Shaolin Temple
The next day, Hong Geolgae, his large wound crudely wrapped in filthy cloth, came to see Goiyi and Tang Mujin.
The bite marks on his forearm were too obvious. When asked what had happened, Hong Geolgae recounted everything that had taken place the night before—including his decision to follow Daepunggae.
"So, you've finally steadied your heart a bit?"
He was referring to the death of Majonggae. Hong Geolgae shook his head.
"Not yet. But my master wouldn't want me to just linger here."
"…I understand. I'll look forward to your great achievements."
"Thank you, elder."
Unlike Goiyi, Tang Mujin didn't say much. Instead, he smacked Hong Geolgae hard across the back, his heart heavy with reluctance.
"See you later."
"Yeah."
Hong Geolgae smiled, though his face was full of regret.
To Tang Mujin, Hong Geolgae was a special friend. But for Hong Geolgae, Tang Mujin was his only true friend. Juu-eul Village was that small.
Watching his friend's departing back left Tang Mujin with a heavy chest. To lighten the mood, he tried a joke.
"You're not going off to find a new master because the old man was too lousy at teaching, right?"
"You really can't open your mouth without spouting nonsense."
Goiyi denied it out of habit, but the truth wasn't far off. His teaching had never suited Hong Geolgae.
But this wasn't the teacher's fault—it was the student's.
Unlike Tang Mujin, who was slender and well-balanced, Hong Geolgae had thick bones and a sturdy build. A soft, light boxing style like Biseojang simply didn't suit him.
The same applied to the Black Tortoise Divine Art. That was a cultivation method Goiyi had modified from an existing one.
Its biggest problem was that it hadn't been designed with teaching others in mind.
Without medical knowledge, it was almost impossible to learn. Tang Mujin was just a rare exception who had grasped it quickly.
But that didn't mean Hong Geolgae was suited to Jasim Sword. He didn't even use a sword. In sparring, he wielded a wooden sword, but his so-called swordsmanship resembled swinging a staff or cudgel more than true swordplay.
At least his footwork had shown some progress—but he was already at the limit. With a mismatched cultivation method, true mastery of footwork was impossible.
Still, if it's someone like Daepunggae, a man of renown, he should do well enough.
Goiyi gathered his thoughts, then asked Tang Mujin:
"By the way, how's the repair of the Wooden Men Alley coming along?"
"Smoothly."
"How many wooden men have you made?"
"Still a long way to go. For now, I'm focusing on connecting the waterwheel to the alley instead of making more wooden men."
"Why?"
"What do you mean, why? It's work that has to be done anyway. It's not something that'll be finished in a day or two."
"Well, it's not my job, so why should I care? Do as you like."
Tang Mujin had secretly hoped for help, but Goiyi didn't offer.
***
Tang Mujin had thought the hardest, most time-consuming part of repairing the Wooden Men Alley would be carving the wooden men.
But after swinging a pickaxe for a few days, he changed his mind.
This isn't something one man can do alone.
To channel the waterwheel's power into the alley, a wooden shaft had to be buried underground, linking the waterwheel to the Wooden Men Alley.
From the waterwheel to the western wall of Shaolin Temple, Dan Seolyong handled the work. But from the wall into the alley itself—that part fell to Tang Mujin.
The problem was that digging the ground and burying massive timbers was far harder than he'd imagined.
Dan Seolyong sweated profusely with the pickaxe too, but his ground was soft mountain soil.
Inside Shaolin, it was different. Centuries of footsteps had packed the earth so hard it felt like solid rock.
And it wasn't just digging. The buried timbers had to be braced with wooden frames, so that even if it rained, snowed, or countless monks walked overhead, nothing would collapse.
The only saving grace was that it required no special skill—only endless manpower.
On the Abbot of the Craftsmen Hall's orders, a few lay-brother monks sometimes helped Tang Mujin in their spare time. But it was nowhere near enough. They were always busy.
I need a new method.
Tang Mujin set down his pickaxe and returned to the Guest Hall, sinking into deep thought.
***
Since entering Shaolin, Tang Mujin's daily life had always been the same.
Rise early, carve wooden men in the alley, or visit Dan Seolyong to prepare samples.
