Lu Zhishen crossed several hills and came upon a great pine forest with a mountain path running through it. He followed the path, and before he had gone half a li, he looked up and saw a dilapidated temple, its wind chimes clanging in the breeze. At the gate hung an old vermilion plaque bearing four faded gold characters: “Tile-Jar Temple.” Another fifty paces brought him over a stone bridge to the ancient structure itself, which had clearly seen better centuries.

Passing through the mountain gate, he saw the damage up close. Though it was a grand monastery, it was falling apart:

The bell tower had collapsed, the halls were crumbling. Moss covered the gates, green lichen crept over the sutra pavilions. Sparrows nested in the broken statues of the heavenly kings. Spider webs hung from the mouths of fallen deities. Headless arhats suffered their own calamity; Armless vajras could hardly display their power.

Zhishen entered and headed for the guest quarters. The door was gone, the walls reduced to rubble. He wondered how such a great temple had come to ruin. At the abbot’s quarters he found the ground covered in swallow droppings, the door locked with a spider-webbed padlock. He struck his staff against the earth and called out: “A wandering monk seeks alms!” No answer came.

He went to the kitchen. The pots were gone, the stoves collapsed. He set down his bundle before the shrine of the kitchen god and searched further. Behind the kitchen he found a small room where several old monks sat, gaunt and sallow-faced.

Zhishen bellowed: “You monks are discourteous! I called for ages and no one answered.”

The old monk waved his hand. “Don’t shout.”

“I’m just a passing monk asking for a meal,” Zhishen said. “What harm in that?”

“We haven’t had food in three days,” the old monk replied. “Where would we get anything to give you?”

“I’ve come from Mount Wutai,” Zhishen said. “Surely you can spare half a bowl of gruel.”

“A monk from the living Buddha’s place—we should feed you properly. But our temple has been stripped bare, and the brethren scattered. Truly, we have starved for three days.”

“Nonsense!” Zhishen scoffed. “Such a grand place without food?”

The old monk sighed. “This was once a fine monastery. But a wandering monk brought a Taoist with him and took over as abbot. They destroyed everything—the temple’s property, its provisions. They drove out the other monks. Those of us too old to flee have been left here starving.”

“Why not report them to the authorities?” Zhishen demanded.

“The magistrate is far away, and even soldiers can’t control them. These two are murderers and arsonists—they’ve made their den behind the abbot’s quarters.”

“What are they called?”

“The monk is Cui Daocheng, nicknamed the Iron Buddha. The Taoist is Qiu Xiaoyi, known as the Flying Yaksha. They wear monastic robes but live like bandits.”

As he spoke, Zhishen caught a whiff of something delicious. He followed his nose to an earthen stove covered with straw, steam rising from beneath. Lifting the lid, he found a pot of millet porridge.

“You lying old fools!” he roared. “You claim you haven’t eaten in three days, yet here’s a whole pot of porridge!”

The monks scrambled for bowls and ladles, trying to hide them. Zhishen, ravenous, grabbed the pot with both hands and tipped it onto a dusty table, then began scooping the hot porridge with his bare hands. The old monks rushed forward to snatch what they could; he shoved them aside, sending them sprawling.

After a few mouthfuls, one monk wailed: “We truly hadn’t eaten for three days! We only just begged these grains and made this thin gruel—and now you’re eating ours!”

Zhishen stopped. He put down the food and went out to wash his hands. Through a broken wall he saw a Taoist approaching, wearing a black turban and hempen shoes, carrying a shoulder pole. On one end hung a bamboo basket revealing fish tails and meat wrapped in lotus leaves; on the other swung a wine jug covered with leaves. The man sang:

“You are in the east, I am in the west; You have no husband, I have no wife. My lack of a wife is tolerable— But your lack of a husband is so lonely!”

The old monks crept up and pointed at him fearfully: “That’s Flying Yaksha Qiu Xiaoyi!”

