Flower Stealing Master

Chapter 668: The Fog Begins to Clear

Song Qingshu shook his head. “Maha Cakra Vajra is my good friend. It couldn’t have been him.”

Jiumozhi smiled and nodded. After encountering two formidable experts, Xuan Cheng and Xu Zhu, he no longer had his previous arrogance. He knew well that Shaolin was full of hidden masters—far beyond his ability to shake on his own. It was better to retreat while he was ahead. After all, he had already made quite a spectacle of himself today.

“You surnamed Song, I see you’re deliberately making things difficult for us!” Another high-ranking monk of the ‘Xuan’ generation couldn’t help but speak angrily.

“I merely wish to speak with all the esteemed monks of your temple who know the Prajna Palm. Is that such an unreasonable request?” Song Qingshu said calmly, standing with his hands clasped behind his back.

Abbot Xuan Ci frowned slightly. “Benefactor Song, I cannot allow the monks of my temple to be treated as if they were criminals under interrogation just because of your words.” At that moment, he secretly regretted his earlier reaction. Given the longstanding discord between Shaolin and Wudang, when he first heard about the disaster that befell Wudang’s heroes, he had felt a trace of schadenfreude. Had he proactively offered to investigate the matter, it would not only have preserved Shaolin’s reputation but also earned Wudang an enormous favor. However, at this point, if he called forth those proficient in the Prajna Palm to face Song Qingshu’s questioning, it would inevitably appear as if Shaolin were submitting to pressure.

In the previous duels, Shaolin had already suffered repeated humiliations. If they now agreed to the request, word would spread throughout the martial world, and Shaolin’s prestige would be utterly ruined.

Yet if they refused…

Xuan Ci glanced at Song Qingshu and Zhang Sanfeng, sighing inwardly. Their opponents had sent only Ren Woxing and Jiumozhi, yet Shaolin had been thrown into complete turmoil. Now, they still had the rising star Song Qingshu and the unfathomable Zhang Sanfeng. If those two joined the fray, how could Shaolin possibly withstand them?

Of course, Shaolin had many experts, and if they launched an all-out assault, they wouldn’t necessarily lose to these four. However, doing so would make them appear as if they relied on numbers to achieve victory—an outcome just as damaging to their reputation.

“Abbot Xuan Ci, why do you say that?” Song Qingshu asked. “We only wish to ask a few questions of the esteemed monks of your temple. How is that treating them like criminals?” Had it been a different matter, he wouldn’t have been so courteous to Shaolin. But this concerned Song Yuanqiao and the others—he couldn’t let personal grudges interfere with more pressing matters.
Hearing this, Xuan Ci’s expression softened slightly, and his tone became less rigid. “This…”

At that moment, Zhang Sanfeng spoke up. “I, too, personally vouch that no harm will come to the esteemed masters of your temple.”

“Since even Master Zhang has spoken, I naturally believe you.” Xuan Ci gave Zhang Sanfeng a slight bow before instructing his junior to summon all monks proficient in the Prajna Palm.

During this time, neither side mentioned Jiumozhi’s earlier claim that Shaolin’s Seventy-Two Ultimate Arts originated from India. Song Qingshu did not wish to stir unnecessary trouble that might upset Zhang Sanfeng. Jiumozhi, on the other hand, feared Xu Zhu’s profound mastery of the Small Formless Skill. Meanwhile, Shaolin, having been shaken by Jiumozhi’s performance, had no desire to bring up the matter either. As for the members of the Mount Song Sect, most had already left to escort Zuo Lengchan back for treatment, leaving behind only a few to observe the situation. None of them had the courage to interfere.

A rare moment of silence settled over the scene. Once all the monks proficient in the Prajna Palm had gathered, Song Qingshu began his questioning, politely inquiring about their whereabouts in recent days.

Since the Prajna Palm was a technique reserved for Shaolin’s highest-ranking monks, very few actually practiced it. It didn’t take long for Song Qingshu to finish his inquiries, but unfortunately, he didn’t uncover any useful information.

“Are you certain there’s no one else in your temple who knows the Prajna Palm?” Song Qingshu asked, frowning.

