Chapter Twelve: The Foreign Monk from the Western Regions

Chapter Twelve: The Demon Monk

The next day, Seventh Brother’s Noodle Shop opened as usual.

Today, the customers were in luck. The meat slices atop the noodles were especially large and thick, and two vibrant green boiled vegetables had been added as well.

Such a generous bowl of dry noodles, paired with a bowl of tangy soup heated with fragrant oil and fresh chives—life could hardly be better, even for the immortals.

Yet Chen Shi, the military cook from West Water Gate, stared at the steaming bowl before him without the slightest appetite. With every bite, he sighed, until at last he pushed the bowl aside, drained the sour soup in one gulp, and fished out a small bottle from his robe, emptying the wine inside. Setting down thirty copper coins on the table, he cast a regretful glance at the headband on Wang Rouhua’s brow and left without another word.

“Why didn’t Brother Chen finish his meal? Was it not to your liking today?” Wang Rouhua swept the coins into the cashbox with a deft motion, her smile unshaken.

Chen Shi mulled over his words before replying, “Stomachache today.”

Tie Xinyuan watched Chen Shi, face flushed, flee the scene, and could barely keep from laughing out loud. He was busy dodging a woman who was aiming a wide-mouthed kiss at him, her breath thick with chive, undampened by any attempt to rinse her mouth—a veritable stamp of affection, which he’d rather do without.

When he refused her kiss, the woman twisted his chubby cheek and finally left.

In the midst of this interruption, Tie Xinyuan missed whatever Chen Shi had said to his mother, but he understood well enough—Chen Shi’s love had ended before it even began.

Yang Huaiyu entered the shop in low spirits, slapped the table, and ordered a bowl of dry noodles. When Wang Rouhua brought it, he devoured it ravenously. Tie Xinyuan counted: from the moment his mother set down the bowl to the last drop of soup, he had barely reached fifty.

Yang Huaiyu did not leave immediately but sat with his chin propped on his hand, listlessly watching the street.

To be cast from the heights of imperial favor into the dust—he could not reconcile himself to his new circumstances.

Wang Rouhua, wiping the table, murmured, “Liu Aqie’s wife has remarried.”

Yang Huaiyu slowly looked up at her. “What’s that to me?”

Wang Rouhua sighed. “She’s remarried but didn’t take the three children. With no pillar left at home, the old mother is out begging on the street with the kids.”

Yang Huaiyu bowed his head. “I’m being punished. I shouldn’t have to be, but my grandmother forced me into it. I shed my armor and entered the military camp—what more do they want?”

Wang Rouhua spoke softly, “No one blames you. Didn’t your family pay Liu Aqie’s family six strings of cash? But the money never reached his mother or children. If they had it, they could run a little business like mine, not beg in the street.”

Yang Huaiyu, suddenly roused, stared at Wang Rouhua. “Is that true?”

She took his empty bowl and pointed to the old woman and three children huddled nearby. “Go and ask them.”

Yang Huaiyu narrowed his eyes, strode to the corner, exchanged a few words with the beggar woman, then burst out laughing and headed straight for the county yamen.

Wang Rouhua spat after his retreating figure. “Didn’t even pay for his meal!”

Yet Tie Xinyuan could see she was genuinely pleased, scrubbing dishes and tables with extra vigor.

He suspected his mother had recognized Yang Huaiyu from his very first visit but had chosen not to expose him. Now, by bringing up Liu Aqie’s family, she was surely seeking a little retribution. The petty officials of the county would not be so easily dealt with.

Watching his cheerful mother, Tie Xinyuan grew fonder of her still. A mother should be this shrewd; how could the kind-hearted survive in this world? Poisoning, in comparison, was mere child’s play.

A simple scheme, and everything he’d wished for had come to pass: punishing officials who ate without paying and throwing Yang Huaiyu back into the whirlpool of trouble. Brilliant.

Yet his admiration lasted only a short time, for soon his mother took him along to Liu Aqie’s old mother and her grandchildren, leaving several meat cakes and telling the old woman, “Soon someone will bring you the compensation money—six strings of cash. Start a small business, raise the children safely, and you’ll have honored your ancestors. Even in the afterlife, they’ll bow in gratitude.”

Tie Xinyuan saw the old woman’s cloudy eyes brighten; she nodded, took the cakes, divided them among the children, and together they set off toward the county yamen.

