such terms. But he had yet to discover what this great destiny might be—what path a warrior's heart was meant to follow.
There was a time he doubted his monastic calling, believing that being torn from Shaolin by the Emperor was a sign from the heavens that this was not his path. At other times, he saw it merely as a chain of unfortunate events—that a rumor had reached the ruler's ears, and it was the Emperor's curiosity and greed that had stood in the way of Lianjie's destiny.
One side of his mind insisted: "You shape your own fate. Every act bears fruit, and your will determines how you use it." The other warned: "Fate hangs over a man's life and will not leave him until it has satisfied the purpose for which it was sent. You are but dust on the wind. Whatever you do, your path has already been written."
This plagued Lianjie for so long that nothing could bring him comfort. Not the thousands of pages he had read, nor the long days spent in meditation, nor the hours walking through cypress groves lashed by rain, nor the moments before dawn spent on a gently swaying boat upon the river that bathed the Empress's palace. None of these havens of peace had yielded an answer to the most difficult of his questions:
Do I live to carve my own story with my own deeds? Or to fulfill a destiny already chosen for me, no matter whether it is good or cruel?
How deeply he had once wished to hear his master's answer to that question. But the vow he had made to himself stood above all else in the world. And although the master always praised his exemplary discipline, Lianjie now felt it had betrayed him in the end. For though the master always understood him without words and never pressed him to break his vow even in his final days, the greatest sorrow was being unable to bid him farewell with a parting word.
Yet Lianjie had endured so much in his life that once again, he swallowed the pain in silence.
At last, resting his head beside the master, he wept—loudly and bitterly—so that every monk in the Hall of Great Strenght turned toward the voice of grief.
The monastery had never known echoes of such sorrow within its walls, but now it had no choice but to listen.
Lianjie did not leave the Pavilion of the Supreme Master of the Monastery. The monks assumed he would remain there until dawn and departed for the Drum Tower to prepare everything needed for the cremation ritual, which usually began at sunrise.
Lianjie, meanwhile, prayed for his master, never leaving the side of the catafalque. He spent the rest of the night immersed in memories of his thirteen years in Shaolin, when, as a six-year-old boy, he had first incurred his master's wrath by stepping on the hem of his robe while carelessly trailing behind him, his eyes fixed on the stone steles inscribed with imperial decrees. He had received a swift stroke of the cane across his calves for that mistake. From that moment on, he always watched where he stepped within the monastery grounds.
In his mind, the years of learning and hard labor under his master's vigilant eye began to return to him. He remembered every punishment and reward, every praise and reprimand, every wound, fracture, bruise, and welt — but also every triumph, the growing endurance, strength, and agility that came with each passing year. Everything he had achieved, he owed to his masters' teachings and his own perseverance.
A thought began to take shape in his heart — that it was now his duty to ensure his master's legacy endured, to find a disciple like himself and pass on all that he had learned. The preparation of the "New Thirteen" for service to the Emperor began to grow in his mind as the first step toward his own redemption and the discovery of a purpose in life.
Only just before dawn did Lianjie leave the pavilion and make his way to the monastery courtyard in front of the Hall of Great Strength. That was always where he watched the sunrise. The cold night had left behind a gloomy pre-dawn landscape. The dark forests of the Songshan massif were drowning in mist. In the dim veil of transition between night and day, it looked like thick smoke lingering after a recently extinguished fire. The chill bit into his nostrils and stung his cheeks. Autumn was beginning to shroud the landscape in melancholy.
Lianjie waited for the first light of the sun to appear. He strained his eyes toward the peak of Mount Shao, for that was where the sun always emerged. And this time too, a thin golden arc began to rise from its eastern slope. As he watched the new day being born, he carried within himself both flames his master had spoken of: one warm and uplifting, urging him to rejoice in the new dawn, the new beginning and hope it brought; the other dark, bitter, and painful, reminding him that more time had passed—that something else had now joined the past and been lost.
Looking at the sunrise from his place on earth, in his beloved refuge, Lianjie found more peace in his thoughts than anywhere else. He had a mission to fulfill, but the shadow of yesterday's loss lay heavy upon it. The loss of a mentor whom he could no longer seek for guidance on this new path.
When the sun's disc fully rose above the steadfast massif of Mount Shao and golden rays sliced through the monastery walls with their light, the monks began gathering in the Hall of Great Strength. Prayers lasted for two hours, after which preparations began for the cremation ritual in the courtyard before the Pavilion of the Supreme Master of the Monastery.
Lianjie and the Four Elders prepared the master's body for cremation, anointing it with oils and wrapping it in sheets of light linen. When all was ready, Lianjie and the Elders laid the deceased Supreme Master's body on a simple wooden bier and carried it from the pavilion. It was placed upon the pyre amidst the chanting of sutras.
The Oldest Monk delivered a brief farewell speech, then ignited a clay vessel filled with flammable resin and handed the torch to Lianjie. Wei dipped it into the burning resin and watched as the Four Elders circled the pyre, pouring aromatic, combustible oils on the beams. When they had completed the circle and the Oldest stood beside Lianjie, it was the sign that the time had come for the final act of farewell.
