Chapter 483 (Patreon)

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“Errrk-uh-erk-eh-errrrrrrrr!”

There it was, every morning without fail, the damned, insufferable rooster squawking up a storm as if offended by the mere thought of anyone still asleep. Neither loud nor quiet, the unholy screeching seemed to pierce clean through Jorani’s skull as if the idiot bird were in the room with him, sending his mind into a panic as he bolted up from his borrowed bed and gazed out into the darkness, ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice. It took long seconds to remember where he was and longer still to remember he wore a blindfold, on account of the trauma his eyes suffered during GangShu’s Cloud-Stepping shenanigans. Sadistic was what he was, a vicious fiend who loved to see Jorani suffer. What ‘hidden monsters’ could possibly pose a threat to an Ancestral Beast, much less catch up while GangShu Cloud-Stepped so fast the wind alone was powerful enough to batter Jorani to near death?

And now he was stuck in this Mother forsaken monastery until Heaven knows when, with their lack of women, meat, gambling, alcohol, and anything else which could even remotely be considered fun...

Having worked himself into an indignant tizzy, Jorani took a deep, calming breath and counted backwards from ten. Then he questioned why vegetarian monks would keep a rooster and had to start over from a hundred. Somewhere around the thirties, he finally reined his temper in, but he pushed onward to the end because today was just one of those days.

Just as he finished, a knock came at his door, more an announcement of arrival than request for permission since the old Healer didn’t wait for an answer. “Eh-Mi-Tuo-Fuo, it is good to see you up and about instead of hiding beneath your blankets. The greatest misconception is believing one has time to waste, for most will require more than a lifetime to traverse the Dao and understand its mysteries.”

“Er, yea... Good morning, honoured reverend.”

“Bah.” Snorting as he always did, the old Healer took Jorani’s chin in hand and turned it left, then right to inspect his health. “What ‘honoured reverend’? This one is merely a humble monk who knows a bit more than some and less than needed. Take Healing for example. I know how to mend your eyes but I haven’t a clue how you’ve adjusted so quickly.” Somehow tearing the blindfold without exerting pressure, the old Healer suddenly appeared in view and Jorani’s eyes watered from the shuttered candlelight just barely illuminating their surroundings. “Three days when it should’ve taken an entire week, if not longer, a mystery, to be sure.”

“Mm. I always did Heal faster than most.” Plus, Panacea did wonders to cut down on recovery time, but Jorani was sworn to secrecy. Blinking the tears out of his eyes, he inspected his benefactor for the first time and was sorely disappointed. Though expecting someone old, the old Healer’s grey monk robes hung loosely on his wizened frame, and his face had more wrinkles than most had hairs. While shaving one’s head was part and parcel of being a monk, it seemed the practice didn’t extend to trimming protruding nose or ear hairs, of which Jorani’s benefactor had plenty to spare. That said, though his arms were bone thin and back hunched, the old Healer’s hands were steady and eyes sharp as he turned Jorani this way and that in an attempt to uncover the mystery of his quick recovery. Unpleasant as it was, Jorani owed the man his life, so he swallowed his ire and let the old Healer appease his curiosity.

Proclaiming Jorani was ‘fit as can be’, the old monk hustled him out of the plain, unadorned room and out into the courtyard, a routine he’d long since grown accustomed to. Now that his eyes worked, he didn’t need the old Healer holding his wrist to guide him, but he didn’t mind matching the elderly monk’s slow but steady pace since it gave him time to take in the surroundings. Each room he passed had its doors wide open and looked exactly like his own, with a serviceable bed, nightstand, dresser, and writing desk, all lacking even the most basic of decorations or embellishments. They weren’t much to look at, but he passed at least thirty such rooms which were all clean and dust free, but also lacking mattresses, pillows, and covers which Jorani took to mean they were unoccupied.

Who would’ve thought an order of self-flagellating eunuchs wouldn’t be popular?

Stepping out of the empty dormitories, Jorani’s first glimpse of the surroundings took his breath away. Vast mountains loomed over the horizon in every direction he turned, each one covered in an array of vibrant autumnal colours which undoubtedly hid wild beasts and lurking dangers, but it was a damn sight more inviting than the stark, austere monastery which greeted him. Paved with identical grey flagstones, a smooth, unmarked pillar sat at each corner of the square courtyard, which was otherwise utterly devoid of decoration or personality, a trait which extended to the rest of the monastery too. Grey robes, grey furniture, grey walls, and grey roofs, even the wooden lanterns were painted grey to match the boring grey flagstones in an effort to blend the surroundings together so as not to distract the mind with petty matters like colours or contrast.

“Where are we?” Jorani asked, for he’d never seen such natural beauty, made all the more poignant by his immediate surroundings. “Like I know this be a monastery of the Brotherhood, but... where?”

