Contemplating Stones

An eighteen-year-old maiden, barely blooming, could drop a thief with a single slap. Across the pond, Zhang Ling had witnessed a petty thief pickpocket the purse of the young woman standing opposite him. Because of the sudden, sharp prick on her backside, the woman had subjectively assumed that the culprit was the young man standing nearby. Surprisingly, instead of crying out for help, she took matters into her own hands, immediately launching a flurry of punches and kicks at the young man. The six-foot-tall fellow was no match for her; he tumbled and scrambled on the ground. Who would have guessed this woman was as fierce as a tiger? In mere moments, she had beaten him black and blue. With no way to fight back, the man groveled on the ground, begging bitterly for mercy. After venting her anger and retrieving her purse, the woman's wrath finally subsided. The man scrambled to flee for his life while still wondering what on earth had just happened. His hand had felt as though it had been pricked by a needle; not only had he failed to steal any money, but he had also received a vicious beating for his trouble. He could only count himself lucky that the woman had not dragged him off to the authorities, or else he would have been done for. At this thought, the man quickened his pace and fled.

The woman dusted off her hands. Having vented her spite, she turned back around, intending to continue admiring the fish. Over by the pond, Zhang Ling, having witnessed the woman's ferocious display, hastily averted his gaze and carefully retracted the flying needle he had used to make mischief. He inched closer to the edge of the bank, and only when the needle safely returned to his sleeve did he let out a sigh of relief.

Suddenly, an elderly voice came from behind him: "The young master is truly an extraordinary person!"

Zhang Ling turned to see a benevolent-faced elderly monk slowly approaching. Before Zhang Ling could even ask, the young novice monk accompanying him saluted and called out, "Abbot."

The elderly monk nodded at Chanxuan in acknowledgment, then used the hand not holding his prayer beads to salute Zhang Ling: "This old monk is Qingdu, greetings, Lord Zhang."

Zhang Ling asked with bewilderment, "You know me?"

Monk Qingdu smiled, glancing at the National Mourning sword hanging at Zhang Ling's waist, and said, "This old monk recognizes this blade."

Zhang Ling was puzzled: "Many people know the National Mourning is in my hands, but the abbot's tone in saying this seems somewhat peculiar."

Qingdu sighed with emotion: "The last time this old monk saw this blade was in the hands of General Mingze."

Zhang Ling asked, "The abbot has met my father?"

Qingdu explained: "In the past, whenever the Great General set out on an expedition, he would always come to the temple to pray for a complete victory, and every time he returned, he would come back to fulfill his vows."

Qingdu raised his hand to point toward the distant banyan tree. The tree was covered with red ribbons, and Qingdu chuckled softly, "That is the tree right there. The Great General was hailed as the Ever-Victorious General; almost every time he finished praying, he would come back to fulfill his vows, and he even left behind carved inscriptions and erected stones beneath the tree. The Young Master may go take a look."

Zhang Ling responded and walked beneath the wishing tree. Neat piles of bluestone slabs engraved with text lined the left and right sides, some of which had already grown blurry. Zhang Ling casually picked up a few pieces to browse the handwriting. The stones on the left recorded the battle locations, while those on the right recorded the outcomes.

Muan: Routed the enemy with a thousand cavalry.
Gongliang: Narrowly defeated, the entire army wiped out, wept and returned alone.
Qiongquan Mountain: Sealed by raging flames.
Banqu Channel: A desperate final stand, a miserable victory, with only sixteen or seventeen men left wounded.

Zhang Ling placed each inscribed stone back where he found it after reading it, then looked at the results on the right. If it was a great victory, there were only a few sparse words; if it was a defeat, it was meticulously recorded. It was only then that Zhang Ling realized his father, revered as the martial immortal, had not had everything go smoothly either. Any myth of invincibility was merely an excuse used to stabilize the overall situation. Only when the three armies believed that following this ever-victorious general would lead to repeated triumphs could they win. Yet, in the end, it still fulfilled the ancient saying: how many ever return from battles of old? He did not know if these soldiers were truly foolish or were simply playing dumb while knowing the truth. Having never witnessed the cries of the grieving populace, Zhang Ling dared not speak recklessly of the martyrs; he could only read on, stone after stone. Every entry before had a beginning and an end, until the final stone, which was engraved with Xielu Pinggu. On neither the left nor the right were there any further stone carvings.