Xuan Chan, standing to the side, immediately erupted in anger. “You surnamed Song, even my senior brother, the abbot himself, humbled himself to cooperate with your questioning, yet you’re still not satisfied? Are you deliberately picking a fight?”

Faced with such an abrupt rebuke, Song Qingshu’s expression darkened. Before he could respond, Zhang Sanfeng stepped in. “Please don’t misunderstand, revered masters. We are merely desperate to save lives. From the start, I never believed that the culprit was an esteemed monk of your temple. Now that our findings confirm this, it reassures me. However, my disciples were indeed struck by the Prajna Palm. I only have one last question, and I hope you will not take offense.”

Given Zhang Sanfeng’s unparalleled stature in the martial world, his respectful tone made the monks feel somewhat appeased. Xuan Ci nodded. “Please ask, Master Zhang. As long as I know the answer, I will speak without reservation.”

Seeing the stark change in Xuan Ci’s attitude, Ren Woxing sneered. “These bald donkeys were so arrogant before, but after taking a beating from us, they’ve become much more agreeable.”

Fortunately, Ren Woxing knew the gravity of the situation and kept his voice low, so only Song Qingshu and Jiumozhi could hear him.

Song Qingshu nodded in agreement. “I once heard a great man say, ‘Seeking unity through struggle leads to unity, but seeking unity through compromise leads to defeat.’ Shaolin’s sudden change in attitude is thanks to the efforts of you both.”

“No need for such courtesy, junior brother.” A flash of curiosity appeared in Jiumozhi’s eyes. “That quote just now—who was the wise man who said it? It truly captures the essence of the world.”

“Mao Zedong,” Song Qingshu said, feeling a pang of nostalgia for his past life. Although his life in this world was far more unrestrained, he couldn’t help but miss the advanced technology that had made life so convenient. Not to mention, the streets in his past world were filled with beautiful girls in short skirts, while here, women were always clad in thick layers of traditional clothing. If one wanted to see a glimpse of fair-skinned thighs, they’d have to peel off those layers themselves—how absurd!

“Mao Zedong? Who is that?” Jiumozhi and Ren Woxing exchanged bewildered glances, searching their memories for the name of this supposed legendary figure.

While the three whispered among themselves, Zhang Sanfeng had already posed his question. “Is there any possibility that your temple’s Prajna Palm technique has leaked to outsiders?”

Xuan Ci turned his gaze toward Jiumozhi. “Our temple has always forbidden the transmission of the Prajna Palm to outsiders. I had assumed there was no risk of its leakage—until I saw Maha Cakra Vajra today and realized that outsiders do, in fact, know our temple’s Prajna Palm.”

Xuan Ci deliberately emphasized the words “our temple,” a clear jab at Jiumozhi’s earlier claim that these martial arts originated from India.

Jiumozhi snorted coldly but chose not to argue. His plan to subdue Shaolin by force had failed, and he knew that those present were all highly discerning. Engaging in a verbal dispute was simply pointless.

Having harbored suspicions from the start, Zhang Sanfeng seized the moment. “May I ask how Maha Cakra Vajra came to learn the Prajna Palm?”

“It was a gift from an old friend,” Jiumozhi replied apologetically, bowing slightly to Zhang Sanfeng. “Out of respect for my friend, I cannot reveal his name.”

“I see…” Zhang Sanfeng, ever the man of honor, respected Jiumozhi’s loyalty and chose not to press further.

The Shaolin monks, however, were visibly agitated. The possibility that their sacred techniques had leaked beyond the temple was alarming. Even Xuan Ci could not remain still. “Stealing another sect’s martial arts is a grave offense in the martial world. If you reveal his name, Shaolin will let today’s incident slide.”

“And if I refuse? What can you do to me?” Jiumozhi sneered. He was only courteous to Zhang Sanfeng; he had no such regard for the Shaolin monks.

“You—!” The monks gripped their weapons, and the atmosphere grew tense once more.

Song Qingshu took a step forward, placing himself between the two sides, his gaze drifting toward the Shaolin Temple’s Scripture Pavilion. “I believe I know who it is. But first, I need to confirm something.”

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