My Enemy Became My Cultivation Companion
Chapter 202 - 181: All Who Come Shall Die

Chapter 202: Chapter 181: All Who Come Shall Die

Money can make the devil turn the grindstone.

With one thousand taels of gold laid before them, no matter how dangerous it may be, there’s never a shortage of desperados willing to risk their lives.

A punch was thrown, and the face of a Jianghu Guest shattered before Chen Yi’s eyes.

"Trouble yourself to recite the Rebirth Mantra."

Chen Yi spoke as yet another blade came slashing from behind him.

As if he could foresee it, his hands raised effortlessly, slipping past the blade’s edge and gripping the assassin’s arm. A casual twist followed—the sound of a joint dislocating accompanied a scream, and the assassin’s head was forcefully smashed into the ground amidst panic.

Blood spattered from the fractured skull. Within the inn, the gathered Jianghu Guests were struck with terror.

The high monk from the Western Regions saw the bloody scene and shook his head in disapproval.

The mad scripture-master, on the other hand, seemed to savor the bloodshed as he struck his cane against the ground, then actually began chanting the Rebirth Mantra:

"Namo Amitabha Bhaya, Dotha Gatha Bhaya..."

The solemn Sanskrit of the mantra echoed, while blood flowed silently. The sight before them was enough to send the hearts of everyone into chaos.

Inside the small inn, several men rose to their feet.

Three individuals converged from different angles to attack Chen Yi.

One assassin swung a staff, shouting as he prepared to bring it down with force.

Chen Yi didn’t even unsheathe his blade; he wielded his vital energy to twist the staff’s shape, then swept his leg with a whip-like motion—breaking through the air with a sharp sound. The staff user was sent flying backward, smashing a wooden table along with its dishes into fragments.

The Jianghu Guests by the table dared not even breathe.

Another man raised his blade to charge, his speed impressive as he carefully looked for an opening. Finally, he struck down fiercely from above just as Chen Yi’s leg had yet to lower to the ground.

But in Chen Yi’s eyes, he was far too slow.

In this world, figures like Zhang Xuqu, capable of performing Qinggong to the extreme, were exceedingly rare—speed like the Tongbei Divine Ape’s rendered only after-images in Chen Yi’s vision. But this man before him, though appearing swift, was no match for the Shangqing Heart Method, which made his movements resemble slow motion.

Thus, before the blade even descended halfway, Chen Yi’s fingers were already clasped around its edge. The assassin’s eyes nearly bulged out as an immense force redirected the blade, driving its edge straight into his own throat.

Another Jianghu Guest met his end on the spot.

The final assassin was petrified—he dropped his weapon and bolted.

He hadn’t even taken a full step past the threshold when, in the next moment, a chopstick pierced through his calf like a soul-snatching arrow from behind.

He struggled to crawl forward, but a boot stepped down sharply behind him.

Chen Yi pressed his head into the dirt, the assassin’s eyeballs nearly bulging from their sockets.

"I saw your waist token. You’re with the An Nan Royal Mansion, aren’t you?"

"I, I’m Yang Fan! Please spare me, spare me!"

Yang Fan’s head was already half-sunken into the mud, and he slapped the ground desperately as he begged for his life.

The Douli Swordsman leisurely pulled the chopstick from Yang Fan’s calf, eliciting a scream that sounded like a pig being slaughtered.

"Do you know why I’ve spared you?"

Yang Fan scrambled to reply, "Master Chen Qianhu, you have boundless mercy..."

Before he could finish, his head was shoved further into the dirt.

"No need to flatter me. The only reason I’m sparing you is to ask you to help me deliver a message."

His tone was calm, tinged with a hint of mockery.

Yang Fan gasped frantically from the mud, his stammering voice sounding like he was asking, "What message?"

"Tell her this,"

Chen Yi paused in deliberation,

"All who come shall die."

...............

When Chen Yi turned and returned to the inn, the Jianghu Guests inside had mostly fled. Yin Tingxue sat obediently, and as soon as Chen Yi entered, she let out a sharp hiss as she drew a breath through her teeth.

Chen Yi smiled faintly and patted her on the head.

Two monks slowly approached. The mad scripture-master, witnessing the slaughter, wore an intoxicated expression, while the high monk from the Western Regions showed a strained face as he shook his head with a light sigh.

