A ten-year-old boy ran barefoot through the fields of a small village on the outskirts of Henan. The sun was warm, the wind smelled of grass, and laughter echoed as he chased the chickens away from the crops.
"Hao! Hao, come here and eat!"
The boy turned, grinning. His mother stood by the door of their small house, waving a wooden spoon. "Coming, Mother!" he called, running to her with innocent joy.
His parents were poor farmers, but their home was full of warmth. That evening, while they ate together, his father asked with a smile, "Hao, when you grow up, what will you become?"
Hao blinked, thinking hard. "What should I become?"
His mother smiled softly and said, "My son will become a strong martial artist — someone who protects the weak and fights against evil."
Hao's eyes shone. "Then I'll become a martial artist and protect everyone!"
That was the moment Hao's sense of justice was born — the same spirit that would one day make him lay down his life for others.
But peace never lasts long.
That night, while the moon was high, screams tore through the quiet village. "Bandits! Bandits!" villagers shouted in terror.
Hao's parents rushed to his room. His mother knelt beside him and kissed his cheek. "Hao, my son," she whispered gently, "do you want to play a game?"
Half-asleep, he mumbled, "Mother, I don't want to play… I just want to sleep."
She smiled sadly. "Then sleep, my child. Sleep as long as you want."
Outside, his father dug a shallow pit behind their home. They both knew what was coming. They laid Hao inside, covered him with straw and stones, and whispered prayers through trembling lips.
Moments later, the bandits arrived. They killed everyone — Hao's parents, his neighbors, every villager — and burned the homes to ashes.
When morning came, Hao awoke alone. Smoke filled the air. The village he knew was gone. He called out weakly, "Mother…? Father…?" But only silence answered.
He cried until his throat hurt.
A wandering monk eventually found the small pit and heard the faint sound of sobbing. When he uncovered it, he saw the frightened child, eyes swollen with tears.
The monk gave him water and waited. Hao finally looked up and asked, "Where is my mother? Where is my father?"
The old monk gazed at the sky. "They've gone to a better place, child — a place where they can watch over you."
"I want to go there too," Hao said.
"You will," the monk answered softly. "Everyone who walks the path of good reaches that place someday. If you come with me, and live righteously, you will see them again."
And so, at ten years old, Hao followed the monk and joined the temple.
By fifteen, he learned the truth — that bandits had killed his family. From that day, hatred burned quietly inside him.
At twenty, tragedy struck again. His master was poisoned. Hao accused the current abbot — the very man who became head after his master's death. The abbot, angry and fearful, began sending Hao on the most dangerous missions, hoping he would die.
But Hao was different. A martial arts genius. By twenty-two, he had already ascended to the Body Realm. Even the abbot could no longer suppress him.
Outside the temple, people called him the Handsome Monk.
But to bandits and criminals, he had another name — The Last Monk.
"Because for them, the last thing they saw before dying… was him."