“If you don’t know, then best not to,” the old Healer replied, pushing Jorani towards an out of the way stone bench and gesturing for him to sit. “We built our monasteries out of the way because we like things peaceful and quiet.” Understanding their position, Jorani held his tongue and settled down while the monks filed into the courtyard to take their seats, arranging themselves facing east in four neat row with each monk equidistant from their neighbours, aside from the old Healer who took his place at the front alone, facing the other monks. Placing a stone-carved fish in front of him, the other monks sat still while the old Healer hammered out three slow and steady beats to set the tempo, and on the fourth beat, they all joined in and raised their voices in unison, chanting sutras in a foreign tongue to the measured cadence of their beating drums.

Jorani had no idea what they were saying, and in previous days, the monks refused to explain unless he joined the Brotherhood, but he found the low, droning chants rather soothing and helpful for seeking Balance, so he crossed his legs, wished he’d remembered to bring a pillow to sit on, and settled in to meditate. All the noise made it impossible to go back to sleep anyways, so he figured he might as well make the most of his time for his inevitable return to the battlefield, and since he couldn’t practice the Forms without disturbing the monks, quiet meditation would have to do. Maybe it was the chanting, the sensory deprivation, or maybe it was the complete and utter lack of anything else to do, but despite being blind and on the mend, he stumbled upon several Insights while meditating these past few days, so maybe the concept wasn’t as silly as he’d once thought.

When he opened his eyes once more, the sun’s orange-red radiance was just barely peeking out over the mountains while all thirty-seven monks stared at him in a mixture of confusion, amusement, and admiration.

“Would you care to join us in our penance?” The old Healer never failed to ask, but as before, Jorani declined with, “No thank you, benefactor. I’m still feeling a little sore.” And sane, because he’d have to be crazy to take part in the Brotherhood’s famed penitent punishments, but their palpable disappointment threw him for a loop. In the past three days, he didn’t get what GangShu meant when he said the monks were ‘mighty interested’ in Jorani, but now...

Though a small part of him wanted to run screaming for the mountains, he stayed to watch due to lack of options and morbid curiosity. To his surprise, the Brotherhood’s religious ceremonies involved a lot less self-flagellation than anticipated, and while they still stripped to their skivvies and pummelled themselves bloody, it wasn’t anything worse than what the bossman demanded from his soldiers during training. A far cry from how all the stories made them out to be, Jorani had expected to see hooked chains, hot coals, hammered nails, and whatnot, but the beatings were all self-inflicted using these dinky wooden flails like what farmers used to thresh grains. Each monk would take one and beat himself over the shoulder with it, alternating between left and right but leaving most of their body untouched.

Now that’s just poor coverage all around.

“Hmm?” Plopping down on the bench beside him, the old Healer raised a wispy eyebrow in question, probably passing on the self-inflicted beatings because they’d kill him. “Most people who see this react with fear or revulsion, but you seem unimpressed.”

“Just wasn’t what I was expecting is all,” Jorani replied, pursing his lips as uneven bruises formed on the monks’ backs. “I’d heard stories, ye see, and well... it ain’t my place to say, but fer someone who ses we ain’t got enough time, this don’t seem all too efficient.”

“How so?”

“Well, what we do is find groups of three. Two people with paddles going at full speed’ll get the beatings done nice and even. Then the injured parties shuffle off to recuperate while everyone forms new groups and repeats. It slows down a little after ye get through two or three rounds, but by then, the first group aught’a be fit ‘nough to lend a hand. Quick and easy, ye see?”

“Ah ha!” Clapping his hands in childish glee, the old Healer said, “I knew I sensed a wayward Brother in you. Your father claimed otherwise, but these old eyes have yet to fail. Describe your sponsor for me. Which monastery did you enrol in? A clever system for penance, though this one thinks it misses the point and is too impersonal to be effective. Why did you leave? You are a promising one, even better than the large comrade you came looking for, so forgive this monk’s clumsy attempts to guide you back onto the Eight-fold Path.”

“He ain’t my father and he’s a lyin’ sack of shit if he said otherwise.” Though he waited until he had an opening to speak, Jorani’s denial still came out hotter than intended, so he took a breath before continuing. “Pardon me tone, benefactor. I ain’t ever been an initiate of the Brotherhood either, and don’t know nothing about the Eight-Fold Path. I was talking about me training with the Bekhai, not any Brotherhood training.”

