Shaolin Temple
The senior monk Manlyeokseung seemed unconvinced by Goiyi's words.
"So, Tang donor claims he can repair the Wooden Men Alley? Isn't he a physician?"
"He is. But there's no rule saying a man can only have one skill. A grub can crawl and roll, can't it?"
Tang Mujin looked at Goiyi with a crooked posture.
"Old man, that expression sounds way too shabby."
"Like a larva that rolls and crawls."
"Let's just not say it at all."
While Tang Mujin and Goiyi bickered, Manlyeokseung scanned Tang Mujin up and down. He didn't look reliable at all.
"From your light steps and the sword at your waist, you seem to have learned martial arts. And yet you're also a physician, a carpenter, and even a blacksmith?"
"Right. Strictly speaking, not just a carpenter but a blacksmith too."
"At that age—martial artist, physician, carpenter, blacksmith? The deeper we go, the more absurd it sounds."
"There are strange fellows in the world. Here, look at this."
Goiyi untied the sword from his waist and handed it to Manlyeokseung, still sheathed.
"This sword—he made it."
Awkwardly, Manlyeokseung drew the short sword from its scabbard. He stared at the blade for a moment, then mumbled vaguely:
"Mm. A sharp sword."
Goiyi pressed his forehead. Clearly, he hadn't recognized the sword's true value.
Then again, it would've been strange if Manlyeokseung, who had probably never held a sword in his life, could recognize its worth.
"Just think of it as 'a fine sword,' and leave it at that. Anyway, where is the Wooden Men Alley?"
"Straight down this way. But the gate will be locked, so don't go directly—go to the Chubodang (Hall of Hammers) first. The facilities are under the Chubodang master's jurisdiction. Problem is, he won't like it."
"Why not?"
"Because he's the one who proposed tearing down the Wooden Men Alley to build a training ground instead."
Goiyi's eyebrows twitched, as if he had just heard something unbelievable.
"The very man tasked with maintaining the facility suggested demolishing it? Why?"
"He's been master of the Chubodang for nearly thirty years. In all that time, he's been troubled endlessly by people insisting they could repair the Wooden Men Alley. It's no wonder he'd rather get rid of it altogether."
"A new abbot… What does the current abbot think?"
"The abbot's stance is complicated. He declared that if anyone could repair the Wooden Men Alley, he'd give anything in return. But he doesn't believe it can actually be done. So even if you attempt it, you'll receive no support until the work is complete."
The lack of support didn't matter much. What truly piqued their interest was the reward the abbot had promised.
"Anything?"
"To be precise, he said he'd give anything except the Green Jade Buddha Staff."
If everything except that was on the table, it meant even Shaolin's famed great elixirs like Daehwandan might be included.
No—he wouldn't even need the Daehwandan. Just getting a Sohwandan would be an enormous gain.
Despite its humble name, Sohwandan ranked among the rarest medicines in all the martial world. The ingredients were so rare and the process so difficult that even Shaolin produced only one or two every few years.
Goiyi spoke with confidence.
"Good. We'll handle the rest ourselves. Which way to Chubodang?"
"Walk between the Great Buddha Hall and the Hall of the Nation's Benefactor. The building straight ahead is the one."
"Got it. See you later."
The three headed toward Chubodang. Tang Mujin and Hong Geolgae, like country bumpkins with narrow horizons, gawked at everything around them. At first they saw many warrior-monks, then more scholarly monks, and eventually administrative monks.
Unlike warrior-monks who trained in martial arts, or scholarly monks (Ipanseng) who studied the Buddha's teachings, administrative monks (Sapanseng) handled the temple's operations and management.
Outsiders often thought of Sapanseng as mere menials.
But the reality was different. Without them, the temple couldn't function. They were respected in their own right. The master of Chubodang, head of the Sapanseng, was considered a true power-holder within Shaolin.
Goiyi asked a young Sapanseng,
"Is the Chubodang master inside?"
"Yes, sir. He is."
They entered the hall. Inside, an elderly, thin monk was grinding ink.
Even without frowning, deep wrinkles furrowed his brow—the kind of wrinkles inevitably carved into an administrator who had to involve himself in all affairs, big and small.
The Chubodang master set aside his ink stick and asked:
"What brings the donors here?"
"We came about the Wooden Men Alley."
At the mention of it, his face twisted with open disgust.
"Just turn back."
"Why refuse before hearing us out? I was told repairing the Wooden Men Alley was Shaolin's long-cherished wish."
"That was what the previous abbot said. Not now. The current abbot has abandoned it as well."
"Why?"
"Because no one has ever succeeded. In my thirty years as Chubodang master, I've seen dozens come claiming they could fix it. Famous carpenters, renowned formation experts, reclusive masters skilled with mechanisms. Not one managed to repair even a single arm of the wooden men."
As he spoke, his voice rose with pent-up anger.
"What made it worse was their demands. One asked for an entire forge. Another demanded five oak trees struck by lightning. Others wanted travel expenses and advance funds for craftsmen they would summon. The late abbot, out of hope, granted all their requests—and Shaolin was nearly bled dry."
His voice now carried not just resentment, but fury.
"The failures were the lucky ones. Some ran off with the money the moment they got it. Others pretended to work for days, then tried to sneak into the Sutra Library to steal martial manuals! Every time that happened, the Eight Great Courtyard Masters looked down on Shaolin with contempt…"
"We're not like that."
The Chubodang master shook his head, sighing deeply.
"I'm sure you aren't. But what are you people, exactly?"
"I am Yi Chung , a martial artist and physician. This one here is just a beggar named Hong Geolgae. And that fellow is Tang Mujin. He's a martial artist, physician, blacksmith, and carpenter."