Zhishen grabbed his staff and followed. The Taoist, unaware he was being trailed, slipped through the back wall behind the abbot’s quarters. Zhishen pursued and found a table set beneath a green locust tree, laden with dishes, three cups, and three pairs of chopsticks. In the center sat a fat monk with eyebrows like painted brushes, a face as dark as ink, and a belly of black flesh exposed beneath his robe. Beside him sat a young woman.

The Taoist set down his basket and took a seat. When Zhishen appeared, the fat monk started up in surprise: “Please, brother, sit and share a cup.”

Zhishen gripped his staff. “You two—how dare you ruin this temple?”

“Sit, brother, let me explain,” said the monk.

“Speak!” Zhishen’s eyes blazed.

The Iron Buddha began: “This temple was once fine indeed—vast fields, many monks. But those old monks in the cloister drank and debauched, kept women with temple funds. When the abbot tried to stop them, they drove him out. The temple decayed, the monks scattered, the lands were sold. Now this Taoist and I have newly taken over. We intend to restore the gates and repair the halls.”

“And who is this woman?” Zhishen asked.

“She’s the daughter of Wang Youjin from the next village,” the monk said smoothly. “Her father was once a benefactor of this temple. But his fortune collapsed, he fell into poverty, and his wife took ill. She came to borrow rice. Out of respect for her father, I offered her some wine. Nothing more. Don’t listen to those old wretches.”

Zhishen believed him. He returned to the kitchen fuming at the old monks. “So it was you who ruined this temple and then lied to me!”

“Don’t trust him!” they cried together. “He keeps that woman right now! When he saw your staff and knife, he had no weapon, so he didn’t dare fight. Go back and see for yourself—they eat meat and drink wine while we have nothing but gruel!”

Zhishen thought it over. He turned and marched back, but found the side door barred. With one kick he burst through—and there was Iron Buddha Cui Daocheng charging at him with a halberd from beneath the locust tree.

Zhishen roared and swung his staff. They exchanged fourteen or fifteen rounds. Cui Daocheng could not match him, only parrying and dodging, backing away. Seeing his companion losing ground, Qiu Xiaoyi grabbed a halberd and rushed in from behind. Zhishen sensed the footsteps but dared not turn. When he saw a shadow move, he shouted “Strike!” Cui Daocheng flinched and leapt back—but Zhishen spun to face both of them at once.

For ten more rounds they fought, two against one. But Zhishen was empty-stomached, exhausted from the road, and facing fresh opponents. He feigned a gap and fled, dragging his staff behind him. The pair chased him out through the mountain gate, where he turned and fought another ten rounds before breaking away again. They followed to the stone bridge, then sat on its railings and let him go.

Zhishen ran until he was far away, panting to catch his breath. His bundle still lay at the shrine in the kitchen—he had left without it, penniless and starving. To return would be suicide against those two working together.

He walked on, each step heavier than the last. After several li he came to a great forest of red pine trees:

Branches twisted like thousand-foot old dragons, Shadows flickered like scaled serpents. From afar they seemed a judge’s beard; Up close, a demon’s hair. Blood-red needles covered every bough— One might think vermilion had been sprinkled over the treetops.

“A fierce and dreadful wood,” Zhishen muttered. As he watched, a head poked out from among the trees, took one look at him, spat, and ducked back inside.

“That rogue is a highway robber waiting for prey,” Zhishen thought. “He saw I’m a monk—bad luck for business—so he spat and hid. Well, bad luck for him, because I’ve got a belly full of rage and nowhere to spend it. I’ll strip that scoundrel and trade his clothes for wine.”

He charged toward the forest. “You wretch in the trees! Come out!”

The man inside laughed. “I was worried about my own luck, but he dares provoke me!” He leaped out with a halberd, shouting: “Bald donkey, you’ve come to meet your death—I didn’t seek you!”

“Let me show you who I am!” Zhishen swung his staff.

