plumnovel Chapter 186 Merging is not swallowing up
Chapter 186 Merging is not swallowing up
The door to the old warehouse was still closed. No light or wind could get through the cracks in the door.
Chen Fan sat on the rock by the door, tapping the rim of his cup with the bottom. The soft sound paused briefly, then quickly resumed. Little monkeys ran by carrying bamboo baskets filled with freshly picked peaches. The fragrance of peaches wafted in the wind, like a gentle reminder of reality.
"The Mountain Lord has returned to his place." Xuanzang took the paper from the top shelf of the bookcase, placed it on the table, and weighed it down with a small stone. The stone was from Huaguo Mountain; it had coarse textures and felt sandy to the touch.
Sun Wukong didn't look at the paper. He looked at the old warehouse door. He had looked at the wooden latch on the door for many years, but today he looked at it for even longer.
There's another him inside the door.
The original shadow refused to retreat. It wasn't making a fuss, nor was it shouting. The shadow was like a monkey long trapped, leaning against the wall, its eyes filled with hardness. As Sun Wukong stepped across the threshold, the shadow looked up first, spitting out between its teeth, "You won't be able to swallow me."
Sun Wukong, holding his staff, lightly tapped the ground with the end, raising a small circle of dust. He said, "I won't let you cover me either."
Chen Fan stood outside the door, not going in. He was still coughing, and after he finished, he said, "Neither of you should bring up 'swallowing'. Whoever swallows whom, in the end, it won't be either of you."
The shadow sneered, as if mocking their pretentious arrogance. Sun Wukong also wore a somber expression. They were both afraid of one thing—afraid of waking up and becoming someone else entirely.
Liu Er tumbled down from the roof beam, landing silently. He'd calmed down over the years, becoming less talkative, though his eyes were still sharp. He tossed the old string of Buddhist prayer beads to Xuanzang: "Don't try to intimidate them with this. It's useless."
Xuanzang caught the beads, rubbed the hole in the bead with his fingertip, and said nothing. He put the prayer beads into his sleeve, as if putting away an old rule.
Liu Er raised his hand and drew a faint line on the threshold. It wasn't a talisman, nor did it resemble an array. It looked more like a mark he had made on the wood with his fingernail.
"Let's hold the mountain together," said Liu Er. "Let's merge the memories first. You'll all be the mountain lords for a while. Once the memories are gone, we'll decide who takes the lead. No one should rush to suppress anyone else."
The shadow stared at the line: "What gives you the right to decide?"
Liu Er chuckled: "I'm not qualified. I've just seen too many monkeys rewritten. If you don't want to become the one on the paper, then follow this."
Sun Wukong didn't answer. He turned to look at Chen Fan. Chen Fan raised his chin, indicating that he should listen to the end.
In the old storehouse, the Mountain Lord's lock hung on the wall. The lock was like both bronze and stone, with fine cracks on its surface. Dust clung to the cracks, and within the dust lingered the smell of old blood. Sun Wukong had once struggled against it, and the lock had jingled for a long time.
The lock moved by itself. It was as if someone inside had twisted it. Then, a deep sound fell into the room, like it was rolling out from the belly of a mountain.
"The law is acceptable," said the mountain lord, "but the conditions need to be met."
The shadow trembled and took a half step back. Sun Wukong frowned as well. He had seen far too many people who used conditions to trap others.
The mountain lord ignored their expressions: "Half a golden hoop. A monkey heart stone. A roster of monkeys in the present world. Only if all three are present can they be recorded together."
Xuanzang asked, "Why do we need a roster?"
"The mountain recognizes its master," said the mountain master. "It's no use for you to say who you are. It's the monkeys living in the mountain who will tell."
Hearing this, Chen Fan suddenly chuckled, then coughed. He pulled half a golden hoop from his sleeve. The hoop was broken unevenly, as if it had been forcibly pried open. That year, they had torn the golden hoop apart; it had been painful, it had been a fight, but in the end, they had taken it down. Chen Fan placed it on the table; the metal struck the wood with a crisp sound.
Sun Wukong pulled the Monkey Heart Stone from his robes. The stone wasn't large, and it was warm to the touch. He had held it for so long that its surface was polished to a shine. It was the stone he had dug out of a crack in the Five Fingers Mountain years ago, covered in mud. He had never thrown it away.
All that's missing is the roster.
Suddenly, there were footsteps outside. Not the light, quick steps of a monkey, but the dull thud of a bull's hooves on the stone. The Bull Demon King carried in a wooden box; the corner of the box bumped against the doorframe, dropping a few splinters of wood. He put the box down and wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Don't look at me," said the Bull Demon King. "I'm just delivering something."
The box lid was opened, revealing a thick stack of paper. The paper was freshly copied, the ink not yet completely dry. The top line was written in large characters: "List of Monkeys Present in Huaguo Mountain."
The Bull Demon King pushed the register forward: "It was rewritten last night. Every brood in the mountains is listed according to seniority. It remembers which family is missing a brood and which has an extra one. For those of you who want to acknowledge a master, just look at this clause—"
He pointed to the last page of the roster. At the bottom of the last page, a small stamp was drawn after each monkey's name. The stamp was made of red clay, crooked and crooked, like a small paw.
"Who are they pressing down on?" The Bull Demon King looked at Sun Wukong. "They're pressing down on the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. Not his shadow. Not anything else."
Shadow's face turned pale. He stared at the red marks as if they were the fire at the bottom of a pot. The fire didn't curse or bother him, it just baked him so hard he had nowhere to hide.
Sun Wukong reached out and picked up the register, flipping through it slowly. He saw many familiar names, and also some new ones. Next to the new names were annotations written by a little monkey: "This one has a lame leg; it was cut off when the heavenly soldiers were there. That one is missing an ear; it was bitten off when protecting the cubs at the Buddhist temple." The handwriting was ugly, but the story was true.
He closed the register and handed it to Shadow: "Look."
The shadow didn't take it. His throat tightened, as if he'd swallowed a hard fruit pit. He suddenly asked, "If I quit, where will I go?"
Chen Fan said, "I won't retreat. You'll live too."
Shadow scoffed, "That sounds like you're trying to coax a little monkey."
Chen Fan looked up: "You were a little monkey too. Have you forgotten?"
The shadow remained silent. After a long silence, he suddenly raised his hand and touched the top of his head. There was no golden headband there, but he still touched it. As if touching an old, painful spot.
The mountain lord's lock made a soft sound: "All three are complete. Open and record."
The threshold line lit up briefly, then dimmed again. Liu Er stepped aside, sat down against the wall, as if detaching himself from the matter. He said, "Memories hurt. Don't pretend to be tough."
Sun Wukong stepped inside the line. His shadow followed. The two monkeys stood half a step apart, looking at each other. Sun Wukong reached out his hand, and his shadow hesitated for a moment before reaching out as well. When their hands touched, both trembled slightly.
Memories flooded back like water.
The dampness from beneath Five Finger Mountain pressed against the tip of the nose. The sound of Chen Fan's footsteps, the muffled thud of fruit falling onto the stone slabs. Sun Wukong heard himself cursing the heavens back then, and he also heard himself laughing later. His shadow heard it too. He heard his roar when he first became king of Flower Fruit Mountain, and the cracking sound of his bones breaking as he was crushed. He also heard the many years that followed, Sun Wukong leading his monkeys to plant trees, leading Xuanzang to repair roads, and leading the Bull Demon King to pay off old debts one by one.
The shadow suddenly couldn't breathe. He jerked his hand away, trying to retreat. Sun Wukong didn't let go. Sun Wukong's grip was very steady, like he was holding onto a lifeline.
"Don't run away," Sun Wukong said. "If you run away, I won't be clean either."
