Shaolin Temple: Wooden Men Alley
As time passed and the weather grew pleasantly cool, the beads of sweat vanished from the foreheads of those visiting the Shaolin Temple. Around then, a rumor began to spread—that the Wooden Men Alley had been repaired.
At the following regular assembly, the attendance was unusually high. Head Steward Chu Bo informed the abbots and hall masters that the repairs to the Wooden Men Alley were complete. He even added that in three days' time the alley would be opened, and that anyone curious should come see it for themselves.
Naturally, not a single monk present was without curiosity.
The middle-aged and elder monks of the Qing (清) generation, ranging from forty to sixty years old, maintained solemn expressions, but their eyes betrayed their anticipation and excitement.
What kind of facility was this Wooden Men Alley that had lain dormant for over three hundred years? Could the tales be true—that in the past, the wooden figures actually moved?
Even among monks of considerable rank, most knew very little, for the place had been abandoned for far too long.
Three days passed in this uncharacteristically excited atmosphere at Shaolin. From early morning, the elder monks gathered before the alley, each taking their place.
The younger Jing (淨) generation and the still more junior Zhen (眞) generation were conspicuously absent—largely because the Qing generation had deliberately loaded them with tasks, ensuring they could not come. So strong was their eagerness that they abused their authority without hesitation.
"Open the doors."
Chu Bo unlocked the heavy latch. Before them stood the old building, its wood so weathered that the brown had nearly faded away.
"The exterior wasn't restored, it seems?"
"There were neither resources nor time to go that far."
"No matter. What counts is what lies inside."
Nodding, Chu Bo led them in. Few among Shaolin's monks had ever stepped within, and all looked about with undisguised curiosity.
Though the building was aged, it was well cleaned. A pungent smell of castor oil lingered in the air.
Stopping before an unusually large sliding door, Chu Bo declared:
"This is the Wooden Men Alley."
The door slid open.
Lining both sides of the alley stood thirty-six wooden figures.
"Impressive."
"To carve so many in such a short time? Remarkable."
The monks marveled at the sight. These were nothing like the crude log-hewn figures of the past. Each was carved with meticulous detail, finer even than the Buddha statues within the temple. Every one of the thirty-six bore a different face, each captured in a different posture—dynamic poses that seemed ready to come alive at any moment.
Some were already satisfied. Yet those who had heard more whispered doubts.
"I was told the old wooden men could move…" said Abbot Ji Ji.
"Come now," scoffed Monk Ji Yu, "is that remotely plausible?"
"But you, too, have heard such tales, no?"
"Over time, what never happened becomes legend, and real events gain embellishments. Someone once said the figures looked ready to move, and centuries later it became that they truly did move."
Several monks nodded at Ji Yu's sharp reasoning. Yet their faces carried an unmistakable hint of disappointment. Many had hoped to witness moving wooden men.
Then Chu Bo spoke.
"They will move."
"…Move?"
"Yes. Wait just a moment."
That was all the explanation he gave. Ji Yu looked around, unsure if it was a jest or not, but remained silent.
Soon, two men entered, bearing a long rod and a small mortar-shaped part—Tang Mujin and Gui Yi.
"You're late," someone remarked.
Paying no mind to the stares, Tang Mujin opened part of the floor. The monks glimpsed the intricate mechanism beneath, but none could understand its workings.
At Tang's signal, Gui Yi inserted the rod into a slot by the door and pulled. The mechanism parted, creating just enough space for the small component. Tang set it in place, poured in some castor oil, then sealed the floor.
Moving to the rod by the door, Tang grasped it with quickened heartbeat.
"Now then… let's begin."
With a deep breath, he slowly pushed. A low rumbling arose, and the floor quivered beneath their feet.
Then—the wooden men stirred.
The thirty-six poses shifted into thirty-six different techniques. Their flawless, synchronized movements filled the alley in a martial dance unseen for centuries.
"Kuan Yin Bodhisattva…" someone whispered.
The monks were astounded far beyond their earlier wonder.
As they gaped, Tang Mujin stepped forward to explain.