The high monk looked around the room and sighed, "Namo Shakyamuni Buddha. Benefactor, mere vigilance would suffice—why the need to indulge in such carnage?"

For disciples of the Buddhist path, excessive killing is the gravest taboo. The deeper the bloodshed, the harder the Nirvana; the saying goes, ’Lay down the butcher’s knife and instantly become a Buddha.’ Though it may sound simple, in truth, how difficult it is.

Having encountered this unknown high monk from the Western Regions many times before, Chen Yi naturally respected such a person. Yet respect was one thing, and practicality another. He replied,

"If you yield an inch, others will encroach a foot. If you don’t strike decisively, they’ll keep coming in droves. That’s why the only way forward is to kill enough of An Nan Royal Mansion’s men until fear chisels their bones and the mere mention of my name makes their knees quake."

The high monk considered this briefly. Though he understood the reasoning, he couldn’t align himself with it. He heaved a sigh and chanted quietly.

The mad scripture-master, however, burst into laughter and slapped Chen Yi’s shoulder, exclaiming, "Well said! That’s exactly right.

You’ve got great insight, lad—kill, keep killing! Your words resonate with Buddhist Law; it’s akin to the principle of ’vanquishing the traitors’!"

The high monk shook his head and countered repeatedly, "What must be vanquished are the traitors within the heart, not the foes within the mountains."

The mad scripture-master paused, scratching his head, seeming to acknowledge the rationale, and fell silent.

The high monk turned to face Chen Yi and said, "Though I hail from the Western Regions, I have long admired the ways of the Central Plains.

The principle of Buddhist Law prescribes that killing others amounts to killing oneself. Thus, one must restrain the intent to kill and halt the blade against others—otherwise, it will inevitably fall against oneself. For this reason, the world often speaks of the impossibility of Dual Cultivation between Dao and martial arts, yet there exists no such prohibition between Buddhism and martial arts.

In observing you, Benefactor, I sense that you have no inherent desire to kill nor any delight in slaughter. Why not lay down your weapon and become a Buddha here and now?"

As the high monk spoke, Yin Tingxue glanced at Chen Yi, wondering: Could someone like her boyfriend ever have a day when he lays down his weapon?

Chen Yi looked at the high monk, avoiding the question with a laugh, saying, "The blade in my heart was laid down long ago. When it comes to killing, it’s merely striking emptiness."

The high monk pondered briefly, then chuckled softly, saying, "Your words hold logic, but your heart carries no such intent."

Intent...

That familiar word.

Chen Yi paused in thought. Zhou Yitang had said he lacked Sword Intent, while Zhang Xuqu remarked that he hadn’t yet comprehended his own intent. Now, even the high monk from the Western Regions proclaimed that he had no intent.

He had been stuck at the pinnacle of the fifth grade for a long time, and the greatest barrier separating fifth grade from fourth grade lay in intent. People often spoke of breaking ten thousand techniques with one sword—how could a single sword shatter myriad techniques? Merely because the sword held intent.

So what exactly was the intent he needed to comprehend?

At this thought, Chen Yi couldn’t help but ask, "I wish to seek guidance—what exactly is intent?"

The mad scripture-master was the first to respond, "It’s like the verse that goes: ’The body is like the Bodhi tree, the heart a bright mirror stand. Polish diligently, and let no dust alight!’ That’s intent—you refine yourself like a Bodhi tree, honing and polishing until you achieve enlightenment."

"This statement is flawed," the high monk shook his head.

"Flawed? In what way?" The mad scripture-master’s defiance was evident.

The high monk replied in a calm tone, "That verse belongs to your Chan sect, but your sect’s Sixth Patriarch, Huineng, took it a step further: ’Bodhi is fundamentally without a tree, the bright mirror is not a stand. Originally there is nothing—where can dust alight?’

Intent, as it is, is neither real nor illusory, neither existent nor nonexistent."

The mad scripture-master was momentarily flustered, then chanted, "Namo Amitabha Buddha, well spoken."

In their exchange, scattered snowflakes danced briefly, only to vanish in an instant.

Yin Tingxue instinctively tilted her ear to listen, hearing traces of Zen.

Chen Yi, however, stood motionless, still unable to fathom,

Unable to grasp intent.