The shadow gritted its teeth: "I'm afraid you'll erase me."
Sun Wukong shook his head: "I'm afraid I'll become like you, filled only with hatred."
The two sentences fell to the ground, and memories surged again. The shadow saw Chen Fan sunbathing at the door, his brow furrowed by the bitterness of the tea, yet still trying to drink it. It saw Xuanzang using an empty scripture box as a tablecloth. It saw Liu Er tucking his cunning into his sleeve, leaving only one option. It saw the Bull Demon King making a ruckus at the mountain pass, then turning around to carry the injured monkey back to his cave.
The shadow suddenly chuckled. The chuckle was short, like a breath exhaled from its nose.
"So you didn't lose the mountain after all," said the shadow.
Sun Wukong said, "I've been holding it the whole time."
The mountain lord's lock clicked again. The sound was like a stamp. The threshold went completely dark. The shadows of the two monkeys overlapped on the ground, then slowly separated. When they separated, the shadows didn't disappear, they just stopped standing stiffly. Nothing new appeared on Sun Wukong's head either. He still had that face, that expression, only his eyes held something old. That thing wasn't sharp, like a smoothed stone.
Liu Er stood up, brushing the dust off his trousers: "Where's the master's seat?"
The mountain master lock said, "Huaguo Mountain recognizes this body." One crack on the lock healed, and another remained, as if reminding people not to consider themselves perfect.
The shadow looked at Sun Wukong for a long time and then said, "I'll go with you. Not as your shadow. I'll be myself. Don't worry about how I live."
Sun Wukong nodded: "Alright. If you want to fight, ask me first. Don't hurt the little ones."
The shadow snorted, which was taken as an agreement.
Hearing this, Chen Fan felt a tension that had been building up inside him for centuries finally ease. He didn't say anything effusive; he simply picked up his cup and took a sip. The tea was still bitter. This time, he didn't cough, but merely frowned, as if both disgusted and reluctant to part with it.
Xuanzang put the half of the golden headband into the box and returned the monkey heart stone to Sun Wukong's palm. He said, "I'll take the scripture box with me. It's empty inside. I'll use it for writing later."
Sun Wukong asked, "Where are you going?"
Xuanzang slung the box over his shoulder: "Go to the mortal realm. Finish repairing the roads. Also, go and find those we released. Let those who should return home go home. Let those who should have tombstones erected."
The Bull Demon King grinned: "I'm going too. Old Bull owes a lot of favors, and I have to pay them back. I'm bringing my son with me. If he misbehaves again, I'll tie him up at the foot of the mountain."
Liu Er looked at Chen Fan: "And you, strategist?"
Chen Fan waved his hand: "I'm not leaving. I can't walk anymore."
Sun Wukong frowned and reached out to help him. Chen Fan dodged. He looked up at Sun Wukong: "Don't treat me like a fruit to be fed again. It's your turn to get busy."
Sun Wukong stood still for a while before whispering, "What about the system?"
Chen Fan smiled and said, "It's long gone. It went silent the day you settled your accounts. It wanted to force people down the wrong path. But you chose the right path, so it had no mouth."
No one refuted this. The stack of papers at the entrance of the old warehouse, from "closed" to "terminated and signed," every single one was still there. They weren't given by gods or Buddhas; they were written by themselves, stroke by stroke.
Later, the Heavenly Court's old banners were torn down. Not through a single great battle, but through year after year of starvation and incense deprivation. The golden statues of Buddhist monks didn't crumble to ashes either. Xuanzang visited many temples, collecting the old scriptures one by one, leaving behind the words: "Stop using human lives for merit." Some cursed him, others knelt before him. Those who cursed eventually stopped cursing and simply focused on surviving.
Later, Liu Er crossed out the name "Liu Er" from the register and changed it to "Liu Shi" (meaning "Sixty"). He said he was getting old and his hearing wasn't as good as before, so he shouldn't keep calling out like that. The monkeys laughed at him, and he laughed too. Yingzi settled down in the mountains, living on the cliff edge farthest from the Water Curtain Cave. He didn't like crowds, but he would patrol the mountains at night. Some people secretly mistook him for a mountain guardian god; he heard them, cursed a couple of times, but didn't chase them away.
Chen Fan stayed by the doorway, basking in the sun. It was still late spring. Peach blossoms still fell on that same rock. His teacup had a small chip around the rim; Xuanzang wanted to replace it, but he wouldn't let him. He said, "I'm used to it."
One early winter, a light snow fell in the mountains. The snow was thin, barely covering the cracks in the rocks. Chen Fan sat by the door as usual, holding a cup in his hands. Sun Wukong leaned his staff against the door and squatted down to tuck the blanket around Chen Fan. Chen Fan said, "Don't tuck it in, it'll look like you're covering me with a coffin."
Sun Wukong didn't reply, but simply pressed the corner of the blanket down. He looked up at the snow, his voice soft: "You promised me you'd watch me protect the mountain."
Chen Fan nodded: "I saw it. They did a good job guarding it."
He placed the cup on the edge of the stone, and the bottom of the cup tapped. The sound was softer than usual. Then, he leaned against the doorframe, closed his eyes, and did not open them again.
Sun Wukong sat for a long time. No one in the mountains cried or made a fuss. The little monkeys ran around, sweeping away the snow and laying dry grass at the entrance. Shadow stood on the edge of the cliff, glanced at it, and then turned to patrol the mountain. Xuanzang was away repairing roads at the time, and only returned three days after hearing the news. He placed a wooden sign at the entrance with two words written on it: Military Advisor.
It's late spring again, and the peach blossoms are in full bloom. The cup is still on the stone by the door. Sun Wukong is teaching the little monkey to write. The little monkey finishes writing the last stroke and holds it up to show him.
The four characters on the paper are written neatly and clearly: "Mountains are safe, people are safe."
Sun Wukong hummed in agreement, folded the paper neatly, and placed it on the top shelf of the bookcase. The cabinet door closed, secured with a wooden latch. A breeze blew in from the mountain pass, carrying the scent of peach blossoms mixed with the aroma of cooked food. The sounds of commotion from the mountains rolled by, all the voices of living people.
Chapter 635 The only mountain owner
The peach blossoms were in full bloom, and when the mountain breeze blew, a thin layer of powder settled on the stone by the entrance.
Chen Fan finished his tea, and as usual, the bottom of the cup tapped against the edge of the stone with a sound. The sound wasn't crisp; it was like wood hitting wood. He coughed twice and looked up at Sun Wukong.
Wukong didn't teach any characters today.
He stood in the courtyard, the bluestone beneath his feet cracking under his weight. His golden cudgel lay horizontally before his knees, like an iron snake with its tail drawn back. His eyes were half-closed, as if listening, or perhaps waiting.
Outside the courtyard gate, the little monkeys dared not make a sound. Even the most mischievous one huddled by the tree roots, clutching his pen. Xuanzang wiped the table until it shone, his hands never stopping, but his eyes remained fixed on Wukong.
Chen Fan took out the old paper from his sleeve. The corner of the paper was worn soft, but the two words on it were still clear: Release the people.
He pressed the paper down on the corner of the table and said softly, "It's your turn now."
Wukong didn't reply. He raised his hand and touched his chest. The touch was slow, as if confirming that an old object was still there. Then, he looked up and stared at the empty space in the center of the courtyard.
A shadow first appeared on the open ground.
The shadow wasn't his. It was thinner, with sharper shoulders, and a back like a taut bow. It stood opposite Wukong, its face resembling Wukong's, but its eyes were harder, and its smile sharper.
The little monkeys stared in disbelief, and one of them couldn't help but exclaim, "Two mountain lords?"