But today, he left the Guest Hall late and wandered idly around the temple grounds.
He didn't realize it, but his eyes looked just like Goiyi's—eyes with some scheme brewing.
The sun was sinking, evening meal approaching.
The monks of Shaolin, finishing their duties and training, were dispersing. Tang Mujin quickened his steps toward the practice yard in front of the Bodhidharma Hall.
At Shaolin, monks passed through many stages to find their place.
The Bodhidharma Hall was where young martial monks honed their basic skills.
Tang Mujin hid behind the building, watching. Before long, he spotted a suitable target.
A young monk, seventeen or eighteen at most. If Tang Mujin had a younger brother, he'd be about that age.
Perfect.
He strolled casually toward the path where the youth would pass. The thought that he might go unnoticed never crossed his mind.
After all, only he and Goiyi still had hair within Shaolin. To curious novices, he was a magnet for attention.
The youth, walking with his peers, approached. The group slowed instinctively, wanting to talk to him.
Tang Mujin lowered his gaze, then suddenly looked up with a startled expression, palms pressed together.
"Oh! Forgive me, I've blocked your way—oh?"
He turned to the monk he had marked.
"Venerable one, do you perhaps suffer from some discomfort in your body?"
"Huh? Not really."
"Well now. It doesn't take broken bones or paralyzed limbs to count as discomfort. From coughing blood or aching joints down to a nagging itch—all are signs. For example, like how your inner elbow itches."
"Huh? How did you know that?"
Untouched by worldly guile, the youth reacted big and honest—like a shill planted by a street conman.
Shaolin monks rarely went to doctors unless gravely ill, so their reactions were even bigger.
But in truth, anyone could tell. The boy's inner elbow was red and swollen from scratching.
Even as they spoke, the monk scratched again, almost unconsciously.
"I may work with wood and iron now, but in truth I am a physician. In distant Sichuan, the Tang family is rather well-known for medicine."
"Sichuan!"
Just last year, Tang Mujin had thought Henan impossibly far. To a Shaolin novice, Sichuan was the same—endlessly distant.
And people from faraway places always seemed impressive. Tang Mujin wore a solemn expression.
"For me to come all the way to Henan and meet you must be fate. In that case, may I examine your condition?"
Already wanting to talk with him, and now offered help for his ailment, the youth eagerly nodded.
"Please."
Tang Mujin carefully examined him.
The skin was red and inflamed, scratched raw to the point of bleeding.
Where wounds had formed, hard scabs covered them. From their dark-red color, it didn't look like pus had formed underneath.
"You've been suffering this itch for quite some time. Do you sleep well at night?"
"I often wake and toss about near dawn."
"And your arms and chest feel hot, your palms burning, forcing you awake, don't they?"
The boy's eyes widened.
"How did you know?"
"A skilled physician would know at a glance. Your mouth must often be dry, parched without reason. Even drinking water, your thirst lingers, does it not?"
"That's exactly right!"
Not only he, but the surrounding novices were stunned, as though watching a fortune-teller instead of a physician.
Indeed, better than Hua Tuo diagnosing in the marketplace was an ordinary doctor diagnosing in Shaolin—where even small ailments seemed miraculous.
Tang Mujin was exhilarated.
"As a child, you must have coughed often. And your skin—there must be parts that feel rough, like tree bark, right?"
"Exactly! I scratched my side so much that it became like that."
"And every winter without fail, you must have suffered stomach aches…"
This time, the reaction was less certain.
Even the best physician couldn't guess every symptom perfectly. At best, one could only connect common, probable conditions. Realizing his mistake, Tang Mujin quickly shifted his words.
"…if that were the case, it could become very dangerous. In winter, it would be wise to drink warm water often."
"I see!"
Fortunately, he wasn't caught out. Mujin sighed in relief inwardly, then spoke.
"Now then. Since we've identified the cause, let's ease the symptoms. Please, give me your arm."
The young monk obediently extended his arm, though his face paled when Mujin smoothly drew out his needles.
"This will sting a little."