His mother returned even more cheerful, craning her neck from time to time to look in the yamen’s direction, evidently eager for the old woman to receive her due.

Tie Xinyuan yawned, slumping lazily on his mother’s back. He cared nothing for the old woman’s fate. When he realized his mother had acted out of pure kindness, without calculation, he was deeply disappointed.

In the midst of this, the foreign monk—who had recently stabbed himself in the groin—reappeared. Perhaps his wound had not yet healed, for he remained standing in the doorway, holding a large alms bowl, his bearded, swarthy face still twisted in a strange smile.

His mother offered him a bowl of food, but he refused. She tossed some coins into his alms bowl; he shook his head again, took the coins out, lined them up on the table, and said in a strange accent, “Offer your son to my Buddha.”

The words struck Wang Rouhua like thunder. She seized an unwashed ceramic bowl and smashed it over the monk’s head.

Though the bowl shattered, the monk’s smile did not waver. He declared, “He was once a child at the Buddha’s feet, now fallen to your home. This is your blessing. Return him, and the Buddha will grant you passage to paradise.”

She grabbed a stool and hurled it; the monk did not dodge. Then she swung a broom; again, he stood unmoved, all the while intoning, “How laughable that mortals cannot give up the love of parents, spouses, friends—never realizing it’s all an illusion, a fleeting dream from which all must wake and part ways. Iron Lady Wang, can you not let go?”

Her eyes reddened. This time she reached for a kitchen knife. The blade sank into the monk’s shoulder and stuck. Blood poured down as he chanted a Buddhist prayer: “Infinite Life Buddha, the world is foolish; I shall return in ten years.”

With that, he pulled the knife from his shoulder, set it on the table, and, bleeding, strode calmly down the street, just as he had after stabbing himself.

“Come again and next time I’ll chop your bald head off!” Wang Rouhua stood in the street, brandishing the knife and roaring.

Her actions won thunderous applause from the townsfolk. The laws of the Song were selfish: as long as one did not harm a Khitan—actions which would have grave consequences—no one cared what else happened in the capital.

Koreans, Japanese, foreign monks, and others with different colored hair were not protected by Song law. Should they harm a native, they would be executed without question. If a native killed a foreigner, the outcome depended on the officials’ mood—at worst, a caning for causing a disturbance.

Moreover, Song law strictly regulated monks: without proper ordination papers, one was no monk. The foreign monk had already broken the law.

Thus, even after Wang Rouhua left him bloodied, she refused to let him go. Calling the ward chief, she explained the cause. Outraged, the chief rounded up some roughnecks and set off after the monk.

Before long, the bloodied monk was hauled back, caged in a pig basket, and carried to the magistrate’s office.

Passing by the noodle shop, he smiled idiotically at Wang Rouhua and said, “You understand, you understand…”

She jumped and cursed, but Tie Xinyuan only rolled his eyes and pondered.

Who was he in his previous life? He knew best. There were countless children by the West Water Gate—why had the monk singled him out? To outsiders, he was no different from any other toddler: perhaps a bit cleaner, a little quieter, but nothing unique. On what grounds did the monk claim he was a child of the Buddha?

No matter how he puzzled, the matter remained a mystery—unless he asked the monk directly, he would never know.

Since the incident, Wang Rouhua would not let Tie Xinyuan out of her sight. Soon, she took to carrying him on her back while she worked, making her even more exhausted.

After a few days, she finally thought to hire help for the shop, deciding her son was worth far more than business or money.

On the sixth day, as his mother was interviewing some women for the job, two pieces of news arrived.

After several fruitless days, Yang Huaiyu had stormed the county yamen, breaking the arms and crushing the fingers of a clerk in a fit of rage.

The case reached the capital’s prefecture. This time, the Dowager of the Yang family took her grandson’s side, reportedly berating not only several censors in the imperial court but also the chief censor himself, spraying him with spittle.

As a result, the prefecture had no choice but to release Yang Huaiyu, and Liu Aqie’s family finally received their six strings of cash, settling the case.

As for the foreign monk whose neck Yang Huaiyu had “accidentally” broken in his fury, his name never appeared in any official record.

Rumor had it that the monk had died sitting in meditation, his head drooping but his appearance still dignified as a Buddha.

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