The man raised his weapon but hesitated. That voice sounded familiar. “Hey, monk! Your voice is familiar. What’s your name?”

“Fight me three hundred rounds first, then we’ll talk names.”

Angered, the man attacked. They exchanged ten-odd blows before he called out in admiration: “What a fierce monk!” After four more exchanges he shouted: “Hold! I have something to say.”

They both stepped back. “Tell me your name—your voice is truly familiar.”

When Zhishen told him, the man threw down his halberd and bowed low. “Do you know Shi Jin?”

Zhishen laughed. “So it’s Brother Shi!”

They greeted each other warmly and sat down in the forest. “Where have you been since we parted at Weizhou?” Zhishen asked.

Shi Jin explained: “The day after you killed Zheng the Butcher, I heard you had fled. The authorities knew I helped that singer Old Jin get away, so I left Weizhou too and went looking for my master Wang Jin. I searched all the way to Yanzhou without finding him. Then I returned to the capital and spent some time there until my money ran out. So I came here seeking funds—and who should I meet but you! How did you become a monk?”

Zhishen told his whole story from the beginning.

“Since you’re hungry,” Shi Jin said, “I have dried meat and flatbread.” He brought them out and Zhishen ate.

“Your bundle is still in that temple,” Shi Jin continued. “Let’s go get it back. If they won’t give it up, we’ll finish them off.”

“Agreed!”

They ate their fill, took up their weapons, and returned to Tile-Jar Temple. There sat Cui Daocheng and Qiu Xiaoyi on the bridge.

Zhishen shouted: “You two! Come on—this time it’s life or death!”

The monk laughed. “You’re already beaten—how dare you come back?”

Furious, Zhishen charged across the bridge with his staff. Iron Buddha snarled and came down to meet him. But now Zhishen had Shi Jin at his side and a full belly; his strength surged. After eight or nine rounds, Cui Daocheng began to flag. Seeing this, Flying Yaksha Qiu grabbed his halberd and joined the fray. Shi Jin leapt from the trees, shouting “No one leaves!” and engaged Qiu Xiaoyi.

Two pairs fought in deadly earnest. Zhishen found his opening and bellowed: “Take that!” His staff crashed down and sent Iron Buddha tumbling off the bridge. Seeing his companion fall, the Taoist lost heart, feinted, and tried to flee.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Shi Jin pursued and drove his halberd into Qiu’s back. The man fell with a thud. Shi Jin stabbed him again and again. Zhishen ran down to the bridge and smashed Cui Daocheng with another blow of his staff.

The two villains had met their end—every crime they had committed now came home to roost.

Zhishen and Shi Jin tied ropes around the corpses and hurled them into the ravine. Then they broke back into the temple. In the kitchen, the old monks had hanged themselves—afraid that after defeating Zhishen, Cui and Qiu would kill them. Behind the abbot’s quarters, the kidnapped woman had thrown herself down a well. Searching through the small rooms, they found no one, but there was Zhishen’s bundle, still unopened. He strapped it on his back again.

In the sleeping quarters they found three or four bundles of clothing. Shi Jin opened them—they were fine garments with gold and silver hidden inside. He wrapped up the best of both and shouldered the loot. In the kitchen they discovered wine and meat, and both ate until satisfied.

They tore cloth into torches and lit them from the stove fire. First they set the rear rooms ablaze, then the front gate. They made more torches and touched them to the eaves beneath the Buddha hall. The wind was strong; flames crackled and leapt, spreading across the whole temple. Zhishen and Shi Jin watched for a while until every corner was burning.

“A fine garden is no place to linger,” they said. “Time to move on.”

They traveled through the night together. As dawn broke, they spotted a cluster of houses ahead—a small village. They made for it and found a tiny tavern by a single-log bridge:

The wicker gate stood half open, the cloth banner hung low. Jars of sour wine lined the earthen wall; A faded painted immortal decorated the dusty plaster. A village boy poured drinks—no Sima Xiangru here; An ugly woman kept the bar—no match for Zhuo Wenjun.