"As some of you know, the Wooden Men Alley is no mere decoration. It is a training apparatus."
The monks scarcely heard, still breathing hard as they watched the spectacle.
"The method is simple. With each step forward, you must respond with a technique, blocking the wooden man's strike, and continue until you reach the far end. You must not use inner force—the figures would break. Only pure technique, linking forms together step by step."
The monks repeated the rule silently. One step, one technique. To pass through the alley meant thirty-six steps, thirty-six techniques.
Eyes darted among them. Each wanted to try, yet none wished to be the first.
At last, one monk stepped forward—cheongbok, of the Harsh-Tongue Precept.
"May I attempt it first?"
Surprised murmurs rippled through the assembly. cheongbok was notorious for disliking the alley. And yet, who else would be more fitting for the first trial?
Nods of agreement followed. cheongbok, satisfied, approached the entrance.
He studied the first two wooden men—the right poised with double fists, the left with a sudden kick. How best to proceed? He considered, then dismissed thought. One only knew by direct encounter. Resolved, he stepped inside.
The first wooden man struck. cheongbok blocked the twin fists with palm technique, dodged the kick with an extended step. He advanced.
The left wooden man attacked next. He countered with Dharma Eighteen Hands, braced with the Diamond Stance, then adapted Heart-Intent Fist to deflect the blow and stepped forward again.
Third step. Fourth. cheongbok pressed on, barely holding his ground. Monks whispered from behind:
"I'd have used Small Flood Step there…"
"While countering with Seven-Star Fist?"
"No, better to flow with Child Pays Homage to Buddha there."
"That would restrict the next transition. Seven-Star is sounder."
"Yes, but even that risks losing balance."
As they debated, cheongbok stumbled on the sixth figure's sweeping kick—
Thud! He fell to the ground.
The alley fell silent. It seemed his face had flushed.
cheongbok, who had long despised the Wooden Men Alley. cheongbok, ever fiery in temper, from youth until now—
And in front of so many people, such a disgrace.
An uneasy feeling rose sharply in the monks' hearts. They could easily imagine what cheongbok might do next.
Just as Elder Monk Wan Lisheng was about to spring forward and restrain him, cheongbok sat up from the ground.
But instead of venting his anger on the wooden men, he burst out laughing.
"Madness! Utter madness! To think such a thing could exist in this world!"
Wan Lisheng froze mid-step.
It was the laughter of one who had not laughed in a very long time. In cheongbok's voice there was no trace of anger or shame—only pure delight.
Martial training is nothing but endless repetition of the simplest process. After enduring pain as if one's very bones were being carved away, one day you look back and find that you have advanced a little. Realizing that progress brings joy—but the suffering of the process always outweighs the joy.
Countless practitioners fail to endure and abandon the martial path. Even the most renowned sects, even Shaolin, were no exception.
But to cheongbok, this Wooden Men Alley was pure joy. Less like training, more like a kind of game.
Six mere steps, and he had already faced countless choices and possibilities.
What if he had responded differently to the third wooden man? What if he had used another footwork pattern at the fourth? What if, before the fifth, he had steadied his stance and moved forward slowly instead of rushing?
At each of those questions he had chosen what seemed best—and had been knocked down for it. A clean failure, with no room for trickery or excuse. And so, instead of shame or defeat, what burned in him was the will to strive further.
Next time, he thought, he might go a little further. The process itself might flow more smoothly, more simply.
He wanted to try again. To be struck again, to be kicked again.
What should I do next time? Perhaps like this?
As cheongbok returned to the starting line, he envisioned himself already standing at the end of the alley—his future self, who had gained new understanding.
With a deeply satisfied expression, cheongbok addressed the other monks.
"Now that I've been knocked down once, I see it clearly. This is no mere device. It is a riddle for the body to solve—a martial scripture not written on ink and paper, but carved into wood and mechanism."
He turned to Tang Mujin with a question.
"Tell me, Benefactor Tang."
"Yes?"
"When one reaches the end of the Wooden Men Alley, what is the name of the martial art one discovers?"
