Song Shi's eyes lit up: “So there's a secret door here, and they're hiding women! That abbot must be a fake. Why don't we go in, curse that bald donkey, and extort some money from him?” . Yuncong shook his head: “Brother, wait. Before I left home, Old Wang told me—when visiting temples or nunneries, never wander around without a monk's guidance. Many monks seem to have escaped the mortal world, pure and ascetic, but secretly they commit all kinds of evil—theft, adultery, even murder. If you accidentally uncover their secrets, they will kill you to silence you. This temple is supposed to be a sacred place for cultivation—why would there be a secret mechanism and hidden women here? We'd better not move. If they get angry and lash out, we're all scholars—we could get seriously hurt. Moreover, I've heard rumors of evil monks in Sichuan who collude with bandits, and some even have ties to Maotai, the one-armed monk of Wutai Sect who bears a deep grudge against Sword Warrior Zhou Chun.” (Foreshadowing: Zhou Chun and Maotai's unresolved enmity)
The scholars argued among themselves, but before they could reach a decision, a scholar named Shi suddenly said: “Yuncong, stop talking—look behind you! Where's the door?” Everyone turned around, and to their horror, the door they had come in through was gone, replaced by a dark wall. The calligraphy and paintings on the walls had disappeared too. They rushed forward, pushing the wall, but it was solid as a rock—they could not move it an inch. The only way out was the small door on the meditation bed. Panic set in—some were scared, others were angry. Yuncong suddenly said: “We're fools! There's no door, but there are windows—why don't we climb out the window?”
The others woke up as if from a dream and rushed to the windows. They pushed and pulled, but their hopes were dashed—the four windows were bolted from the outside. Worse, the windows were made of solid iron, with swastika patterns cut into them (about two fingers thick), painted red on the outside to look like wood. The scholars jumped up and down, pounding the walls until their hands hurt, but no one responded from outside. These young, newly successful scholars finally realized they were in danger. Some blamed Song Shi for hitting the chime, others cursed the monks. A few brave ones said: “We're all Juren—there are so many of us. They wouldn't dare hurt us. When the guest monk comes back, he'll let us out.”
The room was filled with noise and arguments, but Yuncong, head throbbing from the chaos, said: “We're in this mess together. Complaining and arguing won't help. We need to stay calm and think of a way out.” The room fell silent—everyone frowned, deep in thought. Only Song Shi stared at the small door on the wall, lost in thought. Suddenly, he said: “Fellow brothers, fate will decide our fortune or misfortune. We have no way out, and no one is coming to help us. We can't stay here forever. Let's go through that small door—find the abbot, and explain that we found the mechanism by accident. Ask him to let us go. We didn't damage anything, and we're just passersby. Even though we uncovered their secret, we won't tell anyone. We're so many scholars with official titles—how dare he kill us all? Once we get out, we can say whatever we want about them.”
The scholars discussed it and realized there was no other way. Led by Song Shi, they filed through the small door—Yuncong was last. Behind the door were more than ten steps leading down to a long, dark corridor, like walking between two walls. Every thirty to fifty steps, there was an oil lamp, casting a faint light. They walked about a hundred steps, then climbed another ten steps, where they saw a glimmer of light. Emerging from the darkness, they found themselves in a rock garden. Walking through the rock garden, they entered a spacious courtyard filled with exotic flowers and plants, beautifully arranged. The scholars, however, were too worried about their fate to appreciate the scenery.
As they were about to take a step forward, a loud, mocking laugh echoed: “You gentlemen are in quite the mood for sightseeing!” The scholars jumped in fright. Looking ahead, they saw a large hall. On the stone steps, a huge, ferocious-looking monk sat cross-legged, shirtless and barefoot, with a pile of cymbals beside him. Two women stood next to him, wearing red capes, about twenty years old, with heavy makeup. Song Shi forced himself to calm down and stepped forward: “Master, we pay our respects.” The fierce monk ignored him, keeping his eyes closed.
Song Shi tried again: “We are scholars traveling through here, visiting your temple. We accidentally triggered a mechanism and got lost. Please show mercy and send someone to lead us out. We promise not to tell anyone about your temple. What do you say, Master?” The fierce monk and the two women remained silent, their hands clasped in prayer. Song Shi waited, then spoke again, but still got no response. Scholar Shi grew impatient: “Monk, stop ignoring us! You're a monk—how dare you hide women in the temple and set up secret mechanisms? We are all newly successful scholars going to the capital for the imperial examination. Let us go, and we won't report you to the officials. If you don't, we'll have you arrested for breaking the law!”
He thought the monk would be afraid, but the monk opened his eyes and sneered: “You poor scholars—you have a path to heaven, but you choose to walk into hell. Let me 'help' you.” The scholars realized they were in serious trouble. Seeing that the monk was alone and the two women were weak, they exchanged glances and prepared to rush forward, hoping to escape. The monk saw their plan and grinned. He picked up a cymbal and struck it once. Suddenly, the scholars' arms were grabbed from behind. They turned around and saw dozens of fierce monks—some holding them down, others wielding sharp knives. In a moment, all seventeen of them were tied up and thrown to the ground. More monks brought wooden stakes and tied them to the stakes, about ten steps from the hall. The fierce monk struck the cymbal twice more, and the other monks retreated.