“Oh? Oh.” Hearing this, the old Healer’s wrinkled smile was replaced with a fearsome frown of dissatisfaction, though he didn’t bat an eye at Jorani’s angry outburst. “So you’re one of his, the young brother named by the Abbot himself, yet refuses to come take his vows. A mistake, that was, promoting him to the one of the five, a mistake we should never have allowed.” Jorani didn’t know the exact details, so he kept his mouth shut until the old Healer’s poor mood faded away and his smile returned in full force. There was something just so likeable and trustworthy about the old man when he smiled, though Jorani couldn’t put his finger on what it was. “Well, just because you were never an initiate doesn’t mean you can’t become one. Since we’ve time, why don’t I tell you about the Four Noble Truths? Now, to understand...”

The lecture lasted throughout the monks’ penance and right up until breakfast was served, at which point the old Healer finally fell mercifully silent to eat. While the ambience in the dining hall was as dreary and grey as the rest of the monastery and the monks all ate without conversation, the food looked and tasted more appetizing than vegetarian food had any right to be. While rice and green veggies made up the bulk of the meal, there were various nuts, beans, and tubers which added delectable flavours and textures to the meal, ones which he found strange and unappealing when he couldn’t see, but now that he knew what he was eating, it was all rather delightful.

Especially the steamed buns. Plain and without filling, but moist, sweet, and fluffy, hands down the best he’d ever tasted.

“Ye know,” Jorani said, mostly just to hear the sound of his voice. “With promise of good food, a warm bed, and a roof overhead, this ain’t the worst life a man could have. You’d probably fill a lot more rooms if ye did away with the eunuch business.”

Though most of the monks smiled at Jorani’s joke, the old Healer lost his smile for the second time today, and his furious grimace had all the other monks staring deep into their bowls and working their chopsticks in a frenzy. “There are reasons we do what we do,” the old Healer said, without bothering to finish swallowing first. “As laid out in the Four Noble Truths, suffering is inherent in all life, and suffering is caused by desire, so what is lust besides a cause of suffering? If something can only bring suffering, then why hold on to it? Remember, everything within this life is impermanent, so you will inevitably lose all you hold dear, whether you cling to it or not.”

As he sat through the shower of half-chewed rice and vegetables, Jorani vowed to never speak again during meal time. No wonder the monks ate in complete silence...

When breakfast finished and the old Healer left to go tend his garden, Jorani latched onto the friendliest looking monk and bombarded him with questions. Not much headway was made, but the day passed quickly, and the next was the same, and soon enough, Jorani fell into a steady routine. He’d wake up cursing the rooster and all chicken-kind, followed by an hour of restful meditation, then an hour of lectures from the old Healer until breakfast, at which point he was free to do as he pleased for the rest of the day.

It was difficult making friends with the monks, mostly because they refused to share their names, but also because they were a quiet and indifferent bunch who paid him little mind. On the other hand, they also placed no constraints on his movements, so while the monks went about their daily business, Jorani drifted from group to group to help out and see what they were up to. Most of their activities consisted of the daily drudgery required to live in a secluded location like theirs. Chopping firewood, laundering clothes, sweeping the courtyard, polishing their drums, the work seemed endless and unrewarding, but there were no shirkers or layabouts to be found. Sloth and indolence were frowned upon, so even in their precious free time, the monks kept themselves productive, whether by Demonstrating the Forms, discussing scripture and philosophy, carving wood, sculpting clay, painting scrolls, writing poems, or any number of other activities which they performed with varying degrees of skill.

While hardly a man of culture, over the course of a week, Jorani saw many of the monks create several gorgeous works of art, some even rivalling those the bossman plundered from Yo Ling’s island. Every night, the monks displayed their works in the dining hall for others to appreciate, only to destroy those precious items right before heading off to bed, showing how seriously they took this whole impermanence thing and putting a damper on Jorani’s idea to get rich selling Brotherhood crafted art...

Though no monk himself, Jorani similarly kept busy throughout the week. The first thing he did was ask about the surroundings and see if he could find a village with a bar, but every monk he asked told him the only way to get around was through Cloud-Stepping. Apparently no one lived within walking distance, not even if he travelled for a month, which was impossible. The Empire was vast and had swathes of untamed lands, but even in the wild North, you couldn’t walk for so long in one direction without bumping into another living person. Probably. Never one to take a man at their word, even if said man was a monk, Jorani set out to explore the surroundings despite warnings of wild beasts and venomous creatures lurking about. While this once might have scared him into staying safe behind the walls, he was a Martial Warrior now, so he thanked the monks for their warnings, coiled his Spiritual Weapon around his fist, and set out into the wilderness to familiarize himself with possible escape routes.

He went as far as eight hours out without spotting a single living creature besides the tiny birds and rodents residing in the forest, not even the faraway smoke of a village or woodsman’s hut. Daxian didn’t show his face either, which set Jorani on edge, so he spent an hour yelling insults at the shadows thinking to draw the hateful snob out, but to no avail. There were too many questions to be answered regarding the Brotherhood, and Jorani’s finely honed instincts sensed trouble. Why was GangShu taking so long? Why wouldn’t Daxian show himself, even several hours away from the monastery? What happened to Wugang and Yelu Shi in the first place?