Zhang Ling let out a long breath. For some reason, simply looking at that pile of stones made his chest feel heavy. He suddenly felt his own cold and detached nature thaw slightly. Looking at the stack of bluestone slabs, Zhang Ling asked, "Old Abbot, I notice there is hardly any dust on these stones. Have there usually been many people coming to view the stones?"

Qingdu answered straightforwardly, "Ever since the Great General gave his life for the country, an endless stream of people came here to view the stones at first. As time passed afterward, the number of visitors dwindled quite a bit. However, there are still many old veterans who have retired from the front lines coming here. Also, because the Great General used to pray for great victories, many pilgrims believed this place was miraculous. For a period of time, this banyan tree was so hung with wishing ribbons that the green leaves were practically invisible."

Zhang Ling joked, "Then the abbot must have made a fortune in incense money. Speaking of which, this is also thanks to my late father's credit. Shouldn't I be entitled to a dividend?"

Qingdu was taken aback. Pilgrims usually donated money to the temple; this was the first time he had ever encountered someone demanding money from the temple. Unwilling to answer, the old abbot changed the subject: "Right, this old monk just saw the Young Master use the art of the flying needle to pierce through a theft, which shows the Young Master is also a person of chivalrous spirit. However, regarding the spot where you used the needle on that young lady, this old monk feels it was rather inappropriate."

Zhang Ling asked playfully, "Inappropriate how? I am dim-witted, so I must ask the abbot to speak plainly."

Qingdu shook his head repeatedly: "Others' hidden places must not be spoken of, must not be spoken of."

Seeing this, Zhang Ling became instead aggressive and smiled, "All people in this world are born naked; what is there that cannot be spoken of? Feeling that something cannot be spoken of stems from the evil thoughts of the human heart. Abbot, you are falling into appearances!"

Qingdu twirled his prayer beads while chanting, "Amitabha, a sin, a sin."

Zhang Ling chuckled ear-to-ear at this sight. Chanxuan, the young novice monk standing to the side, felt annoyed, thinking to himself why this young master always liked to tease people. Knowing he couldn't out-talk him, however, he didn't dare step forward and invite humiliation.

At that moment, someone suddenly tapped Zhang Ling on the shoulder. He turned around to see that it was none other than the young woman from earlier. Zhang Ling's heart instantly tightened as he heard the maiden say with righteous indignation, "The Young Master has quite the fine mood, even teasing a person of the cloth. How utterly devoid of shame!"

Hearing her speak this way, it was clear she hadn't overheard the previous conversation. Zhang Ling was also afraid the abbot would spill the truth out of retaliation, so he wanted to smooth the matter over and apologized to both sides.

The young woman, who loved to champion a just cause, was finally satisfied. She turned to Qingdu and said, "I am fortunate to meet the Abbot Master. Coincidentally, this young maiden wishes to ask the Master to divine her romantic fate."

Hearing this, Zhang Ling thought to himself that with such a fierce and aggressive woman, even tigers and leopards would probably find her hard to tame; it would be best to advise the young lady to be a bit more gentle and virtuous. However, fearing he might once again bring trouble upon himself with his words, Zhang Ling chose to remain silent.

Qingdu spoke softly, "Will the young lady please move to the Buddha hall? Only after the young lady draws a lot will this old monk be able to interpret it for you."

The novice monk Chanxuan no longer lingered; he still had his daily lessons to recite, and having been delayed for quite a while, he would have to finish them later in the evening. The remaining three headed toward the Buddha hall together.

Seeing Zhang Ling following along as well, the woman demanded, "Why are you tagging along?"

Zhang Ling smiled. "Since the young lady can come to divine her romantic fate, can I not pray for my official career?"

The woman glanced at him sideways and said coldly, "In my view, aside from having a handsome face, the Young Master doesn't have much ink in his belly. If you want to pray for an official career, you'd better read more books."

Zhang Ling calmly smiled. "Since the young lady also said that an official career must be sought within books, it shows that everything must be grasped in one's own hands, and romantic fate is no exception. I advise the young lady to also learn more guqin, chess, calligraphy, and painting. That way, like the talented Miss Xie Feishuang, your doorstep would be worn down by suitors even without stepping outside."