novelSusiti Chapter 8 How about I send you to become a monk?
Chapter 8 How about I send you to become a monk?
That day, Old Man Fang called Fang Yingyu to his side. He sat down at the rickety wooden table, his rough hands constantly tracing the cracks in the surface. His brow was furrowed, and his eyes were filled with helplessness and anxiety. The dim oil lamp flickered in the cold wind, its yellow light making the wrinkles on his face even more pronounced. He looked at his increasingly thin family members sitting around him, and sighed deeply, his heart filled with guilt. As the head of the family, he couldn't even provide for his family's basic needs. This sense of powerlessness struck his heart like a heavy hammer.
Fang Yingyu was just sixteen years old at the time. His face was still somewhat immature, but he already exuded a heroic spirit. Old Man Fang looked at his son, his heart filled with complex emotions. He slowly said, "Son, these days are tough, and the family really can't hold on any longer. Old Monk Peng of Cihua Temple is a highly accomplished monk. I'm thinking of sending you to be his disciple. At least you'll have food to eat at the temple, and it will ease the burden on the family." Old Man Fang's voice was low and hoarse, each word seemingly uttered with all his strength.
Upon hearing this, Fang Yingyu's heart skipped a beat, and a hint of panic flashed in her eyes: "Father, I... I understand your good intentions, but I don't want to become a monk. Once you enter the Buddhist order, you will be cut off from the world forever, unable to marry, have children, or live the life of an ordinary person. I feel that would be too miserable and lonely."
"I know what you're thinking," Old Fang sighed. "You've loved listening to those stories of the martial arts world since you were little, but those are all made up by storytellers. The reality is, for ordinary people like us, just surviving is a blessing."
Yes, in Fang Yingyu's memory, the village elders often sat around the old locust tree at the village entrance, recounting tales of chivalrous heroes who served their country and people, white-clad swordsmen walking under the moon, their swords flashing across nineteen provinces. Those stories took root in his heart like seeds, and now they have grown into towering trees. The jujube tree in the yard also had the potential to grow into a towering tree. Unfortunately, it withered and died last year, its bare branches pointing towards the sky, like a silent protest against fate.
"Father," he knelt down, his forehead pressed against the cold earth, "I really don't want to become a monk. Being a monk is more frightening to me than starving to death."
He continued, "Father, I want to leave my hometown when I'm a little older and venture into the vast world of martial arts. I've heard that there are countless heroes in the martial arts world who rob the rich to help the poor and eliminate evil. I also want to become one of them and make a name for myself." Fang Yingyu became more and more excited as he spoke, his eyes shining as if he could already see himself fighting alone against all the heroes in the martial arts world.
Looking into his son's resolute eyes, Old Man Fang knew his son's determination was unwavering. He sighed helplessly, gently patted his son's shoulder, and said, "Alright, alright, I won't force you. But the world is dangerous. If you really want to venture out in the future, you must be very careful." Old Man Fang's words were full of concern and worry. He knew that the world was not as wonderful as his son imagined; it was full of unknown dangers.
That night, Fang Yingyu tossed and turned on the hard bed, unable to sleep. Moonlight streamed through the window, casting dappled shadows on the floor like countless hungry mouths. From next door came her father's suppressed coughs, each one like a dull knife cutting into her heart.
Night fell, and the village was enveloped in tranquility as everyone slept. Fang Yingyu lit an oil lamp and, by its dim light, studied a martial arts manual. It was a cheap copy of "Essentials of Boxing Techniques," bought by Fang Xiaohe from a street vendor in town to earn money copying books. The manual was worn and tattered, the pages yellowed and the edges frayed, but Fang Yingyu treasured it. He carefully opened the manual, studying each word and phrase, repeatedly pondering the moves and mental techniques. When he encountered anything he didn't understand, he would ask his brother, Fang Xiaohe, for guidance. Fang Xiaohe was exceptionally quick to grasp the concepts, often explaining them to him in just a few words. Under the lamplight, the two brothers would huddle together, studying the manual, Fang Xiaohe even drawing diagrams of the moves on the ground with a twig.