Xuanzang reached out and covered its mouth, shaking his head.
Chen Fan remained seated. He had seen this figure before. During those hundred years beneath Five Fingers Mountain, he often peered up from the cracks in the rocks and saw two layers of fire in Wukong's eyes. One layer was life, the other was hatred. That second layer of fire was the figure before him.
Wukong stood the golden cudgel upright and lightly touched the ground with the end of the cudgel.
"Come." He said only one word.
The figure smiled and raised its hand, pulling out a stick as well. The stick wasn't a solid object; it seemed to have condensed from mountain mist, its edges shimmering with light. It struck down with the stick, without any technique, only ruthlessness.
The two sticks collided, shaking all the tables and chairs in the courtyard. The residual warmth in the teacup rippled outwards, splashing onto the table and leaving a shallow mark.
Wukong didn't retreat. He slumped his shoulder and swung his hand horizontally. Shadow didn't retreat either, meeting the blow head-on. The sound of the staff striking was so dense it was like hitting tiles, making one's teeth ache.
Chen Fan watched without interfering.
This battle should not be interfered with by outsiders. What Wukong wants to reclaim is not the merit bestowed upon him by others, nor the official position appointed by anyone. He wants to reclaim what has been cut from his rebellious spirit: the fighting will, the right to guard the mountain, and the spirit of defiance.
The shadow's staff struck faster and faster. The smile on its face grew brighter, as if it wanted to shatter itself in the courtyard. Wukong's breathing, however, slowed down. Each strike of his staff pressed down harder, as if he were lifting a mountain back into his hands.
The last sound was more muffled than all the ones before it.
Wukong flicked the head of the shadow's staff away, then pressed the staff down against the shadow's shoulder. The shadow froze, as if nailed to the ground. It looked up at Wukong, and the hardened fire in its eyes suddenly softened.
It stopped laughing.
It reached out and pressed its hand against Wukong's chest. It was like stuffing a hot lump of coal back into place. The outline of the shadow began to disperse, scattering into thin lines that seeped into Wukong's body.
The courtyard quieted down.
The little monkeys could hear their own panting and the rustling of the wind through the bamboo leaves.
Wukong closed his eyes. A fine bead of sweat trickled down his brow bone to the tip of his nose, paused for a moment, and fell onto the bluestone, leaving a black dot.
When he opened his eyes, the layers in his eyes were no longer distinct.
What Chen Fan first saw was his back. That back was straight and steady, no longer looking like it was about to rush out or turn back at any moment. He stood firm like a mountain.
At the entrance to the courtyard, the wooden sign that held the tent moved on its own.
The two characters "Mountain Lord" faded, as if washed by water. A layer of wood grain rose, and new characters gradually emerged, with thick strokes and forceful placement.
The sole master of Huaguo Mountain.
The little monkeys were stunned at first, then they all knelt down in unison. The sound of their knees hitting the ground was so synchronized, it was even more striking than drumming.
Wukong raised his hand: "Get up. This kind of thing doesn't work in the mountains."
The monkeys got up, their eyes red and their mouths grinning. They wanted to shout, but dared not, and just clenched their fists tightly.
Chen Fan didn't laugh. He exhaled, feeling a slight relief in his chest. This was the moment he had been waiting for. Not just a return to normalcy, but Wukong finding himself again.
Just then, a low hum came from outside the courtyard.
The sound rose from the foot of the mountain, passing through the stone walls and tree roots, like someone tossing a bell in the distance. The ground trembled slightly, and even the old piece of paper on the corner of the table shook.
Wukong looked up into the depths of Flower Fruit Mountain.
Chen Fan looked over as well. He couldn't see the Ninth Origin Field, but he could feel the air thickening, like the tide rising. Every layer of stone in the mountain seemed to be responding, not to anyone's command, but to a sense of belonging.
Wukong stretched out his hand.
A tiny point of light fell into his palm. It wasn't bright, but like a grain of heavy gold. It didn't roll after it fell; instead, it sank into his skin and flesh, then crawled out through the lines between his fingers.
The lines circled his wrist, like an ancient lock. The moment it was fastened, the gushing from the mountains stopped.
Chen Fan heard it most clearly.
In the past, Huaguo Mountain's shell was like a leaky bucket, with its spiritual energy escaping and people's hearts dissipating. Now, the leak has been plugged, and the wind blowing in from the mountain pass no longer carries the smell of emptiness, but rather the damp smell of earth and the aroma of cooked food.
Wukong whispered, "The power to suppress the source."
Xuanzang leaned against the doorframe, his fingers loosening the rag. He glanced at the lines on Wukong's wrist, a fleeting glint in his eyes quickly suppressed. He clasped his hands in a gesture of respect: "The mountain has its owner, and the road has its owner."
Chen Fan hummed in agreement: "Have you finished walking that path?"
Xuanzang nodded: "The scripture box is empty. People's hearts are not empty. That's enough."
The sentence wasn't high, but it landed very steadily in the courtyard.
Chen Fan reached out and touched the stack of papers on the corner of the table. Seven pages contained the error column, the eighth page marked the end of the clue; the previous pages were piled up one after another, like a stack of old years. Now only the last one remained.
He turned to page eight.
The end line on the paper was half lit up. The other half was still gray, like a piece of a knife cut off.
Wukong saw it too. He didn't urge him, but looked at Chen Fan and said, "Operator, you still owe one."
Chen Fan smiled briefly: "Not much."
He took an old seal from his sleeve. The seal wasn't fancy; it was the one he had carved when he set up his tent on Flower Fruit Mountain. It was a wooden seal, the edges of which had been chipped twice, and he had smoothed them out with a knife.
He dipped his finger in the tea on the table, but there wasn't enough. He raised his hand and made a cut on his fingertip; the blood came out slowly, mixing with the tea and becoming even darker in color.
Xuanzang frowned: "With blood?"
Chen Fan waved his hand: "Consider it a stamp. It'll save anyone from bringing up old grievances later."
He pressed his stamp on the missing half of the eighth page.
The print fell silently, without a loud thud. The paper only warmed slightly, and the gray lines lit up, like a wick being lit, forming a complete finishing line.
At that moment, the noisy voice in Chen Fan's head also stopped.
The system without morality stopped skipping words, stopped assigning tasks, and stopped deducting points. It went out cleanly, like a lamp that had run out of oil. Chen Fan felt a sudden emptiness in his chest, but then he felt at ease again.
Wukong reached out and took the eighth page, folded it, and put it on the top shelf of the bookcase.
He fastened the wooden latch on the cabinet door very gently: "The accounts are settled."
Chen Fan leaned back in his chair. He suddenly felt sleepy, his eyelids heavy. He didn't sleep, just squinted: "What about the Heavenly Court?"
Wukong leaned his golden cudgel against the door: "The Jade Emperor abdicated, and I sent the Pagoda-Bearing Monk back to guard the Southern Heavenly Gate. I didn't dismantle the Supreme Lord's furnace. He sealed the fire himself, saying he wouldn't refine people anymore."
Xuanzang continued, "The Vulture Peak has been disbanded. The Buddha left his golden statue in the Great Thunderclap Temple and has not issued any further orders. Guanyin led several bodhisattvas to cross the sea; they were ferrying people, not offerings of incense."
Chen Fan recalled the chases and the oppressive mountain from years ago. He raised his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose: "The Bull Demon King and his son?"
Wukong said, "Old Ox went back to Flaming Mountain to farm. Red Boy followed Xuanzang to repair the road, and his temper has mellowed a lot. He said he wanted to learn to write, but he writes even slower than a monkey."
Xuanzang smiled and said, "He wrote his own name for three days."
Chen Fan nodded: "Where's the White Dragon Horse?"