Inside, they ordered wine and meat, borrowed some rice, and cooked a proper meal. Over food and drink they talked of their travels.

“Where will you go now?” Zhishen asked.

Shi Jin sighed. “I’ll have to return to Mount Shaohua and join Zhu Wu and the other two. I’ll stay with them for a while and see what happens.”

“A good plan, brother,” said Zhishen. He opened his bundle and gave Shi Jin some gold and silver. They gathered their belongings and weapons, paid the bill, and left the village.

Five or seven li further on they reached a fork in the road. Zhishen said: “Brother, we must part here. I’m heading to the Eastern Capital. Don’t see me off. Your path to Huazhou lies that way. We’ll meet again someday—and if you find a messenger, send word.”

Shi Jin bowed and took his leave. They went their separate ways.

Zhishen traveled another eight or nine days until he saw the walls of the Eastern Capital rising before him. Entering the city, he found it bustling:

A thousand gates, ten thousand households, silks and jewels glittering; Markets and streets crowded with robed officials and gentry. Phoenix towers adorned with gold and jade, Dragon pavilions gleaming like glass. Flower-lined lanes full of beautiful courtesans, Sing-song houses alive with wanton songs. Wealthy families threw dice at gambling parties, Nobles paid for pleasure and laughter.

Zhishen marveled at the clamor. He stopped a passerby: “Where is Great Xiangguo Temple?”

“Ahead, past the State Bridge,” came the reply.

He walked on and soon stood before it—a truly magnificent monastery:

The mountain gate soared high, the halls were serene. An imperial plaque hung clear overhead, Fierce guardian statues flanked the entrance. Five great halls roofed with dragon-scale tiles in rows of green; Monks’ quarters walled with polished bricks. A bell tower loomed, sutra pavilions towered; Banners reached toward the clouds, pagodas brushed the heavens. Wooden fish and cloud plates hung ready; Lamps flickered before the Buddha, incense curled from braziers. Canopies hung unbroken from Guanyin Hall to the Patriarch’s Shrine, Avalokitesvara’s mercy flowing through the Arhat Courtyard.

Zhishen entered and wandered along the eastern corridor toward the guest quarters. A servant spotted him and reported to the guest master. When the guest master appeared, he saw a fierce-looking monk carrying an iron staff, wearing a curved sword at his waist and a huge bundle on his back—and was half afraid of him already.

“Brother, where do you come from?” he asked.

Zhishen set down his belongings and made a gesture of greeting. “I come from Mount Wutai. My master Abbot Zhen has sent a letter to your abbot, Master Qing, requesting that I be given a post here.”

“Since Abbot Zhen sent word, let us go see the abbot directly.”

The guest master led Zhishen to the abbot’s quarters. He opened his bundle and took out the letter.

“Brother,” said the guest master, “you should know propriety. When the abbot comes out, you must remove your sword and present your seven-piece sitting cloth and incense in homage.”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Zhishen untied his sword and fumbled inside his bundle for incense and sitting mat.

The guest master helped him put on a proper robe. Presently Abbot Qing appeared. The guest master announced: “This monk comes from Mount Wutai, bearing a letter from Master Zhen.”

Abbot Qing read the letter carefully. It explained Lu Zhishen’s background—how he had been an army officer who killed a man and took monastic vows, how he had caused trouble at Wutai, and how Abbot Zhen now entrusted him to Xiangguo Temple: “I beg you in your compassion to take him in and give him some position. Do not refuse. This monk will one day attain enlightenment.”

After reading it, Qing said: “Let the newcomer rest in the monks’ quarters and take some food.”

Zhishen thanked him and gathered his things, following a novice away.

