The Five Monsters by the Riverside

Master Xuan Zhi examined the newcomer and saw that he was an elderly man with a head full of white hair and beard, his clothes tattered as though he were a beggar, yet his face glowed with health and vigor, and the martial arts he had just displayed commanded deep respect. Such age, such appearance, and such supreme martial prowess. Xuan Zhi’s heart stirred; he had already guessed the man’s identity. Glancing at the old man’s fingers for confirmation, he stepped forward to pay his respects, saying reverently, “Xuan Zhi of Shaolin greets Senior Hong.”

“So, it is a high monk of Shaolin,” replied the man, who was none other than “Nine-Fingered Divine Beggar” Hong Qigong. Formerly the leader of the Western Beggar Clan, Hong Qigong had passed on his position to Huang Rong and then wandered the world alone, seeking out culinary delights in every corner. Whenever he encountered injustice, he would secretly aid the troubled and punish the wicked. With his skills, he could come and go without a trace. Sometimes, he would eavesdrop on the Beggar Clan’s disciples and, learning that peace reigned under “Little Huang Rong’s” leadership, he was content to let matters be.

That year, Hong Qigong encountered the second of the “Five Fiends of the River’s Edge,” a villain guilty of wanton slaughter and the deaths of many innocents. Hating evil as he did, Hong Qigong intended to dispatch him swiftly. But killing one was easy; to hunt the remaining four would be difficult. So, he chose to shadow them secretly, waiting for all five to gather before striking them down in one fell swoop. He could not have predicted that this pursuit would carry him thousands of miles, all the way to Mount Hua.

Now, four of the fiends had appeared on Mount Hua; only the eldest had yet to arrive, and soon justice would be served. Hong Qigong had not expected three strangers to arrive on the mountain’s summit, one of whom was a high-ranking Shaolin monk of the Xuan generation. His own standing was even higher, being of the Ling generation, so he was unconcerned.

Hong Qigong’s eyes swept over the two young men. Master Xuan Zhi quickly introduced them. “This is my disciple, a lay student of Shaolin, Tang Xuan.”

Tang Xuan followed with a bow. “Greetings to Senior Hong Qigong.”

“Oh?” Hong Qigong gave Tang Xuan another look—not for any particular reason, but because the Eastern Beggar Clan was led by Qiao Feng, a hero of peerless martial skill who was also a lay disciple of Shaolin. Even Hong Qigong, former head of the Western Beggar Clan, held great admiration for Qiao Feng.

“Yang Guo pays his respects to Senior Hong,” Yang Guo added, stepping forward. He thought to himself, So this venerable old master is Hong Qigong. No wonder his martial arts are so formidable.

Yang Guo knew well the reputation of Hong Qigong and his legendary Dragon-Subduing Eighteen Palms; he had even heard Xiao Longnu speak of him. But he had never seen Hong Qigong’s face and so had not recognized him until now.

Hong Qigong nodded and smiled. “Enough with the formalities, all of you! I’m hungry. Let’s eat first and talk later.” With that, he walked over to a large rock, dug into the earth, and quickly unearthed a dead rooster he had buried earlier. The bird’s body was covered with over a hundred large centipedes, each seven or eight inches long.

Hong Qigong beamed with satisfaction. “Centipedes and chickens are natural enemies. Yesterday, I buried this rooster here, and sure enough, all the centipedes nearby were lured in!”

“Amitabha,” intoned Master Xuan Zhi.

Hong Qigong then opened his pack, taking out a small iron pot and firewood. Using a few stones, he built a fire, scooped up two handfuls of snow, put them in the pot for water, and set it to boil. He then tossed the centipedes into the boiling water. They thrashed about for a moment before succumbing to the heat. “When centipedes are about to die, they expel all their venom and poison urine,” he explained cheerfully. “So this pot of snow water is now deadly poison.”

He poured the poisoned water into a deep ravine, took out a small knife, and deftly removed the heads and tails of the centipedes. With a gentle squeeze, their shells slipped off, revealing translucent, snow-white flesh like that of large shrimps. After boiling another pot of snow water, he washed the centipede meat thoroughly, removing every trace of poison. Then, from his pack, he produced seven or eight small tin boxes containing oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar, and the like.

He heated the oil in the pan and fried the centipede meat. Instantly, a rich aroma filled the air! Even though it was centipede meat, the fragrance made Tang Xuan and Yang Guo’s mouths water. Master Xuan Zhi chanted another Buddhist verse.

Hong Qigong himself could hardly contain his own drool, his gluttony on full display. He picked up a piece, placed it in his mouth, and chewed slowly, eyes closed in bliss. He sighed, thinking that in all the world, nothing could surpass this pleasure.

Looking at the three, he laughed. “Come, eat with me! Don’t be shy!” He tossed his wine gourd aside. “Don’t drink wine with centipede meat, or you’ll numb your tongue and waste the flavor!”

A true gourmand! Tang Xuan managed a faint, wry smile. Were it not for his master’s presence, he would have been sorely tempted to try a piece himself. But with Master Xuan Zhi right there, he could only keep silent, especially when his master chanted another verse.

As a Shaolin monk, how could Master Xuan Zhi possibly eat meat? Tang Xuan, as a lay disciple, was technically permitted to eat and drink like Qiao Feng, but there was a time and place for everything.

In front of his master, he could not possibly indulge.

Yang Guo, however, was not so constrained. He walked up, took a piece of centipede, and bit into it. At the first bite, he found it crisp and fragrant, more delicious than anything he had tasted in his life. He quickly took a second serving.

Hong Qigong was delighted and ate along with Yang Guo. Glancing at Master Xuan Zhi and Tang Xuan, he thought to himself, These two are truly missing out.

Tang Xuan curled his lip, deeply disapproving of eating wild game. Did they not know the dangers?

After he was full, Hong Qigong stretched, yawned, and laughed heartily. “I’ve been chasing criminals for days without sleep. Today, after a good meal, I’ll sleep for three days straight! Even if the sky falls, don’t wake me. Keep watch and don’t let any beast chew my head off while I’m asleep.”

With that, he lay down and was instantly snoring.

“As you command,” responded Master Xuan Zhi. For the Nine-Fingered Divine Beggar, whose rank, status, and fame were so great, even a high monk of Shaolin’s Xuan generation had to obey.

Tang Xuan and Yang Guo, of course, could only comply.

Snowflakes filled the sky, soon covering Hong Qigong in a white shroud, as if he were already buried in a snowy grave.

At that moment, new sounds rose from below the summit. Figures in black, their bodies flashing with blades, ascended swiftly using lightness skills. Their movements were quick and expert; in the martial world, they would be ranked at least as second-tier masters, on par with the heads of minor sects.

“The Five Fiends of the River’s Edge?” Tang Xuan raised an eyebrow. He knew well that Hong Qigong had pursued these very villains to Mount Hua.

These Five Fiends were grand-disciples of Golden Wheel Monk, trained by his second disciple, Dalba, and skilled in advanced techniques from the Golden Wheel Monk’s lineage.