The master closed his eyes tight.
"So it is this Tang Mujin donor who wishes to repair the Wooden Men Alley?"
"Precisely."
"Then turn back."
"Why again?"
"I already said. Countless famous carpenters and blacksmiths across the land have tried. Not a single one achieved anything. If men with decades of handling iron and wood failed, how could a young man barely past his twenties, dabbling in this and that, hope to succeed? Leave."
Goiyi shrugged.
"One thing I've learned in life: skill doesn't follow age. Among all those carpenters and smiths, none surpass this one."
"Experience isn't everything, true. But there are things only experience can teach."
"Good grief…"
Goiyi scratched the back of his head and asked:
"Does Shaolin have any place for forging iron?"
"No."
"Any carving knives, then?"
"No. Carving isn't a common task. If the need arises, we call outsiders."
"Then at least farming tools, surely?"
"Well, the monks do farm, so a few… What kind of tools are you asking about?"
"Anything with a blade will do. Doesn't matter what."
"We have hoes and sickles, at least."
"A hoe can hardly be called a blade, but a sickle should work."
Goiyi stepped outside Chubodang, asked a young administrative monk something, then soon returned carrying a small whetstone, a sickle, and a palm-sized block of wood.
He wetted the whetstone and sharpened only the tip of the sickle, while deliberately dulling the rest of the edge by grinding it flat against the stone's side.
"What are you doing?"
"Just watch."
Goiyi handed the sickle and the block of wood to Tang Mujin.
"You can do it, right?"
"Do what?"
"Carve something. Anything."
It was a reckless demand—but Tang Mujin understood exactly what he meant.
He gripped the sickle's handle and roughly shaved off a corner of the woodblock. The Chubodang master's expression showed obvious irritation.
"We have much to do. Take your play outside."
"Play? Well, perhaps. But this will be worth watching compared to ordinary play."
The Chubodang master considered calling in warrior-monks to throw them out, then sighed deeply. Better to indulge them for a moment and send them away afterward.
So with a disinterested gaze, he watched the young Tang wield the sickle against the block of wood.
Tang Mujin's strokes seemed careless as he hacked away at the wood. He roughly shaped the block into a lump, then shifted grip—holding the sickle not by its handle but by the flat of the blade—to begin carving.
The formless lump quickly began to resemble a human figure. As crossed legs in meditation took shape, the sickle's blade grew shorter in his hands.
"…"
The Chubodang master forgot his own scornful demeanor, now watching intently.
The awkward grip made Tang Mujin's hand go numb; from time to time he switched the sickle to his left hand and shook out his right.
Crude tool, awkward posture, and a worthless scrap of wood. Yet the emerging figure was far from crude.
The folded knees and flowing robes appeared, then the serene face of Vairocana Buddha emerged.
At last, Tang Mujin carved the ornament atop the Buddha's head, set the sickle down, and handed the finished statue to the Chubodang master—a Buddha small enough to sit in the palm of his hand.
The master held his breath as he examined it.
Vairocana sat in lotus posture, the left forefinger extended and enclosed by the right hand—the mudra of the Wisdom Fist Seal (Jiquan-in), symbolizing the unity of all things.
The robes flowed with delicate folds, and upon the head rested an intricate Five Wisdom Crown (Oji Bogwan). Vairocana gazed at the master with a gentle, benevolent smile. The master felt as though his chest tightened.
He carefully touched the crown. Its natural fit was so convincing, he half-wondered if the ornament had been crafted separately and placed atop the head. Yet he had witnessed the carving with his own eyes.
Could such a tiny statue truly be rendered in such exquisite detail? The Chubodang master muttered without realizing it:
"Vairocana…"
"Oh, so that's Vairocana? I've only heard the name before," Tang Mujin said.
The master whipped his head around to stare at him. Was this a joke? No—the young man wasn't joking.
"You mean to say you carved this Buddha without even knowing who it was?"
"This is my first time inside a temple, you see."
"That hardly matters. You must have known it was Vairocana in order to make it."
"I just copied the statue I saw on the way in… was it in front of the Ginnarajeon? I carved it from memory."
Impossible.
The master examined the statue again. The likeness of the one before Ginnarajeon was clear. But that statue was nowhere near this refined.
Still, the pose, the ornaments, and the robes were identical. Tang Mujin had merely miniaturized it, made the posture more natural, and added vitality.
The master raised the Buddha with both hands, closed his eyes, and whispered inwardly: Amitabha.
He dipped his little finger into the ink he had ground earlier, before the visitors came. Despite not adding much water, the ink had not dried; it was still moist.
The memory surfaced—when he first became Chubodang master, the Eight Great Courtyard Masters glaring with sharp eyes after Shaolin's wealth was squandered by a charlatan.
Even though he had released the funds under orders from the abbot, they had blamed him.
How many times had he sworn, in those bitter moments, never again to admit outsiders into the Wooden Men Alley once the abbot changed?
And yet now, he felt—perhaps this time would succeed. Perhaps the wooden men would move again. He felt as though under a spell.
Uncharacteristically, the Chubodang master chuckled faintly.
If it is deception, so be it. That too must be the Buddha's will.
He turned to the three and said:
"Follow me."
He led them toward the Wooden Men Alley.
With a stiff motion, he unlatched the heavy bar. The monks nearby stirred with surprise, as though witnessing a rare sight.
Many had come recently claiming they could repair the Wooden Men Alley.
But it had been seven years since the Chubodang master last opened its gates to outsiders.
The dust-choked Wooden Men Alley awaited the four of them.