Xuanzang said, "He returned to the Western Sea. The Dragon King abdicated the throne to him. He didn't like staying in the palace and often came to deliver salt. He would leave the salt jars at the door without even saying hello."
Chen Fan then asked, "Have those who were imprisoned been released?"
Wukong glanced at him: "I've remembered that piece of paper in your sleeve. The Heavenly Prison has been opened three times. Those who should go home should go home. Those who have no home to go back to should stay in the mountains. There are many people sitting on that stone in front of your door now."
Hearing this, Chen Fan's throat bobbed. He swallowed his breath and said in an even lower voice, "I've fulfilled the promise I owed."
Wukong didn't say "it doesn't matter." He simply raised his hand and patted Chen Fan on the shoulder. The pat wasn't hard, but it dispelled the last bit of resentment in Chen Fan's heart.
The sun was beginning to set in the west. Smoke started to rise from the chimneys in the courtyard.
The little monkeys ran around carrying wooden basins filled with washed wild vegetables. The older monkeys carried two door panels, preparing to completely seal up the old warehouse room. That room had held too many tents, too much blood. Sealing it up would prevent the children from ransacking it.
Xuanzang re-hung the wooden plaque that read "Military Advisor" neatly. He turned and went inside, took out three bowls, filled them with porridge, and placed them on the stone at the door.
Chen Fan picked up the bowl; the porridge was hot, so he blew on it twice before taking a sip.
Wukong drank too. He was never picky about his porridge, finishing it in just a few mouthfuls. He put down the bowl, got up, and went to patrol the mountain. As he reached the courtyard gate, he glanced back at the top shelf of the bookcase.
The cabinet door was latched and not loosened.
Chen Fan understood. He pushed the bowl towards the little monkey, asking it to add some porridge for Xuanzang. Then he got up and slowly walked to the stone by the door to sit down.
The wind also blew in from the mountain pass.
The scent of peach blossoms has faded, but the aroma of food draws ever closer. The sounds of noise from the mountains roll by—the voices of living people.
Three years later, the road from Flower Fruit Mountain reached the sea. Xuanzang often came down the mountain to preach, accepting no incense offerings, only a bowl of water. Red Boy erected a wooden sign by the roadside that read "Take Care," the characters crooked, but the brushstrokes were meticulous. The White Dragon King came once a month, bringing salt and fresh fish from the sea. The Bull Demon King occasionally brought a jar of strong liquor up the mountain, drank it all, and left, never mentioning past battles.
Chen Fan had aged and coughed more often. He was still sitting at the doorway, basking in the sun, the tea still bitter. He tapped the bottom of the cup against the edge of the stone, the familiar soft sound unchanged.
Sun Wukong became the sole master of Flower Fruit Mountain. He no longer needed anyone to bestow titles upon him, nor was he afraid of anyone suppressing him. Every late spring, he would still teach the little monkeys to write, tapping the paper with his stick, and making them rewrite if they made a mistake.
That day, after the little monkey finished writing the last stroke, he held up the paper, his wrist trembling, but he also smiled brightly.
The paper had four words written neatly: "Everyone is safe and sound."
Chen Fan glanced at it and nodded: "It's alright."
Wukong hummed in agreement, folded the paper, and placed it on the top shelf of the bookcase. The cabinet door closed, and the wooden latch secured it.
Peach blossoms fall outside the courtyard, landing on the stones, on the rim of bowls, and on people's shoulders.
That's enough for the story.
Chapter 636 The Tranche Builder's Pen
Text content
The peach blossoms fell slowly, but the courtyard was quieter than in previous years. So quiet that you could hear the sand-like sound of ink sticks grinding in the inkstone.
Chen Fan gently tapped the bottom of the cup against the edge of the stone. The soft sound remained the same, as did the stone; what changed was the paper.
The stack of "Cleared," "Terminated," and "Return to Ownership" notes on the top shelf of the bookcase looked like they'd been flipped through. The creases were neatly facing outwards, as if waiting for someone to call their name.
Sun Wukong placed his staff across his lap, not teaching any words. He stared at the blank sheet of paper on the table for a long while before finally speaking: "This time it's not right."
Xuanzang put down the bamboo basket and wiped the corner of the paper with his fingers. The paper was clean, so clean it felt cold. He said, "No wind can get in."
The door was open. There was a distinct scent of peach blossoms outside the courtyard. But the wind seemed to have bypassed the yard.
Chen Fan looked up and saw the old lamp under the eaves. The lamp was originally used to light his writing at night; the wick was short and the oil often ran out. But today it burned steadily, the flame not flickering, as if someone were covering it with their hand.
His heart sank, and he reached out to touch the lamp base. As soon as his fingertips touched it, he noticed a fine ring of lines on the bottom of the lamp base, like the creases on the edge of an account book.
"The interface." Chen Fan withdrew his hand, his throat a little dry. "It's connected."
Before the words were even finished, the blank sheet of paper on the table moved on its own. The corner of the paper lifted slightly, then fell back down, as if someone was testing a pen on it.
Then, a hand "reaches out" from the paper.
That wasn't a flesh-and-blood hand. The back of the hand was the color of old paper, with distinct knuckles and clean nails. It held a pen, the shaft of which gleamed black. The pen tip touched the paper, first placing a drop of ink.
The ink doesn't spread; it's like a nail stuck in the paper.
Then, half a face emerged. Only up to the bridge of the nose. The corners of the mouth were thin, as if it hadn't smiled in years. The eyes were indistinct, as if hidden behind pages of an account book.
Sun Wukong stood up, twirled his staff, and it landed in his palm. He didn't shout or curse, but simply asked, "Who are you?"
The half-face didn't answer "name." It merely raised its pen, as if calling out a roll.
"The tenth time," it said, its voice soft but like tightening a screw in a room. "This is the round to close the net."
Chen Fan frowned: "The tenth time what?"
"Test." It gently dragged the pen tip, drawing a straight line of ink. "You are the vessel. Push it up and see how far it can go. Can you force the mountain lord back to the main body and force the general ledger to write itself?"
Sun Wukong's eyelids twitched, and the tip of his staff touched the ground, making a dull thud on the wooden floor: "What do you take us for?"
"The accounts must be settled." The half-face paused for a moment. "In the end, the accounts must be tallied up."
Chen Fan stared at the pen, then suddenly smiled, a very faint smile: "So all of that before, the Heavenly Court, the Buddhist Sect, the Journey to the West, the system rewards, were all paved by you."
The half-face didn't deny it. With a flick of its pen, the stack of papers on the table flipped open by itself, turning to a blank page, where three small words appeared in the header—Page Nine.
Xuanzang pressed the page down with his palm, but the page seemed to come alive, trying to burrow into his hand. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he clenched his teeth, pressing the page down along with the tablecloth: "What does it want to write?"
"Recycle the true source." The half-face read it out very calmly, as if reciting a rule.
The pen tip falls.
He started by writing the character "真" (zhen, meaning true). Each stroke, both horizontal and vertical, was steady. When he got to the character "源" (yuan, meaning source), the old lamp in the courtyard suddenly flickered, as if someone had sucked it out. Chen Fan felt a tightness in his chest, and a buzzing sound in his ears, as if someone was turning pages in his mind.
He got it.
The so-called "true source" is neither a mountain nor the sky. It is those who have been "reformed," the little bit of freedom that the system has pulled out of them.
Sun Wukong understood. He didn't ask any more questions. He stuck his staff into the ground and reached out to grab the hand that held the pen.
He couldn't grasp it. His hand was like a projection, like a reflection on water. But when his fingers slipped through, the paper on the table trembled.