Most importantly, where in the Father’s shit-encrusted arsehole were these damned monks keeping their damned rooster?

On the bright side, Jorani never stumbled across anything more dangerous than an angry squirrel, so he figured the wild beasts were busy preparing for winter. When not exploring the mountains or suffering through the old Healer’s lectures, he stayed at the monastery and solidified his Martial foundation, taking the time to reflect on and digest all the hard-learned lessons he’d uncovered on the front lines. Consequently, he made a little progress along the Martial Path, so when the monks asked him to join in on their bi-weekly sparring session, it didn’t take much to persuade him. Thinking he would represent the soldiers of the Empire to show these ascetics a thing or two about fighting, Jorani promptly lost his first match to the helpful, cheery, somewhat chubby monk Jorani had mentally named ‘Happy’.

It turned out Happy wasn’t so Happy once he stepped into the sparring ring, transforming into an enraged brute with fists of fury. Due to his vows of non-violence and unwillingness to hurt even a fly, Happy never laid a finger on Jorani and always stopped his attacks short, but the wind pressure alone was enough to tell Jorani he wouldn’t survive a direct hit from those deceptively powerful arms. Being beaten by a pacifist was almost enough to shame him to tears, but he clung to the vain hope that he’d been unlucky with his first opponent, only to lose his second, third, and every other match of the day.

Why were these grass-fed hermits so strong? They didn’t even have Spiritual Weapons...

Even though he swallowed his pride and asked Happy for advice, the chipper monk smiled and said, “Like seizing water, the tighter your fist, the faster Insight escapes. The Martial Dao is but a part of the Eight-fold path, so once you accept the Four Noble Truths, then strength will come of its own accord, like water flowing into the sea.” No matter how Jorani approached it, he didn’t understand how becoming a self-flagellating eunuch pacifist was supposed to make him stronger, but he thanked the chubby monk and challenged yet another target, a tall, gangly fool he called Eyebrows, for obvious reasons. Jorani lost again, but defeat was nothing new to him, and the bossman always said you learn more from defeat than victory.

Before he knew it, two weeks had passed since he’d arrived at the monastery and GangShu still had yet to return. The old Healer waved off Jorani’s concerns, saying “Eh-Mi-Tuo-Fuo, this old monk warned them of the dangers, but they forged onward regardless. Such sin, such waste, lives lost in the pursuit of fleeting impermanence.” What followed was another verbose lecture on the right view, the first step in the Eight-Fold path and according to him, the most difficult step of all, because who could say for certain what the right view was?

Oh Mother in Heaven, Jorani was even starting to think like them.

That was it. It was time to take matters into his own hands. Even with hundreds of monasteries nestled within these mountains, it shouldn’t take an Ancestral Beast this long to visit every last one and find Wugang and Yelu Shi, but there’d been no word from him yet, not even a Sending from Daxian. This meant they’d either abandoned him here to the monks, or something had gone disastrously wrong. Either way, Jorani intended to get gone, and while no one had said anything about keeping him captive, the old Healer’s trustworthy smile was starting to wear thin. There was something was off about the way all the other monks looked at him which gave Jorani a feeling he couldn’t express, but he hadn’t survived this long by ignoring his gut. Instead of asking for directions again, directions he knew he wouldn’t get, he skipped afternoon sparring to take a much-needed nap until midnight, at which point he snuck out to the kitchen to steal a small bag of uncooked rice and slipped out over the wall unseen.

So there, cloaked in the darkness of night, Jorani leaned heavily on his night-vision and stealthily jogged down the somewhat familiar trail without too much of a plan. Head in one direction until he found someone who wasn’t a monk or a nun and knew where to get a drink was about as far as he got, and then he’d play it by ear from there. Whatever the issue with the Brotherhood, it was way above Jorani’s pay grade, so he might as well get while the getting was good. Besides, he had a promise to keep, and not even the Father himself would stop him from raising his cup in toast at Ral and Chey’s wedding.

The birds and squirrels were slim pickings, but with a makeshift sling and plenty of ammunition to be found, Jorani supplemented his meals adequately. He wasn’t eating quite as well as he would back at the monastery, but at least he didn’t have to sit through any more sermons. He still had two months and change before the new year, so it shouldn’t be a problem to make it back to Sinuji, what with the whole Empire mobilizing in that direction.

Or at least, this was what Jorani thought right up until a week later, when he stepped out of the mountain forest and found himself at the edge of a giant canyon, staring at a vast desert on the other side, one which stretched endlessly as far as the eye could see.

Well shit.

A small wonder there was no one living nearby, because only the Penitent Brotherhood were crazy enough to live in the Arid Wastelands...

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