Tang Mujin inserted needles at Hyeopbaek, Gongchoe, and Yeol-gyeol. Then, moving on, he applied needles to Imun near the ear and Gyemaek . The monks watching nearby looked puzzled.
"His arm itches, so why put needles in the ear?"
"Acupoints are organically connected. Stimulating the ear can treat the arm, and stimulating the palm can even treat the stomach."
Mujin waited for a short while before slowly removing the needles.
"Now, doesn't the itch feel a bit lessened?"
The novice peered uncertainly at his elbow crease, then—gathering courage—scratched it lightly. Normally, scratching would make itching worse.
His eyes widened in astonishment.
"It really doesn't itch anymore!"
"What? Already cured?"
Excited murmurs spread quickly, but before the atmosphere grew overheated, Mujin interjected.
"I've only suppressed the itching temporarily with acupuncture. True healing will take time. Skin ailments are never cured instantly."
"Oooh…"
Acknowledging the limits while stepping back only deepened their trust. To the monks, there wasn't a trace of doubt in their eyes.
"Xiaofeng Powder won't be suitable. It would be best to use Baihu Jia Guizhi Tang . Come to the Guest Hall tomorrow morning, and I'll prepare the decoction for you."
When the treatment ended and Tang Mujin glanced around, the young monks were already raising their hands one after another.
"I sprained my ankle before, and ever since, it hurts whenever I sit down or stand up!"
"My throat always feels like something's stuck there—can you fix that too?"
"Sometimes I get sudden splitting headaches. What kind of illness is that?"
Maintaining a composed expression, Mujin lined them up.
"Alright. I'll see each of you one at a time. Form a line."
Without asking for anything in return, he treated the novices' minor ailments one by one. All the while, he captivated them with tales of Sichuan and his travels, never missing a chance to hold their attention.
***
For four full days, Tang Mujin treated the monks' small illnesses before finally returning to his pickaxe and digging.
Of course, caring for patients was a physician's duty, but Mujin's true aim lay beyond that.
Not long after he resumed digging, he sensed a familiar presence behind him. Turning, he saw a novice he had treated for boils not long ago.
Since they had already spoken before, the boy approached without hesitation.
"You seem busy today?"
Mujin answered with solemn courtesy.
"I'd like to care for more patients, but I have pressing work that cannot be delayed."
Back when Mujin lived in Chengdu, his father, Tang Jeseon, would often treat patients without charging them a single coin.
One might think people would simply take advantage and never repay him—but in truth, the burden of gratitude weighed heavily. As soon as they had even a little to spare, most would come back with payment, whether in coins or a few measures of grain.
Still, there were always those too poor to pay at all. Such people would settle their debt with labor instead—helping in the kitchen, or hauling down bundles of firewood from the mountain.
The novice spoke hesitantly.
"…Should I help you?"
"No, it's fine. You must be tired from training. Go and rest."
But such polite refusal only made it harder to walk away.
The boy looked around, spotted a pickaxe propped up beside the Wooden Men Alley, and grasped it. Strangely, there were as many as eight sturdy pickaxes prepared there.
He stood a short distance from Mujin.
"Shall I start digging here?"
"No, no, really—it's fine. But… if helping eases your mind, then perhaps a little more to the left. Yes, right there. That's the perfect spot."
***
Within a few days, Tang Mujin wasn't even holding the pickaxe anymore.
He had escaped hard labor entirely and risen to the role of overseer.
From the shade, he checked the monks' small ailments, while the novices—eager and strong—took up the pickaxes and dug in his place.
Accustomed to physical training, they worked quickly. Mujin was more than satisfied with their progress.
Watching this, Goiyi came over and asked:
"Won't you get into trouble for making the monks work? You know how picky some of the elders are—like the Head of the Precepts Hall or that stubborn old Akgugye-seung."
"As it happens, the Head of the Precepts Hall visited just the other day. He said that once training is finished, lending a hand is no problem."
"And why's that?"
"He told me that a monk helping with temple affairs is itself a great act of merit. Said it was even a good thing."
Goiyi's eyes narrowed.
"You sly bastard."
"Let's call it mutual benefit instead."
Tang Mujin leaned back in the shade, watching the young monks swing their pickaxes with steady rhythm.