Chapter Thirty-One: The Manichaeans

When Zhao Yu opened his eyes, he found himself in a dilapidated place. On an altar missing a leg stood a battered, unidentifiable idol. All around were crumbling walls, dust and spiderwebs draped over every surface, and in the courtyard, wild grass had grown nearly as tall as a man. Clearly, no one had set foot here for a very long time.

He flexed his limbs—thankfully, he wasn’t bound. Not far ahead, a burly man sat with his back to him, a bamboo hat shielding his head. Apart from the two of them, the ruined temple was deserted.

No ropes, no guards—this man was clearly confident, certain Zhao Yu couldn’t escape.

Zhao Yu was never one to waste effort on pointless struggles. He stood, patted the dust from his clothes, and strolled over as if nothing were amiss, coming to a halt before the man.

Only when he circled around did he realize the man was seated in a peculiar meditative posture. Looking up, he saw a broad, square face half-hidden beneath the hat, a neatly trimmed beard on his chin.

Zhao Yu didn’t speak at first, but simply sat cross-legged before the man, grinning. “Though born into the royal family, I daresay I’ve done nothing truly abhorrent. Judging by your appearance, you’re no ordinary bandit. So tell me—why have you brought me here?”

At his words, the burly man jerked his head up, sharp eyes glinting as they fixed on Zhao Yu. After a pause, he spoke coldly: “I did not expect a son of the mongrel emperor’s house to show such nerve. Why not feign a little fear? I might have let you go.”

Zhao Yu shrugged indifferently and curled his lip. “No need to offer you an excuse for murder—wouldn’t that be shameful? I know a big monk myself, you know. You two are rather alike, but my friend Lu isn’t the type to hide in shadows.”

“In truth, there’s no need for all this. I, Little Yu of Bianliang, have some reputation and delight in befriending heroes. If you’re facing difficulties, a word would suffice—no need for such underhanded means.”

There’s no such thing as hate without cause; this fellow would not have abducted him for no reason. Begging for mercy would be futile in this situation, so Zhao Yu tried to strike up a rapport, ready to act when opportunity allowed.

He’d grown complacent from too much smooth sailing of late, which dulled his vigilance—otherwise, how could he have been caught so easily? Yet, in this world, you could buy anything but a cure for regret.

Upon hearing Zhao Yu’s words, the burly man finally took off his bamboo hat. As the hat came away, a gleaming bald head was revealed, several rows of Buddhist scars stark against the skin.

“You know me?” The big monk’s tone was icy, his sinewed hands flexing as if ready to snap Zhao Yu’s neck at any moment.

“Brother Shi Qian came to me not long ago, asking my help to rescue his benefactor, Pang Wanchun. Not only did I agree, I sent men to act. You pulling a stunt like this will only make saving him even harder!”

In Zhao Yu’s memory, the late Northern Song period boasted two famous warrior-monks: one was Lu Zhishen, the other was the “Radiant Tathagata” Deng Yuanjue, one of Fang La’s Eight Vajras.

Now that Pang Wanchun had been captured and brought to the capital, the sudden appearance of such a formidable monk made Zhao Yu suspect this was Radiant Tathagata himself. But he refrained from naming Deng Yuanjue, wanting to appear fully in control.

Hearing Zhao Yu speak, Deng Yuanjue’s eyes widened. “Shi Qian came to you?”

Zhao Yu inwardly lamented: backward technology is deadly. If only Shi Qian had a phone, a single call would have resolved everything—he wouldn’t be in this predicament.

He gave a wry smile. “Big monk, do you know how many people at court hate me? You’ve really made things worse for yourself!”

Deng Yuanjue was momentarily stunned, then gave a cold laugh. “You almost fooled me. You’re the emperor’s whelp, Shi Qian’s a thief—how could the two of you be in contact?”

“Fang La actually employs a band of muscle-bound simpletons like you? How could you possibly accomplish anything grand?”

Zhao Yu shook his head as he spoke. He could see that Deng Yuanjue’s character fell far short of Lu Zhishen’s—a man who would stop at nothing to achieve his ends. Had Zhao Yu acted more cowardly at the start, perhaps things would be better, but he simply couldn’t pretend.

Now, with his sharp and clever demeanor, this man would surely see him as a threat, whether or not Pang could be rescued. Deng Yuanjue would probably act regardless.

Rather than wait for the axe to fall, it was better to drop a bombshell and throw him off balance.

Sure enough, when Zhao Yu uttered Fang La’s name, Deng Yuanjue sprang to his feet, eyes wide. “You—you know the Holy Leader Fang! Who are you really—”

He stopped abruptly. Mentioning Fang La was one thing, but to call him “Holy Leader” unbidden?

Zhao Yu gritted his teeth inwardly. If you’re going to do something, do it thoroughly. For the sake of his own life, he’d go all in.

He tucked his knees beneath him, then formed a flame shape with his hands before his chest.

Having been steeped in martial arts novels, Zhao Yu had once looked up the Manichaean faith online, learning that its origins lay in Zoroastrianism—worshipping fire, and thus, also called the Bright Religion.

When Deng Yuanjue saw Zhao Yu make this gesture, he was utterly stupefied.

With Fang La preparing to rise in the south, he had come north himself to rescue Pang Wanchun and scout the Song dynasty’s moves, never expecting the imperial prince to know of the Manichaeans—let alone display a secret sign known only to followers. Could this truly be the return of the Radiant Lord, come to overturn the dynasty?

Deng Yuanjue did not know that Zhao Yu had no other choice. He recalled that Deng Yuanjue ranked second among Fang La’s Eight Vajras—surely the most trusted of Fang La’s men. If he tried to claim close ties to Fang La, he’d likely be exposed, so he could only speak of things even Deng Yuanjue didn’t know.

He withdrew the gesture, lowered his eyelids, and said lightly, “Who I am matters little. What matters is that everything you are about to do has already come to the court’s attention. Duke Jingguo, Tong Guan, has secretly mobilized the troops of nine garrisons—once war breaks out in the south, they will converge and wipe you out. Alas…”

With that, Zhao Yu shook his head and sighed, the very picture of bitter disappointment.

At this, Deng Yuanjue was completely at a loss. Was this youth merely bluffing, or did he truly know so much? How could one so young possess such intelligence? And how did he know the secret hand sign of the faith?

At last, Zhao Yu stood, brushing the dust from his clothes. “I know you have many questions, but it matters not—I will not run. Send word to Fang La and ask him the origins of the Bright Religion. Perhaps then you will guess who I truly am.”

Everyone knew that certain people spread religion for their own secret ends. But strictly speaking, even they might not know what they were spreading—much less the muddled followers.

Deng Yuanjue bore the title “Radiant Tathagata,” yet perhaps he did not truly understand Buddhism, let alone the imported Bright Religion. No wonder Zhao Yu could so thoroughly bewilder him.

He did not know that, even now, Zhao Yu’s mind was racing—just what role should he assign himself within the Manichaean faith?...