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The scholars were terrified, most fainting on the spot. Only Yuncong, who was slightly braver, knew he had no choice but to wait for his fate. Suddenly, he thought of his elderly parents and uncles—he was the only heir to nine branches of the family. He regretted his youthful curiosity, which had led him to this disaster, destroying his family's hopes and his own ambitions. Grief overwhelmed him, and he burst into tears.
The fierce monk, who had been enjoying the scene, grew annoyed by their crying. He struck the cymbal, and the women and monks stopped immediately, leaving the courtyard silent again. The scholars, desperate to survive, begged for their lives, but the monk ignored them. He picked up a stack of cymbals, stood up, and threw one—a yellow circle flying toward the first stake, where Song Shi was tied. Song Shi saw the cymbal coming but could not move, his braids tied tightly to the stake. He tried to scream, but the cymbal hit him in the head, and his head rolled off, landing on the ground. The cymbal embedded itself deeply in the wooden stake, humming with vibration.
The other scholars, who had thought the monk was just playing a trick, were horrified when they saw Song Shi's head. They screamed, some begging for mercy, others fainting again. The fierce monk moved quickly, like a rabbit leaping, throwing cymbals one after another—each one hitting its target. The cymbals never missed, and the scholars died gruesome deaths, their heads rolling across the courtyard. In a short time, sixteen cymbals were embedded in the stakes, and sixteen heads lay on the ground. Only Yuncong, who was small in stature, was spared—the monk had started with the larger scholars, leaving him for last.
The monk, having used up all his cymbals, prepared to kill Yuncong with his own hands. The two women, who had been with the monk for years and seen many terrible things, had never witnessed such a massacre. Soft-hearted by nature, and seeing how young and innocent Yuncong looked, they begged the monk: “Master, please spare this child for our sake.” The monk shook his head: “You don't understand—catching a tiger is easy, letting it go is hard. I killed all his companions—if I spare him, he will take revenge. He must die.” The women begged persistently, refusing to give up.
Yuncong, who had resigned himself to death, felt a glimmer of hope when he heard the women begging. He cried out: “I'm from Guiyang—I'm the only son of nine branches of my family. I didn't mean to trigger your mechanism. Please show mercy and spare my life. If you're afraid I'll tell anyone, cut out my tongue and my fingers—I won't be able to speak or write, so I can't harm you. I just want to go back home and continue my family's legacy. Please, Master, please spare me!” He rambled on, begging for a long time.
The monk, tired from killing, and unable to resist the pleadings of his beloved women, finally said: “For your sake, and for my two treasures, I'll let you live for three more days.” He told the women to call the guest monk, Liaoyi, and bring three “tools of death.” The women nodded and left. Soon, Liaoyi arrived with a red plate, on which there were three things: a small red paper bag, a rope tied in a lucky knot, and a steel knife. Yuncong did not know what they were for, but he knew he would die in three days, so he continued begging. The monk ignored him and said to Liaoyi: “Take this boy to the stone cell. Give him these three tools, and a dozen steamed buns—let him live for three days. If he wants a quick death, he can use the poison. On the morning of the fourth day, go to the cell. If he's still alive, use the steel knife to cut off his head and report back to me.”
Liaoyi nodded and walked to Yuncong, untying his ropes. Yuncong, who had been tied for a long time, was numb all over. Exhausted from fear and shock, he fainted as soon as the ropes were removed. Liaoyi sighed: “You young masters from wealthy families—you have such easy lives. Why do you come here to seek death? I'm ordered by my master to take you to the stone cell. I should tie you up, but you're just a child, and I don't think you can escape. I'll show you mercy and leave you untied. Come with me.”
Yuncong, weak and in pain, had no choice but to stand up and follow Liaoyi. They walked around the main hall, through two courtyards, and came to another large hall. Next to the hall was a stone wall, about three zhang high (one zhang is about 3.3 meters). Liaoyi pushed a stone on the wall, and the wall slowly moved, revealing a dark cave. Yuncong knew this was where he would die. He knelt down, clinging to Liaoyi's legs, crying and begging, telling him about his family, begging for help.
Liaoyi, feeling sorry for him, said: “When you first came to the temple, I enjoyed talking to you. I wish I could save you, but things have gone too far—I have no power to change my master's mind. Our temple rules are strict; he shows no mercy. I can't let you go, but I'll help you as much as I can. Hurry up and finish speaking—you need to go into the cell.” Yuncong knew Liaoyi was telling the truth. He begged Liaoyi not to cut off his food for the next three days, so he could die with a full stomach. Liaoyi agreed, handing him the three tools: “The small bag has poison—if you want to die quickly, use that. I'll send someone to bring you food and water for three days.” With that, he pushed Yuncong into the cave and walked away, the stone wall closing behind him. Yuncong fell to the ground, surrounded by darkness, his heart filled with despair—but somewhere deep inside, a tiny spark of hope still flickered, refusing to be extinguished.