"The interface is on the light," Chen Fan said in a low voice. "The pen is in its hand. Cutting off the light and the pen isn't enough; we also need to cut off the connection between it and the general ledger."
Xuanzang looked up: "Where's the thread?"
Chen Fan pointed to the top shelf of the bookshelf: "It's in those 'signed' papers. Every time we sign one, it gains another landing point. Once it has enough landing points, it can reach in."
The half-face seemed to have heard a joke, and the corner of its mouth twitched: "Clever. But you're too late."
"Whether it's late or not is not for you to say." Sun Wukong held his staff horizontally, and suddenly a ring of golden patterns appeared on the staff, old marks left after he merged with the heavens. He no longer dodged or avoided. He swung the end of the staff at the lamp under the eaves.
The lamp wasn't broken.
The stick struck as if it had hit an invisible sheet of paper, the impact causing Sun Wukong's wrist to go numb.
The half-faced figure said calmly, "Mountain sovereignty has always been subject to the supervision of the central account's superior interface. Your return to the main body won't make a difference."
Sun Wukong grinned, laughing without any restraint: "I used to be suppressed too. Suppressed under a mountain, suppressed by a talisman. But in the end, I still managed to get out."
Chen Fan ignored his boasting. He pushed the cup in front of Xuanzang: "Pour the water onto the lamp base."
Xuanzang paused for a moment, then immediately did as instructed. He poured tea on it; the lamp didn't go out, but the wick made a soft "sizzle," as if it had been burned. The thin ring of light flickered for a moment, revealing a tiny crack.
"There's a chance." After saying that, Chen Fan pulled the stack of papers out of the cabinet. He didn't pick and choose, and tore them up directly.
The first "Accounts Settled" sheet was torn in two. A tiny cracking sound came from the paper, like a thread breaking.
The second "Termination Signed" sign was torn off. The tearing sound was even clearer.
For the first time, Half Face's voice changed, as if someone had choked its throat: "Stop. You're tearing up the interface anchor point."
"I know." Chen Fan continued working. "Without the anchor point, your hand can't stay steady."
Sun Wukong understood. He stopped smashing the lamp. He planted his staff upside down in the ground, gripped it with both hands, and gave a low shout. The staff "nailed" down along the grain of the floor, as if to nail down the invisible line underground.
The room jolted. The ink droplets on the table finally dispersed, as if they had been stirred.
The hand holding the pen tightened its grip, and with a sudden stroke, the four characters "True Source Recycling" on the ninth page were almost complete. Only the last stroke was needed.
Xuanzang reacted quickly, lifting the tablecloth and pulling the entire tabletop towards him. The pen tip veered slightly, and the final stroke fell outside the paper, leaving a crooked line.
As soon as the crooked line appeared, the wind from outside finally blew in, and the fragrance of peach blossoms suddenly became stronger.
Taking advantage of the lull, Chen Fan tore up all the remaining signed papers. When he tore the last one, his finger trembled slightly.
The paper read "Strategist".
That's his position.
Without hesitation, he tore it up.
"You'll regret it later." Half his face spoke in a cold voice, "There's no place for you; you'll be wiped out by the general ledger."
Chen Fan clenched the shredded paper in his palm, then slowly released it, letting the scraps fall into the tea: "I spent a hundred years feeding fruit at the foot of the mountain, and I had no place to stand. Yet I still survived."
Sun Wukong looked up, his eyes hardening: "Break the pen."
Chen Fan nodded: "I'll do it."
He grabbed the inkstone and smashed it directly at the brush. The inkstone passed through the projection, missing the actual object, but spilled all the ink on the table. The ink, upon touching the hand, spread like oil on fire, instantly covering the back of the fingers.
That hand was shaking.
The pen tip slipped for a moment. Taking advantage of the moment, Sun Wukong used his staff to lift the corner of the table, flipping the entire ninth page away. The page flew to the lamp, where it was licked by the flame and actually caught fire.
In the firelight, a hint of surprise finally appeared on that half of his face.
Xuanzang raised his hand, pinched the wick, and extinguished the lamp. His fingers were burned red, but he didn't let go.
The moment the lights went out, it was as if someone in the room was closing an account book.
The hand holding the pen froze in mid-air, then crumbled into ashes little by little. Half of the face also faded, as if washed by water.
Finally, only one sentence remained, as if it came from a very distant place: "I am not the only one who established the general ledger."
Sun Wukong sneered: "Then none of you should come."
The noise subsided. The courtyard returned to its usual bustling activity. In the distance, monkeys chased each other, scattering fallen petals everywhere. Gusts of wind blew in, carrying the aroma of food.
Chen Fan sat back down on the rock. The tightness in his chest dissipated, as if a heavy weight had been lifted. He looked at the ink stain on his palm, which he couldn't wipe clean no matter how hard he tried.
Xuanzang brought him some clean water to wash his hands. A little bit of paper ash floated in the water, swirled around a couple of times, and then sank.
"What if there's no moral system?" Xuanzang asked.
Chen Fan closed his eyes, as if listening for any echo within his body. There was no notification sound, no panel. He said, "It's broken. It was originally a section of a wire. Now it's all broken."
Sun Wukong leaned his staff back against the door, then suddenly remembered something and asked Chen Fan, "Can you still go back to your side?"
Chen Fan looked at the peach tree outside the courtyard; some of the branches were bare. He shook his head: "I can't go back. I don't want to go back."
He paused, then finished his sentence: "I used to think about going back because I was afraid that life here wouldn't be good. Now I'm not afraid anymore."
Xuanzang nodded, offering no advice. He turned and took down the old lamp, disassembling its base. Sure enough, a thin black thread, like moldy hair, was hidden inside. He threw the thread into the stove, and the flame extinguished with a single lick.
As for those old stories that weren't finished being told at the table, they were all eventually settled one by one.
The white dragon horse was never called back to the Heavenly Court. It built a new river channel at the mouth of the East Sea, drawing water during the spring floods and releasing the sluice gates during droughts. The people along the river erected a small stele, which did not bear the dragon's name, but only the words "Thank you for the water".
The Bull Demon King took Red Boy back to the Flaming Mountain. Red Boy stopped worshipping Buddhism and opened a kiln at the foot of the mountain, firing tiles and bowls. If a roof leaked, he would send his little demons to carry tiles to repair it, and all he would receive in return was a bag of rice.
As for the Heavenly Court, Nezha came once but didn't enter. He left his Wind-Fire Wheels at the door for a long time, finally leaving behind a short knife, saying that the favor owed was done. Chen Fan later used the knife to whittle bamboo strips and found it very useful.
The Buddhist monks never came again. Guanyin's jade bottle never appeared in the sky above Flower Fruit Mountain again. Chen Fan occasionally thought of that "path" that had once bound people, treating it like an old illness—once it's cured, it's over, and there's no need to dredge it up again.
Three more years passed, and spring returned as before.
Peach blossoms fell on the stones and on the rim of the bowl. A new table was installed in the courtyard, and the old one was taken by the monkeys to be used as timber. Sun Wukong continued to teach writing, tapping the paper with his stick, and making the students rewrite it if they made a mistake.
This time, it was two little monkeys writing, one holding the pen and the other supporting the paper. They wrote slowly, but the ink marks were steady.
After they finished writing, they held up the paper.
The paper contained eight characters: "The pen is broken, the lamp is extinguished, the account will never be repaid."
Chen Fan glanced at it and smiled: "Yes."
Sun Wukong hummed in agreement, folded the paper, and placed it on the top shelf of the bookcase. Xuanzang left the door ajar, allowing a sliver of air to escape.
A breeze wafts in, carrying the scent of peaches mingled with the aroma of cooked food. The sounds of noise from the mountains roll by, all the voices of living people.
