Three minutes later, she soared through the night sky, her gaze sweeping over a forest so dark it seemed to swallow the moon. In the gloom, she spotted four familiar figures: Monk Jueyuan sitting cross-legged, Jimmy Chang kneeling at his side, a little kid standing with hands pressed together in prayer, and one person who surprised her—Wu Zhengfeng.
"Jiao-niang?" With a swish, Jill Young landed: "What’s going on here?"
"Jill Young?" Wu Zhengfeng was just as surprised. "What happened to you? Why do you look like you just lost a brawl with a chimney sweep?"
"Huh?" Jill finally noticed she was covered in ash, her hair dull and gray, looking like a clay figurine. "Forget that—what’s going on here?"
"I just got here myself. This is how I ended up." Wu Zhengfeng glanced at Monk Jueyuan and sent Jill Young a voice transmission: "There’s no saving him."
Jill Young stepped closer. Monk Jueyuan was muttering nonstop, a dark green palm print stamped on his chest. The mark was deep, the flesh sunken, and an ominous, poisonous aura seeped out. The old monk’s internal power was formidable—ninety years of pure yang cultivation wasn’t just for show—but the green-black energy wasn’t backing down either. Both sides were locked in a struggle, neither winning nor losing.
But this instinctive struggle didn’t matter anymore. Just as Wu Zhengfeng said, Monk Jueyuan’s heart meridian was severed, his heart shattered—he was beyond saving. "Shaolin is no more," he said.
He was quietly chanting some scripture, trying to finish it before the end. Jill Young listened instinctively—it sounded like an internal cultivation mantra. She figured it must be the Solar Sutra scripture, but Monk Jueyuan wouldn’t last long enough to finish. When they climbed West Summit today, the Shaolin monks hadn’t forced Monk Jueyuan to his death like in the original story. She’d felt relieved, hoping to chat with him about pure yang cultivation in a few days.
But now, fate had other plans—Monk Jueyuan was doomed to die today after all.
"Master, a high monk once gave me a pill, said it could save a life. If you’re at death’s door, take it." The little kid pulled out a jade bottle and handed it to Monk Jueyuan. "Take it—maybe it’ll work."
Monk Jueyuan didn’t take the pill or answer, just solemnly shook his head and kept chanting. He knew exactly how bad things were—he was only alive because sheer willpower was holding his last breath together. All he wanted was to pass as much of the Solar Sutra to his disciple as possible, but time was too short; he couldn’t finish the scripture.
When the Dao of Heaven is flawed, what can’t be said is better left unsaid.
Monk Jueyuan stopped chanting and looked up at Jill Young. "Layperson, I have a favor to ask."
Jill couldn’t help but glance at him. She knew that Amitabha Rebirth Mantra by heart—it was the only Buddhist scripture she actually remembered.
"My disciple is still young, and this child is just a kid. The martial world is dangerous—they can’t survive on their own. That villain was barely driven off by me, but my skills aren’t fully mastered, so he’s not seriously hurt and might come back. His power is poisonous and dark; only pure yang, upright force can counter it. Layperson, I shamelessly ask you to look after Jimmy and the others for a while."
Jill glanced at the little monk and the kid. The little monk was completely lost, but the kid was surprisingly calm. Jill nodded, "Alright."
"Thank you, Layperson." Monk Jueyuan bowed slightly to Jill, then gently patted Jimmy Chang’s head. "Jimmy, the road ahead is tough. Take care of yourself. Don’t go back—Shaolin is no more."
"No more Shaolin? Take care of myself? What about you, Master? What do you mean? Master—Master?!" Jimmy Chang panicked, clutching Monk Jueyuan’s robe and shaking him, desperate for answers. But Monk Jueyuan was already beyond responding.
He could never respond again.
"Master—! Master, ahhh—!!"
The little monk’s wailing and the old monk’s peaceful passing made the night as cold as a grave. Death weighs heavy, even for strangers. Wu Zhengfeng’s face darkened, and he let out a sigh that vanished into the bleak air.
But compared to Jimmy Chang, who was drowning in grief, the little kid acted like a grown-up.
He simply pressed his hands together, bowed slightly to Monk Jueyuan, and recited a scripture: "Namo Amitabha…"
Jill couldn’t help but glance at him. She knew that Rebirth Mantra by heart—it was the only Buddhist scripture she actually remembered.
A long time ago, Jill had recited the very same scripture for someone else.
It didn’t mean much, but Jill felt like she was getting closer to the truth.
It read: "Murderer: Flower Thief Jade Hawk Johnson!" The words were written as if someone had dipped a paintbrush in pure nightmare.
