Weapon System 7. Entering the Trap (2)

Zhang Yidao’s plan to dig a pit for Zhang Mingjing had been long in the making. In fact, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say the scheme had begun even before Zhang Mingjing was born! Today, Zhang Mingjing had helped him successfully complete their first monster-catching mission, leaving Zhang Yidao both gratified and proud. He decided the time had come to lure Zhang Mingjing in completely, and so he prepared to pass on a few treasures to him.

He called Zhang Mingjing into his small meditation room and, with deliberate caution, opened the little cabinet in the corner.

That cabinet had lain there, shrouded in mystery, since the day Zhang Mingjing was born. He’d always suspected there must be treasure inside, since Zhang Yidao never allowed him or Xiao Nüxia near it.

He had no idea this was all part of Zhang Yidao’s scheme! His curiosity had been piqued since childhood, dangling from that cabinet like a carrot on a stick.

Zhang Yidao’s patience was truly remarkable—he’d been digging this pit for his own son for seventeen years.

From the cabinet, Zhang Yidao took out the first “treasure.” It appeared to be an ancient book, but was actually a faux-classic edition of the “Dao De Jing” he’d bought at a street stall sixteen years ago, complete with the printing date page torn out. But he told Zhang Mingjing, “By the time this book came into my hands, it was already the fourth generation. It was one of my master’s temple heirlooms… passed down for over two hundred years.”

“So it’s an antique!” Zhang Mingjing thought, heart pounding with excitement. “There really is a treasure!”

The second book Zhang Yidao produced was called “Essential Meditation.” This one was genuinely a parting gift from his master when he left the temple, though his master had bought it for a dime in his youth. Yet his master solemnly told him, “This book was passed to me by my own master. It’s one of the temple’s heirlooms… handed down for at least two hundred years. I give it to you now, hoping you never forget your roots.”

Zhang Yidao had taught Zhang Mingjing his meditation technique from this very book. He placed it before his son with great ceremony, his voice trembling with emotion. “This was given to me by my master, four hundred years ago. Today, I entrust it to you—don’t let me down.”

“Wow!” Zhang Mingjing thought his family truly was sitting on a hoard of gold and silver.

Finally, Zhang Yidao brought out the last book: “The Five Great Arts.”

He adopted a tone of mystery. “Now, this one is truly extraordinary. The original is nearly eight hundred years old and far too fragile to be loaned out, so when my master was eleven, he secretly made this handwritten copy. Inside are the five supreme immortal arts.”

“Heh, is that for real?” Zhang Mingjing found it a bit hard to swallow.

But Zhang Yidao immediately scolded him, “Show some respect!”

“Oh.”

Chastened, Zhang Mingjing suddenly felt “The Five Great Arts” might be the real deal after all.

In truth, Zhang Yidao had carefully compiled that book himself fifteen years ago, specifically for this very moment, to hoodwink Zhang Mingjing. Back when the boy was just two, Zhang Yidao had vowed to have him walk the path he himself had left unfinished. To make sure his son would be resolute and unwavering, Zhang Yidao—despite only being literate and not as educated as Xiao Nüxia at the time—had poured all his effort into creating “The Five Great Arts,” then let it gather dust for fifteen years. Such determination and cunning were far beyond Zhang Mingjing’s imagination.

Those months spent writing the book could truly be called the literary zenith of Zhang Yidao’s entire life. He devoured every martial arts novel by Jin Yong and Gu Long, watched countless fantasy films and dramas, pored over martial arts manuals from Wudang and Shaolin, and then began to write, revise, and rewrite—over thirty times in more than half a year—until at last it was done.

The first of the “Five Great Arts” was called “The True Classic of the Pure Sun,” its name modeled after the “Nine Yang Manual,” its methods mostly copied from Shaolin’s “Muscle-Tendon Changing Classic.”

The second was “The True Classic of the Pure Moon,” named after the “Nine Yin Manual,” and its techniques largely borrowed from Wudang’s Tai Chi.

The third was “The Patriarch’s Divine Palm,” its name inspired by the “Buddha’s Palm” from Stephen Chow’s “Kung Fu”; the techniques were straight from the film’s sky-leaping, eagle-stomping scenes. How was Zhang Mingjing supposed to know where to begin with that?

The fourth, “Sword Manipulation Art,” was stitched together from various sword-flying fantasies; half of its moves were pure invention, the other half were copied from Wudang’s swordplay.

