The Art of War says: "In the conduct of war, do not rely on the enemy's not coming, but on our readiness to receive him; do not rely on the enemy's not attacking, but on our position being unassailable."
Thus had Fire-Worship Dharma King Zhao Ke and Manichaean Dharma King Li Rui long made preparations, summoning allies from across the jianghu. With Wu Tong and his companions lending their strength, they feared not the enemy's arrival.
At that very moment, the forces of the Lama Sect assembled before the shrine of the Fire-Worship Sect. The north wind howled; two riders charged forth, their steeds whinnying skyward. The newcomers were none other than "Crimson Heart of Loyalty" Han Zhen and Yang Mi.
Han Zhen's voice rang out, resonant and bold:"Geleba! Long has it been!"
The backdrop was a vast grassland, the heavens a deep azure, snowcapped mountains stretching endlessly in the distance—a scene of magnificent splendor.
Master Geleba started in surprise, his brows tightening, his eyes flashing with doubt."Han Zhen? Was he not long retired? Why has he come here again?"
Clad in scarlet robes, his sleeves and yellow monk's hat swaying in the icy wind, Geleba stood with an imposing presence. The prayer wheel in his hand turned slowly, its low hum mingling with the gale, heightening the solemnity of his countenance. Towering before his disciples like a mountain, his piercing gaze locked onto Han Zhen, a glint of surprise and wariness flickering within.
Han Zhen, calm and steady, met his stare with a faint smile, as if anticipating the reaction. He said nothing further, merely awaiting Geleba's next move. The air between the two forces grew unbearably tense. The wind tugged at cloaks and kasayas alike, and an invisible pressure bore down on all.
Han Zhen himself wore a long robe of ashen blue, belted in black, a longsword at his waist. His gaze was sharp, his bearing resolute. Behind him stood a company of Tang citizens, faces aflame with passion, weapons clenched in their fists—their spirits roused by his words.
Han Zhen's voice resounded across the prairie, strong and unyielding:"The King of Tibet covets our Tang's rich lands and schemes to dominate the entire Western Regions. This eastward march of his cannot be for mere faith, but for conquest. In this time of peril, every subject of the Tang bears the duty to defend his soil!"
His words were fervent, stirring the blood of all Tang people present. None could remain unmoved. Even Geleba, hearing this, felt a pang of respect."Truly worthy of a former Lord of the Hall of Loyalty and Righteousness. Yet since you have relinquished that post, why return to the rivers and lakes?"
A Tibetan monk suddenly sprang forth with a roar:"If you insist on posing as a hero, then you seek your own death—blame none but yourself!"
His palm struck like a gale toward Han Zhen's chest. Han Zhen turned his body aside, parrying swiftly. Then, pivoting, his palm snapped across with blinding speed. Crack! The strike landed squarely on the monk's back. The man was lifted like a bundle of cloth, hurled through the air, and fell heavily into the snow, unmoving—dead.
So swift was Han Zhen's strike that the crowd fell silent, none daring cheer. Even the Lama disciples themselves were shaken, realizing that today's contest might again end with their defeat.
From their ranks, another figure stepped forth, clad in a red-and-yellow vest, a crimson sash girdling his waist. His voice thundered:"The King of Tibet is a man of vision, his might shaking the Tang itself! We warriors of Tibet have come to test ourselves and prove that the martial arts of the Central Plains are not unfathomable! I am Dharma King Kunbu, come to receive instruction in your vaunted arts!"
The name "Dharma King Kunbu" sent murmurs rippling through the Fire-Worship Sect. For twenty years his reputation had resounded across the Western Regions, his skills said to rival even Master Geleba's—two titans of Tibetan martial arts, their mastery hard to distinguish.
Han Zhen saw before him a man of forty years, near his own age. Kunbu's eyes glittered like cold lightning, sharp and oppressive. Han Zhen knew this was no ordinary foe—he had heard the tales. His voice rang cold:"Dharma King Kunbu, if Tibetan arts are so profound, then today I, Han Zhen, shall dare a few exchanges with you!"
Kunbu sneered:"The jianghu says 'Crimson Heart of Loyalty' is peerless in skill. If you would hinder Tibet's march into the Central Plains, then you must show your true power!"
Even as he spoke, his eyes swept Han Zhen up and down, gauging him.
Geleba warned solemnly:"Hero Han, if you would yet live a few more years, leave now—while there is still time."
But Han Zhen's spirit blazed."Once I entered the Hall of Loyalty, I vowed a life of loyalty and righteousness. How could I cling to life and abandon duty? Enough words—come, let us fight!"
His voice rang clear and forceful, resounding across the field with awe-inspiring might. The listeners felt their blood surge, crying out in admiration—such is a true hero of the age!
All eyes fixed on the duel. Han Zhen and Kunbu moved, energy coursing through their bodies. Suddenly Kunbu lunged with a fierce assault, swift as a hawk, vicious as a serpent. His double claws struck with deadly speed, a blend of soaring eagle and venomous snake, ruthless and unrelenting.
Han Zhen thought, Good! He inhaled, stepped boldly forward, and countered with a heavy palm strike. The two men's forces collided with a thunderous boom, the sound shaking heaven and earth.
Though unarmed, the combat was ferocious—palms whistling through the air, their force reaching yards away. The spectators gasped, stunned by the ferocity.
Kunbu launched his famed Great Buddha Handprint, chaining together five strikes—Preaching Seal, Fearless Seal, Meditation Seal, Demon-Subduing Seal, and Vow Seal—each driving toward Han Zhen's vital chest points. The attack was relentless.
But Han Zhen, a veteran of countless battles, remained calm. He evaded deftly, countering with his Northern Sea Palm. At once he unleashed Waves Unmoved, his energy dissolving Kunbu's ferocious blows into nothingness. Every strike landed upon emptiness, every force dissipated. The duel raged on, fierce and unbroken. Their steps were fluid, their palms subtle, their skill unmatched—truly the combat of masters, a rare sight to behold.
Wu Tong, watching, felt awe in his heart. "So Tibet holds such masters as well?"
Just then, a voice cried from the Tibetan ranks:"Han Zhen, surrender now! You are no match for Dharma King Kunbu!"
The speaker was Kunbu's chief disciple, Tashi Dorje.
At this, Zhao Rou's voice rang out cold and sharp:"From what I see, Hero Han's strength still runs deep. Dharma King Kunbu, you had best tread carefully—your disciple still looks to you for guidance in the Dharma! You had better yield now. Hero Han is magnanimous and will spare your life. But if you persist, and should one palm strike land amiss, you may find yourself bound for the Western Paradise sooner than you think, face-to-face with the Buddha himself!"