Though Yuánzhì, the Hall Master Monk, was of the same generation as Yuánguāng, he had already secured the seat of Hall Master, making him the fourth figure of authority in Shaolin. Among thousands of disciples, to rise step by step into such a position required not luck, but extraordinary merit, discipline, and power. He was a man of prestige, holding real influence, close in standing to the Abbot, Chief Monk Běnguāng, and West Hall Monk Běnxīn. Naturally, Yuánzhì carried himself with pride and confidence.
At this moment his eyes shone like torches. He turned his wrists, clasped his fists, and sank into the "Returning Moon to the Mountain" stance, his footing steady as Mount Tai. In the next instant, he surged forward with an arrow-step, unleashing Shaolin's Great Vajra Fist. His punch, the technique "Azure Dragon's Claw", roared through the air, fierce as a tiger descending the mountain!
Yuánguāng dared not be careless. He gathered his inner force and swept out his right palm with the might of "Overlord Lifting the Cauldron". Palm and fist collided with a thunderous crash—wind and dust billowed, debris scattering. With that first clash, each man recognized the other's ferocity. From then on, they fought without restraint, every strike carrying their full strength.
Yuánguāng's palms shifted suddenly, cutting toward Yuánzhì's centerline. Yuánzhì, unflustered, countered with a slicing strike, his steps solid as stone, and suddenly jabbed a finger toward Yuánguāng's chest point. The killing intent was palpable. Yuánguāng was forced to withdraw in haste, twisting aside to avoid the strike.
But he did not retreat for long—immediately he lunged forward again. A claw lashed through the air, followed by a sweeping leg. The wind shrieked as the claw struck toward Yuánzhì's right shoulder. Yuánzhì reeled back, but too late—rip! His monk's robe tore, a strip of cloth fluttering away.
Yuánguāng gave a cold smile. "I told you—I'll put you down within ten moves. Six remain. Try to last."
Yuánzhì glanced at his torn robe, shaken but defiant. "A lucky strike is nothing. Do not boast too soon. Show me if you truly have the skill!"
With another sneer, Yuánguāng pressed the attack. His fists hammered out, swift and violent, hands and feet like a storm. Yuánzhì slipped aside and counter-struck. At once their blows filled the courtyard—fist to palm, kick to block, energy colliding in a blur of force. Shaolin's famed techniques, fierce and unyielding, clashed endlessly. By the eighth exchange, neither had prevailed.
Then Yuánguāng suddenly withdrew a step as if yielding ground. Yuánzhì, seizing the chance, boldly advanced straight into Yuánguāng's center.
But Yuánguāng barked coldly, shifted his step, and exploded forward. His palm thundered out, power crashing like a landslide. Yuánzhì saw the oncoming strike—there was no time to dodge. BOOM! With a resounding impact, he was hurled several yards, crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust.
The Shaolin monks cried out in shock. Several rushed forward to lift their fallen Hall Master, faces grim and shaken. Yuánguāng stood calm, hands behind his back, his gaze sharp as lightning. He murmured coldly: "So this is the vaunted Hall Master? Nothing remarkable at all."
Now Shaolin's leading monks had all been defeated in turn. Would the Abbot himself be forced to intervene? At that moment, a voice rang out:"Then allow me to meet you."It was Yuánrén, the Rear Hall Monk.
Yuántōng stepped forward with a sneer, voice dark:"Yuánguāng, rest a while. This battle is mine. Today I'll personally deal with Yuánrén! That man mocked and belittled us time and again. Had it not been for his scorn, we might never have walked this path. Now that enemies meet, it is time to settle the score!"
Yuánrén's brows furrowed, disdain flickering in his eyes though he hid it quickly. His tone was cutting:"You two strayed from the Way, and now you seek to seize Daqin Temple. Truly you court destruction. Do you feel no shame?"
Yuántōng's voice thundered:"Shame? At the Rebel-Suppressing Assembly, Shaolin was disgraced—defeated before all Wulin while Jiǎ Yǒng's fame soared and Shaolin's honor sank into the dust. To shield their pride, our brothers heaped every blame upon us, treating us as scapegoats. From the day we returned, we knew no peace—mockery, rejection, and your contempt most of all! You, Yuánrén, lorded your title as Rear Hall Monk to humiliate us. Today I'll make you pay in blood!"
Yuánguāng added coldly:"You and Yuánzhì cast stones at us when we were already down, caring nothing for brotherhood. Today there is no retreat. The debt must be settled."
Rage and vengeance burned. Yuántōng's battle spirit soared, his gaze locked on Yuánrén like a tiger ready to strike. This was no monk's duel—it was the reckoning of bitter enemies.
With a sharp cry, Yuánrén struck first, palms sweeping like thunder. Yuántōng's eyes blazed; he met the strike with a fierce block, hooked Yuánrén's wrist, and countered with a crashing palm toward his chest.
Yuánrén recoiled in haste, sweat breaking across his brow, but Yuántōng's assault was relentless. A sweeping sleeve became another strike, crashing toward Yuánrén's belly, followed instantly by a second blow too fast to follow.
Yuánrén steadied himself, parried, and countered with three lightning strikes. But Yuántōng, his inner power surging, unleashed his palms like raging dragons, force roaring through the courtyard. The wind howled with each clash.
Yuánrén staggered back, forced into retreat again and again. At last Yuántōng roared, shifted his step, seized Yuánrén's shoulder with his left hand, and slammed forth with his right.
BOOM! The ground quaked. Yuánrén flew through the air, crashing hard, rolling across the earth in a cloud of dust. Blood gushed from his mouth before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed unconscious.
The monks gasped in horror. They rushed to lift Yuánrén, their faces stricken. Four of Shaolin's senior monks had now fallen in succession. None could withstand the fury of Yuánguāng and Yuántōng. Shaolin's glory, once towering above the martial world, lay in tatters. Some whispered in doubt: "Shaolin, the First Under Heaven? Has its fame finally withered?"
The sun dipped low, the sky awash in blood-red light. Though the fighting ceased, the air remained heavy with killing intent.
Abbot Běnjué stepped forward at last, his face solemn, hands pressed together. His voice was deep, sorrowful, yet thundered across the courtyard:"Amitābha… Yuánguāng, Yuántōng! You are no longer disciples of this temple. To seize Daqin Temple is an act against Heaven itself. I urge you to reconsider, lest you cast yourselves into eternal damnation!"
But the two only stood impassive, faces devoid of fear. Yuánguāng replied:"Abbot, we were raised here, true. We remembered our duty when we obeyed and went forth to the Assembly, hoping to glorify Shaolin. Yet in defeat we were branded as criminals, scorned by every brother. Today's rebellion is not of our choosing—it is forced upon us by fate!"
They gave a cold laugh, clasped their hands in a mocking bow, and turned their backs. With long strides they departed.
The men of the True God Palace followed silently after, until their figures dwindled in the crimson light of the sunset, vanishing into the horizon.
Behind them, the Shaolin monks stood stricken, stunned, and ashamed. None spoke a word.