The last, “The Lotus Manual,” was clearly named after the “Sunflower Manual,” though mercifully it didn’t go too far—no self-castration was mentioned. The methods were original, but all it said was: “Once you’ve mastered the other four, you may create your own.” That was it—ten words and two punctuation marks.

Zhang Yidao’s literary ability went only so far, but as luck would have it, Zhang Mingjing had never read any martial arts novels. And so, every part of this elaborate ruse succeeded: Zhang Mingjing believed all three books were genuine treasures passed down from his master.

Zhang Yidao put the three books back in the box and locked it. Then, he handed both key and box to Zhang Mingjing, saying with solemn authority, “Zhang Mingjing, if you master all these, you will be one of the greatest achievements in the history of our sect. When that day comes, even I will have to bow before you.”

“You’ll bow to me? Wouldn’t that get me struck by lightning?”

“At that point, you’ll be the supreme honor of our sect. My bow will be a gesture of gratitude—entirely appropriate,” Zhang Yidao replied with a smile, though he thought to himself, “You’ll never live to see the day I bow to you.”

Zhang Mingjing stood there stunned for a moment, then took the box and returned to his room.

Once inside, he locked the door, tossed the box aside, pulled out the three books and dumped them on his bookshelf, then stashed the two thousand he’d earned today along with the remainder of the twenty thousand Xiao Nüxia had given him last time, locked them all in the box, and shoved it under the bed.

“I need to save money as fast as I can! Only then can I leave this place and strike out on my own,” he said, crossing his legs and beginning to meditate.

In the past two days, he had meditated six times. Although the five-dimensional cognitive model in his mind was still as lively as ever during these sessions, he had yet to develop any new abilities.

Meanwhile, in the five-dimensional space, Elder A said to the other elders, “Zhang Mingjing won’t be able to develop any new special abilities, because the others require a medium that only exists within the five-dimensional space.”

Sure enough, half an hour later, when Zhang Mingjing opened his eyes, he had gained nothing new and felt a bit dejected.

At that moment, he suddenly remembered the book “Essential Meditation.”

He fetched it and opened it, only to realize that he was now reading twenty lines at a glance—scanning a page in a single sweep.

It took him less than a minute to finish the entire book, and he remembered every word.

“So I have this ability too! Wouldn’t that make exams a breeze? Could I walk right into Tsinghua or Peking University? Am I not already at the pinnacle of life?” He was elated for a moment, then picked up the “Dao De Jing.” Once again, he finished it in a minute, remembering it all. He then spent another minute reading through the “Five Great Arts.”

In truth, this reading ability was not a newly acquired skill for Zhang Mingjing, but rather a natural function of his five-dimensional cognitive model—he had only just now discovered it.

He thought to himself, “According to ‘Essential Meditation,’ one must be free of all desires—even to the point of forgetting oneself—to attain enlightenment. But I still want to save money and leave here, find a beautiful girlfriend, maybe even travel the world. There’s no way I could do that.”

He went on, “The ‘Dao De Jing’ is really just a bunch of dry, rambling platitudes. So dull.”

Finally, he decided to delve into the “Five Great Arts.” After studying it for a while, he found the routines in the “True Classic of the Pure Sun” and “Pure Moon” too complex and unsatisfying; “The Patriarch’s Divine Palm” required flying high and finding giant eagles to step on, which was far too demanding, so he gave up on that as well. In the end, he settled on practicing the “Sword Manipulation Art.”

He entered a state of focus, and in his mind’s world, he created a lightsaber. He imbued it with all sorts of features: it could grow or shrink, lengthen or shorten, appear or disappear at will, supply oxygen in the sky, resist water in the sea...

To his amazement, his five-dimensional cognitive model spontaneously developed a new ability: it could encode his will and implant it into matter or energy.

When Zhang Mingjing opened his eyes, he extended his right hand, focused his thoughts, and silently called, “Come, sword!” Instantly, a golden miniature lightsaber appeared as a holographic projection in his palm. Though only ten centimeters long, he could tell at a glance it was a sword, not a dagger.

He was thrilled. He said to the sword, “Grow to thirty centimeters.”

The sword trembled, trying to grow, but couldn’t.

Still excited, Zhang Mingjing coaxed it, “Then just grow to twenty centimeters!”

Again, the sword strained, but failed.

Unfazed, Zhang Mingjing comforted it, “No worries! Being born is good enough—growing up can happen slowly! Ha ha...”