But Lianjie stood frozen with the torch in his hand. Though all eyes awaited this final duty from him, and though he believed himself reconciled with it, he froze with a bitter reflection in his mind.
There is drama and there is tragedy. Drama, while it lasts, holds the hope of reversal. Tragedy, however, is complete ruin—an ultimate nemesis against which nothing can be done.
The master was gone. With him, the world had lost vast stretches of goodness and wisdom, and Lianjie had lost his last support. As long as he had lived in the court, there was hope that the emperor would grow weary of his stubbornness and he will return to Shaolin, a place he wished would never change. But the irreversible cruelty of fate had forced change. That, for Lianjie, was the difference between drama and tragedy.
"If this was meant to be, if this is the fate written for me and not one I shape but merely fulfill, then there is nothing left but to accept it," he thought, and a tear ran down his cheek.
Only then did he move from his place, looked with a gaze full of grievance and injustice at the body laid on the pyre, and brought the torch close. A plume of fire burst from several sides at once and began to consume the pyre.
Lianjie watched, reciting in his mind every word the master had spoken the night before. Just as his wisdom had testified to the life he lived, now his death was a living example of his words. The fire first greedily devoured what was given to it. It destroyed and disfigured the carefully embalmed body, only to end by burning in harmony with it.
Lianjie did not take his eyes off the flames until they began to die down. A mound of ash formed from the pyre, which the monks immediately collected into a bronze urn, lest the wind scatter it. Lianjie watched with a stone face.
It was hard to believe that from the man to whom he owed so much, nothing remained. He was now only a memory. Lianjie saw him in his thoughts. And thoughts are like painted images—the only images we can hear.
The ritual came to an end, and the courtyard emptied. More hours passed into the past. Lianjie entered the Hall of Great Strength and closed the door behind him.
When he was not in solitude and meditation, it seemed to him that time passed much faster outside his loneliness than within it.
The monks returned to their daily routine. After the funeral ritual, they went to the first courtyard near the Pavilion of the Four Heavenly Kings for morning training and exercise. They usually spent time there until lunch. Close to noon, their routine was interrupted by the arrival of a visitor. From Tibet had come the second most gifted student of the late master – Shen Ru'an. Also a twenty-year-old youth. His posture suggested strength, fearlessness, intelligence, and youthful energy. Yet his face was so tired and burdened that he looked several years older than he actually was.
Only the Elder Monk came forward to meet him. The rest greeted him only from afar. Shen bowed low to the Elder and immediately asked:
"Master, what of Master Su Yu? How is he? Is he feeling better?" – he asked with a hopeful smile.
But the Elder lowered his head slightly, then turned toward the Palace of Great Strength. The smile vanished instantly from Shen's face. First, he understood that it was too late and he would not be able to say goodbye to his master. Second, descending the steps was Lianjie, rolling wooden prayer beads between his fingers. He stopped on the penultimate step and raised his gaze. At the sight of Shen Ru'an, the next bead froze in his hand, and lightning flashed from his eyes. He looked at the newcomer with the purest hatred. The air thickened in an instant. Anyone who wanted to say goodbye to life at that moment, standing in the line of fire where Lianjie's eyes collided with Shen's might as well hang themselves on it – the tension of old, unresolved grievances was that strong.
The awkward silence was broken by the Second Elder, who spoke to Shen:
"The Master passed away during the night. He waited for one of you. He held on, resisting death, until the one he wished to see had arrived. And Shen, that privilege was not meant for you."
The young man's lips trembled, and a great tear rolled down his cheek. The monks, however, didn't seem inclined to offer kind words or comfort. Only the Elder gave a reproachful glance to the Second Elder and took the young man's wrist, saying:
"What has spilled from the bowl cannot return to it. Just as spoken words cannot be taken back."
Shen squeezed his hand and raised his gaze to Lianjie, still standing like a pillar of salt on the steps. His face was the coldest of all, and his eyes continued to hurl thunderbolts of hatred in his direction. Shen Ru'an quickly wiped the tears streaming down his face, as if afraid that a smirk of pity might appear on Lianjie's lips. But Wei had no intention of mocking anyone's suffering; he remained still as stone, simply observing Shen.
The Elder Monk gave Shen a gentle, understanding smile and approached Lianjie, saying:
"I don't know what came between you two so deeply. Only your master knew. I sent Shen Ru'an a letter, even though the master did not ask me to. In my memory, Shen is still a friend. I regret that in yours, he is not."
Lianjie looked at him with understanding and placed a hand on his shoulder. After a moment, however, he walked away, turning the wooden prayer beads in his fingers. The Elder sighed heavily, watching Shen's leaden gaze follow Lianjie as he departed. It was painful to witness his disciples, once so close, now look at each other like enemies after years apart. How true the saying rang here – that the best of friends become the bitterest of foes.