Chapter 637 Broken Lamp
Only one lamp was lit in the room.
The wick wasn't thick, but the flame was steady, as if someone were protecting it with two fingers. The wind flickered on the window paper, sometimes coming, sometimes stopping. Outside, Flower Fruit Mountain was still awake; the occasional laughter of monkeys drifted from afar, like handfuls of pebbles rolling down the slope.
Chen Fan bolted the door and turned around to see an extra chair next to the table.
The chair was old-fashioned, its back worn smooth. The person sitting on it wore a gray coat with clean cuffs, and held a pen with a broken nib. He recognized that pen. On his ninth failed attempt, the nib had pricked his palm, drawing blood, and he'd laughed at himself for writing until it bled.
"You still came." The man placed the broken pen on the table, his voice not loud.
Chen Fan didn't sit down. He first picked up the bamboo teapot on the table and poured two cups of water. The water made a soft sound as it fell into the cups, as if it were falling from a great distance. He pushed one cup away, then stood by the lamp holding the other.
"You called me here, you can't just have me drink water," Chen Fan said.
The man in gray looked up at the lamp, his gaze fixed on the old ledger page. "I've come to reclaim the files from the previous nine dead records. By the rules, they should belong to me."
Chen Fan put down the cup and reached out to adjust the wick. As soon as his fingertips approached, the flame shifted slightly, as if trying to avoid him, or perhaps recognizing him.
"You can't take it back." He withdrew his hand and sat down on the futon under the lamp. "I'll sit here today."
The man in gray smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "You think you can control the recycling flow?"
"I did it once." Chen Fan looked down at his hands. There were old scars in the lines of his palm, some of which should have disappeared long ago, but they were still there. "I remember how you took me away every time. First, you made me forget, then you made me think I had finally won. Then you tore away the page where I had won."
The man in gray did not refute. He stretched out his hand, palm up, as if demanding a debt.
Chen Fan moved the lamp an inch closer to himself. The flame suddenly grew longer, and the shadow on the wall stretched out, making it look as if two people had stood up at the same time.
"You can't take anything from the first nine times," Chen Fan said. "I'll incorporate them into the tenth time. If you want to move anything, you'll have to go through me."
The room remained quiet for about half a cup of tea's time.
The man in gray suddenly rolled up his sleeve, revealing his wrist. A thin rope was wrapped around his wrist, with a small copper ring tied to it. The copper ring was covered with writing, so dense it was chilling.
"The right to inherit the wrong document." He took the brass ring off and placed it on the table. "The last one. You take it."
Chen Fan looked at the brass ring but didn't reach for it. "Are you willing to part with it?"
"I have to bear it, whether I like it or not." The man in gray twirled the broken pen between his fingers until the pen barrel cracked slightly. "The general ledger needs to be sealed. The connection needs to be severed. Once you Flower Fruit Mountain have signed the termination notice, I can no longer use 'start over' to cover it up."
Chen Fan reached out and fastened the brass ring to his wrist. The ring was a little cool against his skin, and the coolness quickly seeped into his bones. He didn't flinch; instead, he pulled down his sleeve, as if putting an old garment back on.
"Where is your real body?" Chen Fan asked.
The man in gray raised his hand and pointed to the lamplight, then to the table. "I'm here, and I'm not here. I'm just an opening in the general ledger. Someone is using me to write."
Chen Fan stared at him. "Who lent you this?"
The man in gray didn't speak, but simply pushed the broken pen closer. "The answer you seek is in the evidence database. The tenth attempt has already succeeded. You've included the nine previous dead files; no one can hide it now that someone borrowed the pen. That person will be exposed."
"And then what?" Chen Fan asked.
The man in gray picked up his water glass, took a sip, as if to moisten his throat. "Afterwards, you will dismantle that entire system. The 'conferment of titles' in Heaven and the 'destiny' in Buddhism are all linked by account books. If the account books are broken, their hands can't reach in."
Chen Fan didn't reply. He heard a faint crackling sound coming from the lamp, like wood cracking from the heat. He looked up and saw that the edge of the wick was charred black, but the flame was even brighter, almost blindingly so.
"It has begun," said the man in gray.
Chen Fan placed his hands on his knees, his back straight, sitting as he had when he fed the monkeys fruit at the foot of Five Fingers Mountain. He remembered those hundred years; the days felt like a rope, pulling him so hard he could hardly breathe. He also remembered the first time Wukong reached his hand out from the crack in the rock, grabbed his wrist, and said, "Don't be afraid."
"If you want to recycle, come on over," Chen Fan said.
The man in gray didn't move. He just stared at the lights, as if waiting for a pre-written settlement.
The flame of the lamp suddenly shrank back, then leaped up again. Chen Fan felt a tightness in his chest, as if someone had pressed the weight of the old days down on him all at once. The ninth guillotine, the eighth empty mountain, the seventh water dungeon… page after page turned, until his vision blurred.
He bit his tongue, tasted blood, and his mind became clearer.
"Don't snatch it," he whispered, as if speaking to the lamp, or perhaps to himself. "Keep it all. Don't lose a single word."
The man in gray finally stood up. He stood by the table, his shadow falling on Chen Fan's shoulder like a cloak. "You're taking the blame for them."
"I deserve it," Chen Fan said. "The previous nine deaths weren't in vain. That's the evidence."
The flames began to ignite spontaneously.
The lamp oil hadn't decreased, but the wick seemed to have been lit from within. The blue-white flame crawled along the edge of the lamp, reaching the copper ring before bouncing away. Sweat beaded on Chen Fan's forehead, sliding down his nose and dripping onto the cushion, spreading into a small, dark patch.
The man in gray looked at him, then suddenly broke the broken pen in two and placed it beside the lamp. "I owe you something too. You shouldn't have carried those hundred years alone."
Chen Fan chuckled briefly. "It's too late to talk about this now."
"Consider it an account if it gets late," the man in gray said. "From now on, the accounts don't belong to me. They belong to you."
After he finished speaking, his entire being seemed to be wiped away by the light; first, the hem of his clothes faded, then his hands, then his face. In the end, only the water glass on the table remained, with a little water still clinging to the rim.
Only Chen Fan and the dim lamp remained in the room.
When the fire was at its peak, Chen Fan heard footsteps outside the door. He didn't turn around, but he knew who it was.
Sun Wukong pushed open the door and came in, still holding his staff. The tip of the staff was stained with ink, clearly having just been taken from the child. He didn't rush inside, but just stood by the door, his nose twitching as if he smelled something burning.
"You're showing off again," Wukong said.
Chen Fan didn't look up. "I'll just sit for a while."
Wukong took two steps forward and stopped outside the lamplight. He reached out to pull Chen Fan up, but his fingertips recoiled from the heat of the fire. He cursed, speaking softly, afraid of startling something.
Xuanzang arrived as well. He held a roll of paper in his hand, the corners of which he had pressed flat. He looked at the lamp, then at the brass ring on Chen Fan's wrist, but asked no questions. He simply placed the paper on the low stool by the door.
"I've compiled the evidence repository," Xuanzang said. "The files from all nine deaths are in there. The old decrees from the Heavenly Court, the secret signatures from the Buddhist sect, and the traces of each alteration made by the person who created the records—it's all crystal clear."
Chen Fan nodded, his voice a little hoarse. "Okay. You guys finish up according to this."
Wukong frowned. "Who's going?"
"Go," Chen Fan said. "Take the stick with you. Don't reason with me, just state the facts. If anyone still wants to use you as pawns, slap the paper in their face. After that, let them see it for themselves."
Wukong grinned, as if about to laugh, but didn't. "And you?"
Chen Fan looked up at him. His gaze was flat, like when he was drinking tea in the courtyard. "I'll turn off the lights here completely. If the connection isn't extinguished, there'll still be a hole in the ledger."