"About an hour ago, the Shadow Division reported that a Mongol army was moving toward Mount Song. You left a note and disappeared. I waited for half an hour, got restless, so I came to Mount Song to look for you. As soon as I got close, I felt something weird in the air. Right after I arrived, you showed up." Wu Zhengfeng’s face was serious. "You got here before me—do you know what happened here?"
"No idea. I was just wandering around the temple, then somehow fell asleep. No clue how long I was out. Before I closed my eyes, everything was normal—when I woke up, everything had changed."
She stomped her foot, sending a shockwave through the ground—a boom echoed, and the stone slab bearing Jade Hawk Johnson’s name exploded like a bad plot twist, debris flying and both kids jumping out of their skins.
Thinking back, ever since entering the Shaolin Archives, everything tonight had felt strangely deliberate and bizarre.
"Let’s go check it out." Jill turned, grabbed Jimmy Chang, and Wu Zhengfeng scooped up the little kid. They left Monk Jueyuan’s body for now, used their lightness skill, and dashed toward Shaolin with lightning speed. On the way, Wu Zhengfeng noticed that Jill had broken through yet again and asked about it, but Jill herself couldn’t explain it.
(This chapter isn’t finished yet~ Please click next page for more!)
The rugged mountain path didn’t slow them down at all—one had sky-leaping lightness skill, the other brute strength that could crush rocks. In no time, they reached West Summit. From afar, Shaolin Temple, the thousand-year-old Buddhist sanctuary, was now a blazing inferno. The flames roared, the wind howled, but not a single voice could be heard.
No shouts, no screams, no cries—nothing.
Jill frowned and sped up, dragging the two kids down from the sky into Shaolin Temple. The plaza she’d visited earlier that day—usually spotless and dust-free—was now stained with blood and littered with severed limbs. Fingers, legs, decapitated heads, and other body parts were scattered everywhere. Holy ground had turned into a slaughterhouse.
Looking closer, among the corpses were even a few of the Shaolin Eighteen Bronze Elders.
Jimmy Chang was petrified, and even the little kid who’d been so calm was now lost, his big eyes filled with terror—he finally looked like a child.
"Huh?" Jill suddenly noticed something, set Jimmy Chang down, and darted into the Great Hall. Inside, the Buddha statue had toppled, flames raged, and the air was stiflingly hot—but Jill was surprised she didn’t feel any discomfort. Normally, her strong body would still need some effort to resist the heat, but now it felt effortless.
She flew straight to the ruined Buddha, landing before the statue. There, a fat monk sat cross-legged—it was Brother Matthew. His hands were folded in prayer, but his right index finger—the one for Zen Finger Strike—was gone, severed at the base.
Examining the wound, Jill used her spiritual power to instantly recreate what happened: a powerful hand had grabbed his finger, snapped it with a crack, then ripped it clean off. Only someone with incredible martial skill could have caught Brother Matthew’s finger.
Brother Matthew saw Jill, smiled faintly, and quietly recited: "Three Realms Ablaze, like a burning house, filled with suffering, so terrifying. Always the fire of birth, old age, sickness, and death—burning endlessly… Haha, Zen Finger Strike, Zen Finger Strike, let go of one finger, and you’ll find Zen…"
His voice faded, his head slumped, and Brother Matthew passed away. Not long ago, this monk had been playing hide-and-seek and tending pigs—now, suddenly, he was dead. It was as if those joyful pranks had never happened. But even at death, a smile lingered on his lips—carefree, enlightened. Who knows what he understood at the very end.
"Come quick, over here!" Wu Zhengfeng’s voice snapped Jill out of it. She hoisted Brother Matthew’s body and dashed out of the Great Hall. With a crash, the burning hall finally collapsed, sparks flying like death itself.
In the blaze, Jill saw what Wu Zhengfeng wanted her to see.
On the open ground before Shaolin’s front gate, someone had written giant bloody characters. The words shocked Jill so much she froze.
It read: "Murderer: Flower Thief Jade Hawk Johnson!"
Ten bloody characters—some smeared with severed limbs and guts, intestines dragging through the strokes—made everyone shudder with horror and disgust. Jimmy Chang stared in shock, then clenched his fists and let out a piercing scream: "Jade Hawk Johnson—! I’ll never forgive you, never share the same sky—"
Bang! Jill gave him a knock on the head, cutting off his last word. Annoyed, she said, "Quit yelling. How do you know it was really Jade Hawk Johnson? This is obviously a fake!"
She stepped forward, looked around the burning wreckage of Shaolin Temple, then stomped her foot. Power surged through the ground, and with a loud boom, the stone slab bearing Jade Hawk Johnson’s name exploded, sending debris flying and scaring both kids.
"Trying to pin this on me?" Jill was truly furious now, her eyes blazing red. "Fine—whoever you are, just wait!"