"The fist technique is called the Divine White Lotus Fist , and the footwork is called Buddha's Shadow Immortal Mist Step ."
The names had been found among the old mechanism beneath the alley—names of techniques that would have been lost forever had they not been carefully examined.
"If I had a Great Rejuvenation Pill in my hand right now, I would pass it to you without a moment's hesitation. You have given Shaolin a priceless gift."
Such words were astonishing praise, coming from cheongbok, the elder famed for his harsh tongue.
At that, the elder monks rushed to take their turns.
"Come, let Abbot cheong hwan of the Dhyana Hall go next!"
"The next turn shall be mine!"
One by one, Shaolin's senior monks challenged the Wooden Men Alley. They fell, they were struck on the back of the head, they were kicked in the ribs. But not one of them felt shame.
Cheers rang out, playful jeers followed.
In that moment, they were not the venerable elders of Shaolin, but fifteen-year-old novices bickering in the training yard.
They rejoiced sincerely at facing the Wooden Men Alley after centuries, and gave their heartfelt gratitude to Tang Mujin, who had restored this treasure.
When everyone had had a turn, the one who advanced the furthest was Wan Lisheng of the Arhat Hall, cheongbok.
He had managed eleven steps. More impressively, it was not through the techniques he already knew, but by improvising new moves in response to the wooden men's attacks. That made the achievement all the more precious.
If they continued to challenge the alley over and over, they would one day unknowingly master the Divine White Lotus Fist and Buddha's Shadow Immortal Mist Step.
When the round was complete and cheongbok was preparing for another attempt, someone spoke.
"We are having far too much fun among ourselves. Should we not give Benefactor Tang a chance as well? He knows the workings better than any of us—he may see solutions we have missed."
Tang Mujin smiled faintly and stepped before the alley.
Indeed, he alone knew all thirty-six steps and thirty-six techniques to break through the Wooden Men Alley. The one who best knows the answer to a riddle is not the cleverest solver, but the one who set the riddle.
Together with Dan Seol-yeong, he had restored the alley, studying the records preserved in the Tang clan. He had traced the thoughts and designs of the one who first built it. Knowing every move of the thirty-six wooden men, he could not help but know the solution.
As Tang Mujin stood at the starting line, the monks erupted in cheers. Their usual solemnity had long since vanished.
Tang Mujin advanced, displaying the techniques of the Divine White Lotus Fist, his steps flowing into Buddha's Shadow Immortal Mist Step.
One step, two steps… The eyes of twenty seasoned masters were fixed intently on him. His way of solving the riddle was unlike anyone else's—utterly efficient. What they had only guessed at as the true essence of the martial art now unfolded before them in the hands of a youth barely past twenty.
But Tang Mujin had no intention of reaching the end.
Wan Lisheng managed eleven steps, he thought.
At exactly twelve, Tang Mujin stopped.
It was an act of consideration.
The joy of a riddle lies not in knowing the answer, but in the struggle to discover it. Tang Mujin was not so thoughtless as to reveal the solution prematurely—especially not a riddle as delightful as this, posed again after three hundred years.
The monks, grasping his intent, cheered wildly.
Tang Mujin looked back sheepishly—and among the smiling faces he found one expression calm and unreadable. The Abbot of the Discipline Hall, cheongyul.
cheongyul spoke.
"Benefactor Tang. You went the furthest. Were you to choose, you could no doubt reach the end. But—"
A faint unease stirred in Tang Mujin.
cheongyul, however, continued evenly, as though oblivious.
"Bodhidharma left behind three great commandments for Shaolin to uphold. The Great Three Precepts."
"First: No woman may be admitted within the mountain gate."
"Second: One cast out of Shaolin may never re-enter. To break this rule is to lose one's ankles."
"Third: To master martial arts without formally serving a master, whether by self-study or by theft, is forbidden. The penalty for breaking this rule is death, or the severing of one's meridians."
"I ask you, Benefactor Tang. Who was the master under whom you learned the Divine White Lotus Fist and Buddha's Shadow Immortal Mist Step?"