The flame suddenly flickered, and the temperature in the room plummeted. The light from the lamp began to thin, like a sheet of paper being licked down to its last layer by the fire.
Chen Fan closed his eyes, as if afraid of getting dust in them. His voice came out softly, yet steadily, squeezed from his throat.
"There's one more thing," he said. "The person who actually started the ledger isn't here. He's just the intermediary. The one who actually wrote it is hiding behind the main ledger. Don't go looking for the wrong person."
Xuanzang replied, "I've got it."
Wukong looked at Chen Fan, his Adam's apple bobbing. "You owe me a pot of wine."
Chen Fan didn't open his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. "You can owe me. You drink it for me."
There was no sound when the lamp went out.
The flame was extinguished cleanly, as if pinched out with a fingernail. The room fell dark, so dark that no one could see each other's faces. Only the brass ring on Chen Fan's wrist glowed faintly, then dimmed again after a moment.
Sun Wukong took a step forward and placed his palm on Chen Fan's shoulder. The shoulder was still warm, and the person was still there, but he felt much lighter, as if an old shadow was missing.
Xuanzang closed the door, blocking out the sound of the wind outside. In the darkness, he lit a tinderbox, and the flickering flame illuminated a single dried bloodstain on the prayer mat, resembling a tiny red bean.
"Let's go," Wukong said.
They carefully collected the brass rings from the table and carried away the rolled-up papers from the low stool. The door latch was fastened very softly, as if afraid of waking anyone.
Later, the evidence was laid out in front of the Lingxiao Palace.
Wukong slapped the papers out one by one onto the jade steps. Xuanzang stood beside him, reading them aloud one by one. The White Dragon Horse didn't enter the hall; it guarded outside, stopping the passing gods and generals. The Bull Demon King and his son, along with their old followers, stood at the South Heavenly Gate; anyone who tried to run away was forced back to listen to their orders.
The scribe hiding behind the main ledger didn't hide for long. Evidence included his handprints from each rewrite and the dates he used the ledger liaisons. He tried to pin the blame on the Heavenly Court and the Buddhist sect, but to no avail. Finally, he was taken to Flower Fruit Mountain and forced to kneel on the stone steps outside the mountain gate. Wukong didn't kill him; he simply threw the broken pen in front of him, forcing him to write his own confession. After he finished, Xuanzang burned the paper, scattering the ashes into the sea, forbidding the main ledger from ever dampening again.
The Heavenly Court revoked the old title, and the Buddhist sect accepted the old decree. Some were dissatisfied, but they could only swallow their discontent. Flower Fruit Mountain was no longer officially recognized, nor did it receive any imperial edicts. Yet, peach trees were still planted, water was still drawn, and children were still taught to write.
Chen Fan woke up slowly.
The day he woke up, porridge was being cooked in the courtyard. Steam rose from the pot lid, and the aroma of rice filled the air. Wukong was sitting on the threshold, sharpening his cudgel. Hearing the noise, he turned around, muttered, "Finally, you've decided to wake up," and shoved a bowl of porridge into his hand, scalding him so much that he kept switching hands.
Xuanzang placed the brass ring back on the top shelf of the bookcase, stacked with a pile of old papers. He said, "The right to bear the blame lies here; no one can rewrite it for us anymore."
After finishing his porridge, Chen Fan wiped his mouth and got up to go out into the yard to bask in the sun. The sun shone on the back of his hand, its warmth ordinary. He saw several little monkeys gathered around a rock, fighting over a pen. Wukong slammed his staff on the rock, making them line up.
That day, after the little monkey finished writing the last stroke, he held up the paper, his wrist trembling violently, yet he smiled brightly.
The paper had four words on it: "The lamp has gone out."
Chen Fan glanced at it and nodded: "Yes."
Wukong hummed in agreement, folded the paper, and placed it on the top shelf of the bookcase. The cabinet door closed, and the wooden latch secured it. Peach blossoms fell outside the courtyard, landing on the stones, on the rim of the bowl, and on Chen Fan's shoes.
Many years passed, and the mountain road was widened. More people came to Flower Fruit Mountain, some seeking medical treatment, some asking for lodging, and others simply wanting to see this mountain that wasn't under the jurisdiction of any celestial or Buddhist sect. Chen Fan's hair had turned gray, yet he still sat at the door, the tea still bitter. He no longer mentioned the system, no longer mentioned how many times, only occasionally telling the new children the old stories of Five Finger Mountain. When he got to the part where the monkey reached out his hand, he would pause, look up, and glance into the courtyard.
Wukong was still there, and so was his staff. Xuanzang was also there; he had transformed the scriptures into a book for teaching people—teaching characters, arithmetic, and how to cook rice. When the White Dragon Horse grew old and could no longer walk, Wukong personally buried it by the sea and erected a small stone tablet. The Bull Demon King returned to the Flaming Mountain and led his family to grow drought-resistant crops. Former rivals went their separate ways, and no one relied on the account book for personal gain anymore.
Spring comes as usual, year after year.
The peach blossoms were in full bloom, and the aroma of cooked food wafted from the kitchen. The little monkeys came and went, and stacks of paper were replaced time and again. The wooden latch on the top shelf of the bookcase remained fastened, quiet and still, like a matter already sealed.
That's the end of the story.
Chapter 638 The Operator Yin Guiyi
The main tent was hidden deep inside the mountain. A crack opened in the stone door, and dampness squeezed out first, carrying the smell of ink stains and mildew. Chen Fan walked ahead, his boots stepping over a thin layer of dust, mixed with scraps of paper, as if someone had torn and crumpled up an entire roll of old tent.
Sun Wukong slung his golden cudgel across his shoulder, remaining silent as before. His gaze swept across the stone walls on either side, which were covered with grids, each containing a name, an age, and lines of small annotations. Many grids were empty, as if someone had picked them out with their fingernails.
Xuanzang followed behind, carrying an oil lamp. The lamplight was dim and yellowish, making one's face feel soft. He saw the words "Xuanzang" written in one of the compartments, and next to it was a line that had been added: "Transforming scriptures into books, teaching people to read." He paused, held the lamp closer, and read it softly, as if to confirm that he had indeed done so.
Chen Fan didn't turn around: "Don't look at it anymore. Put it away today; we won't need these annotations anymore."
When the stone door was fully pushed open, there was no hall as expected. There was only a table, its surface cracked, with a thin sheet of paper stuck in the crack. The corner of the paper trembled slightly, as if a breeze was blowing from nowhere. Behind the table sat a person, his sleeves gleaming black, his fingertips stained with ink. He didn't look up, his pen scratching across the paper with a soft, scratching sound, like a mouse gnawing on wood.
The person who sets up the account.
He stopped writing halfway through, looked up at Chen Fan, and smiled faintly: "You dare to come again. I already wrote about you on page nine. You should know the rules."
Chen Fan placed the three items from his sleeve onto the table.
One page-changing right is like an old copper coin, with its edges worn smooth; another page-changing right is a broken piece of jade, with fine white lines visible at the crack; and there is also a half-finished termination line, as thin as a hair, which leaves a red mark when wrapped around a finger.
He laid out the three items in a straight line, no more, no less: "I've submitted all the proof. You forced me to act as a guarantor back then, and I didn't agree. Don't even think about making up for it today."
The man setting up the tent twitched. He reached out and revealed a black half-seal in his palm. The object resembled half a seal, with jagged edges, and it carried a chilling aura as it pressed down, causing the crack in the tabletop to make a sound.
The black half-print fell onto Chen Fan's forehead.