"This move, 'Tiger Emerging from the Forest,' relies heavily on waist strength," Fang Xiaohe said, pointing to a passage of text. "Look here, it says 'Power originates from the ground, passes through the waist, and reaches the arms,' not just relying on arm strength."
Fang Yingyu suddenly realized and immediately stood up to demonstrate. Under the moonlight, his figure cast a lithe silhouette on the earthen wall, and his every move exuded the air of a martial arts master.
Fang Yingyu, harboring a longing and yearning for the martial world, quietly grew stronger through daily arduous training. Every pre-dawn stance, every starlit night of relentless practice, every tireless punch against the old locust tree—all became stepping stones to his dream. Sweat soaked through his thin clothes, turning to frost in the cold winter and salt in the scorching summer; the calluses on his knuckles peeled and grew again, peeled and grew again, just like his increasingly resilient will.
Like a new sprout yearning to break through the soil, he gathered all his strength, waiting for the day he could break free from the shackles of his hometown and embrace the world of martial arts that haunted his dreams, pursuing the chivalrous dream etched in his heart. Every moment of perseverance when exhausted, every drop of sweat shed, became his unwavering determination to step into the world of martial arts, pure and fervent.
However, a boy is still a boy. Like a fledgling eagle that knows nothing of the immensity of the sky and the earth, he stands on the edge of a cliff, ready to spread his wings and try, thinking that he can tear through the sky and soar freely, but he does not know how high the sky is, how violent the wind and rain are, or that the world has already woven layers of nets to bind the boy's sincere heart and courage, waiting for every bit of youthful passion and innocence.
In the world of martial arts, one is often not in control of one's own destiny. This seems to be an eternal prophecy, an inescapable predicament. Throughout history, countless ambitious individuals and dreamers who attempted to change this ironclad rule have ultimately lost everything in the turbulent world of martial arts, including their initial burning passion.
And in the future, that vast and unpredictable world of martial arts, with its mysterious and dangerous nature, is quietly unfolding its first chapter for this young man who harbors dreams but knows little about the dangers of the world.
Two years have passed in the blink of an eye. The sixteen-year-old Fang Yingyu of yesteryear is now an eighteen-year-old youth, his stature increasingly upright, like a pine or bamboo. The youthful naiveté that once lingered in his eyes has long been tempered by the years spent in the mountains and the burdens of life into a calm and resolute strength. His long hunting career has not only given him a strong physique but has also honed his eyes to an exceptionally sharp edge. Whatever his gaze falls upon—the slightest twitch of a rabbit's ear in the depths of the grass, the fleeting shadow of a pheasant darting through the trees—cannot escape his notice. And to gather precious herbs that grow in treacherous places, he often climbs cliffs with his bare hands, weaving and twisting among jagged rocks. Over time, he has developed agile and nimble movements like a monkey, making even steep cliffs seem like flat ground.
Whenever Fang Yingyu brought her prey home, the once quiet courtyard seemed to gain a touch of warmth from the harvest. The family would gather around the dim oil lamp, sharing this hard-won meat. Her mother always prepared it with care; though it was just simple stewing or roasting, seasoned with a few spices gathered from the mountains, the rich aroma of the meat was enough to make everyone's mouths water. In these difficult times of perennial famine, meat was a rare treat for ordinary people; a bowl of steaming meat soup and a piece of roasted game were considered a luxurious feast.
This gift from the mountains and forests is far more than just satisfying one's appetite. It is a silent comfort, warming this family that is struggling in the storm. During the time spent sharing food, the father's furrowed brow relaxes slightly, a gentle smile appears in the eyes of the mother and sister-in-law, the little niece Fang Ke sniffs incessantly at the aroma, and even the older brother temporarily puts down his book to enjoy this moment of warmth. Seeing the contented expressions on her family's faces, Fang Yingyu's weariness from the struggle for survival vanishes, replaced by a profound sense of accomplishment and a determination to protect her family. These small acts of warmth, like a glimmer of light in the darkness, illuminate their impoverished life, allowing the family to hold onto their deep affection for each other and the courage to overcome hardships together, clinging tightly to their faint but persistent hope for the future amidst endless suffering.
It was because he often went into the mountains to hunt that he happened to encounter Ruan Shanruo and her servant being attacked by wild boars and rescued them.