Abbot Qing then summoned all the senior monks to his chambers. “Look at what my elder brother Abbot Zhen has done! This monk was an army officer who killed someone and shaved his head to escape punishment. He caused chaos in the Wutai meditation hall twice—they couldn’t handle him, so they pushed him off on me! If I refuse, I disobey my brother’s earnest request. But if I keep him here, he may violate our discipline. What shall we do?”

The guest master said: “That man looks nothing like a monk. How can this temple accommodate him?”

The temple bursar spoke up: “I have an idea. Outside the Sour Date Gate there’s a vegetable garden behind the annex. Soldiers from the nearby camp and some two dozen local ruffians constantly trespass—they let their horses graze there and cause trouble. An old monk in charge dares not oppose them. Why not send Zhishen to manage that garden? He might actually keep order.”

“The bursar speaks well,” said Abbot Qing.

When Zhishen had eaten, he was summoned back. “Since my brother Master Zhen recommended you,” Qing said, “I will give you a post. Our temple has a great vegetable garden outside the Sour Date Gate, next to the shrine of Mount Tai. You shall go there and manage it. The tenant farmers must deliver ten loads of vegetables daily; the rest is yours.”

Zhishen was indignant. “My master sent me here for a proper position—why not make me a prior or bursar? What’s this about managing a garden?”

The head monk said: “Brother, you don’t understand. You just arrived without any merit. How could you become a senior officer? Managing the garden is already an important duty.”

“I don’t want to manage vegetables! I want to be prior!”

The guest master explained patiently: “There are ranks in this monastery. I myself am only the guest master, receiving visitors and monks. The offices of rector, novice master, secretary, and head monk are all pure duties—not easy to obtain. The bursar, prior, supervisor, and steward handle the temple’s wealth. As a newcomer you can’t expect such high posts. Then there are the middle ranks: keeper of the sutra library, keeper of the halls, keeper of the pavilions, alms collector, bathhouse keeper. And then the lower offices: tower keeper, rice keeper, tea keeper, latrine keeper—and garden keeper. If you manage the garden well for a year, you might be promoted to tower keeper; another good year and you could become bathhouse keeper; after a third year, perhaps prior.”

“Ah,” said Zhishen, “so there’s still a path of advancement. I’ll go tomorrow.”

Pleased, Abbot Qing had him stay the night in his quarters. A notice was posted at the garden annex, and the next morning Zhishen formally received his commission. He shouldered his bundle, strapped on his sword, took up his staff, and set out with two monks to guide him to the Sour Date Gate.

Now around the vegetable garden lived some two or three dozen shiftless loafers—gamblers, drunks, and petty thieves who survived by stealing vegetables. When they saw the new notice posted at the gate, they gathered to scheme: “Xiangguo Temple has sent a monk named Lu Zhishen to manage this garden. Since he’s new, let’s start some trouble and knock him down a peg or two—teach that fellow who’s in charge here.”

One of them proposed: “I have an idea. He doesn’t know us yet. When he arrives, we’ll go greet him politely, then grab his legs while pretending to pay respects—flip him headfirst into the manure pit! Just a little joke.”

“Excellent!” they all agreed.

Meanwhile Zhishen arrived at the annex, stowed his belongings, and hung up his staff and sword. The tenant farmers came to pay their respects, and the keys were handed over. The old abbot departed with the two escorting monks.

Zhishen went out into the garden to survey his new domain. There he saw the two dozen loafers approaching, carrying fruit baskets and wine jugs, all grinning: “We heard a new master has come! We’re your neighbors—we’ve come to congratulate you!”

Not suspecting a trap, Zhishen walked toward them by the manure pit. The ruffians rushed forward as one—one grabbed his left leg, another seized his right, intending to flip him over backward.

But when that monk’s toe lifted, tigers in the mountains trembled; when his fist fell, dragons in the sea quailed. A peaceful garden was about to become a battlefield. How did those loafers fare against Zhishen? Read on to find out.