Sun Wukong lunged sideways, his staff slashing diagonally. The black half-seal, however, seemed to have chosen its target, neither dodging nor flinching, sliding past the staff. Xuanzang gritted his teeth, pushing the oil lamp forward; the flame shrank to the size of a bean under the chilling aura.
Chen Fan didn't back down. He raised his hand and pulled a thin chain from his neck. Hanging from the chain was an inconspicuous piece of iron, without any writing on it, and it felt warm to the touch, as if it had been soaked in sweat for years.
Causal lock.
This lock was supposed to be engraved with a name. But the metal plate is empty.
Chen Fan pressed the metal plate against his chest and whispered, "I have no name to write. You gave me a place, then took it away. You labeled me 'Unclaimed Celebrity,' and that's what I've always been."
The account setter's smile froze: "A nobody can be an operator? What are you going to use to operate it?"
Chen Fan flipped over the empty metal plate on his chest, revealing its back. On the back was a very faint engraving, not a name, but an old saying: "The aroma of food wafts from the mountains."
That was something he casually mentioned when handing Wukong fruit during his hundredth year guarding the Five Fingers Mountain. Wukong chuckled and said he remembered it. Later, he carved those words into a lock, and no one took them seriously. But ledgers are most afraid of this kind of thing—not going to the correct page, not going to the correct register, and yet being said repeatedly.
The moment the black half-seal pressed down, the empty iron plate seemed to jam the seal surface. The seal wanted to cover, but it couldn't cover the name. It could only spin in the empty space, the ink dissipating outwards, dispersing into rings of gray.
The man who was building the tent stood up abruptly, a vein throbbing on the back of his hand. "You think you can hide like this? I'll write it again—"
He picked up his pen, the tip landing on page nine. But the paper remained untouched.
The page stopped. It didn't even shake.
The tent setter froze, as if discovering for the first time that his writing could be so unruly. He stabbed the pen harder, ink splattering and turning into dry bits on the paper. A soft "click" came from behind the main tent, like teeth spinning in vain, suddenly unable to hold on.
Taking advantage of that brief moment, Chen Fan reached into the crack in the table. Inside the crack was a seal, complete and as heavy as an iron core. The seal was face down, with fine lines engraved along its edges, and it felt slightly cool to the touch.
Operator's seal.
As he pulled the seal out, the crack in the tabletop seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and dust fell with it. The tent-setter lunged forward, his hand only halfway there when he suddenly stopped. He looked down at his hand; his fingertips began to fade, from jet black to grayish-white, and then to transparent.
His throat was dry: "You can't change it. Without me, the accounts will be in chaos. Heaven and Buddhism will come back to seize them. Those of you who rewrote them will be purged."
Sun Wukong raised his staff, tapping the tip lightly on the man's forehead: "Don't scare me. You've spent your whole life keeping accounts, how many hot meals have you actually prepared?"
The man who set up the tent opened his mouth, but no words came out. His sleeves came undone first, like a wisp of smoke blown away by the wind. What remained was the pen, its handle broken, its ink sac empty, which rolled twice on the ground before coming to rest at Chen Fan's feet.
Chen Fan didn't step on it. He bent down, picked up the pen, and put it back on the table: "You've finally finished writing."
As the operator's seal landed in Chen Fan's palm, the seal itself flipped over. The original section contained a string of incomprehensible symbols, resembling the word "establish an account." The symbols gradually faded, revealing two new characters.
Chen Fan.
The characters are small, but carved very steadily. It's as if someone has finally decided to include him as a person.
On the stone wall behind the main tent, the grids all went dark at the same time. Many names remained, but the annotations fell away line by line, like withered leaves in autumn. The imperial edicts from Heaven, the Buddhist decrees, and the destiny of the pilgrimage all became pieces of paper without nails.
Xuanzang looked at the wall and let out a long sigh: "So... does that mean we've won?"
Chen Fan put the operator's seal into his pocket: "Fine. From now on, no one should use accounts to pressure anyone."
Sun Wukong grinned, then stopped. He slammed his staff on the ground: "Back to the mountain. It's time to stew some beans on the stove today."
As they left the mountainside, the stone gate closed by itself. The crack no longer emitted dampness, as if it had never been open at all. Xuanzang glanced back, neither chanting scriptures nor bowing, but simply blew out the lamp and shortened the wick to prevent it from dripping oil on the way back.
Three days later, the old table was placed back in the courtyard of Huaguo Mountain. Chen Fan placed the operator's seal on the top shelf of the bookcase, stacking it with the papers he had written on. When the wooden clasp was fastened, it made a crisp "click," as if it had silenced a noisy argument.
The notification from the non-moral system stopped at that moment. There was no farewell, no reward, only silence. Chen Fan was stunned for a moment, looking down at his hands, the fingertips still bearing the thin calluses from years of holding a pen. He suddenly laughed and cursed, "Finally, some peace and quiet."
Sun Wukong came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of stewed beans, the soup thick and steaming: "Stop nagging. Eat."
Xuanzang spread the newly copied textbooks on the table; the paper still smelled of paste. He no longer talked about the "journey to the West," but only about how to recognize characters, how to keep accounts, and how to distribute grain. When villagers from the foot of the mountain came to borrow books, he would lend them to them, adding before lending them out, "Don't tear them; if you tear them, I'll have to copy them all over again."
Later, the Heavenly Court issued no further decrees. Some of the old gods returned to the mountains and rivers to become local deities, while others simply dispersed to the mortal realm to watch the spectacle. Buddhist temples remained, but most no longer spoke of guiding people to heaven; they only took in orphans, opened soup kitchens, and taught people sewing and cooking. Two of the Arhats who once most loved to use "fate" to oppress people built thatched huts by the sea, mending nets for fishermen, and grew old as they mended them.
The year the Bull Demon King's family successfully grew their first crop of drought-resistant grain on Flaming Mountain, they sent two bags of grain through a messenger. The bags were tied tightly, and a note was tucked beside them, the handwriting crooked and messy: "Don't complain about the small amount; the ground is too hard." Chen Fan poured the grain into the granary without replying, only instructing the monkey to dry two more jars of peach blossom wine until the messenger arrived.
The stone tablet of the White Dragon Horse has always been by the sea. When the tide comes in, it submerges the base of the tablet, and when it recedes, it is exposed again. Wukong goes there once a year, bringing a bunch of fresh grass, which he plants next to the tablet without saying a word.
Chen Fan didn't return to his old place. He had thought about that road, his parents' faces, and the city lights flashing at night. After the printer received the paper, he wasn't in a hurry anymore. He wrote those thoughts down on a piece of paper, folded it, and placed it on the bottom shelf of his bookshelf. The paper wasn't sent, nor did it need to be. That page remained perfectly flat afterward.
Many years passed, and spring came again in its usual way. Peach blossoms filled the mountain pass, and the aroma of rice wafted from the kitchen. Several new groups of monkeys came and went in the yard, and the writing brushes were changed from thick to thin. Sun Wukong had a few more white hairs on his head, and when teaching characters, he still tapped the paper with his stick, giving a light tap for each mistake, just enough for the child to remember.
That day, a little monkey finished writing, held up the paper, his hand trembling so badly, but he still stubbornly refused to put it down.
The ink on the paper was still wet: "The accounts are closed."
Chen Fan sat on the doorstep, basking in the sun. The tea was still bitter. He took a sip, coughed twice, and placed the cup on a stone: "Yes."
Sun Wukong hummed in agreement, folded the paper, and placed it on the top shelf of the bookcase. Xuanzang went over and closed the cabinet door for him, fastening the wooden latch. A breeze blew in from the mountain pass, carrying the scent of peach blossoms mixed with the aroma of rice. The sounds of noise from the mountains rolled by, all the voices of living people.