owlsbooks Chapter 188 The Last Old Heavenly Law
Chapter 188 The Last Old Heavenly Law
Chen Fan placed the cup back on the stone table; the rim wobbled twice before settling down. Children were making noise outside, and the aroma of rice wafted from the kitchen. Sun Wukong was still inside, teaching characters, tapping the paper with his stick, striking it lightly with a crisp sound if he made a mistake.
The wind blew in from the mountain pass, carrying a hint of the bitterness of peach leaves.
He thought it was all over.
Just as evening was falling, a person appeared at the mountain gate.
The man wore an old cloak, the brim of his hat pulled low. Only when he got closer could one see his features clearly, and a dot on his forehead that looked like it had been lightly touched by a knife tip. Yang Jian pulled the cloak over his shoulders, his feet not covered in mud.
Wukong glanced up at him, but didn't get up. He simply stood the stick upright by the door.
"You're late," Wukong said.
Yang Jian hummed in agreement, his gaze falling on the peach bowl on the stone table. He reached out and took one, but didn't eat it. He just twirled it in his palm, as if searching for an old pattern.
Xuanzang came out of the kitchen, carrying a bowl of hot soup. He saw Yang Jian, paused for a moment, then continued walking, placing the bowl of soup beside Chen Fan.
"I drank it," Xuanzang said. "You've been coughing a lot these past two days."
Chen Fan picked up the bowl; the soup was so hot it burned his fingertips. He didn't drink it right away, but looked at Yang Jian first.
Yang Jian put the peach back into the basin; the opening was very straight.
“There’s still an old divine law,” he said, “hidden in the stone tablet, hidden in the seal. You’ve cut off the connection and burned the registers lately. The old accounts are silent now. But the divine law remains.”
Chen Fan didn't speak, but tasted a hint of bitterness on his tongue. The bitterness rose up from his throat, like the raw fruit pit he had eaten years ago at the foot of Wuzhi Mountain.
Wukong shooed the children outside to play. Once the gate was closed, the yard became quiet, with only the sound of boiling rice coming from the kitchen.
"Speak," Chen Fan said, taking a sip of soup and swallowing it. "Don't beat around the bush."
Yang Jian raised his hand and took out a seal from his sleeve.
It wasn't large, and it was dark and dull, with rounded edges. Four characters were engraved on it, deeply carved, as if it had been used many times: "Old General Seal of the Ministry of Justice."
Chen Fan had seen it once. That time, near the Heavenly Court, Yang Jian had placed it on a scroll. The bloodstains on the scroll dried quickly. At that moment, he knew that this thing was not just for show.
Yang Jian placed the seal in the center of the stone table and pressed it down with his fingertips.
"The Heavenly Laws are written in an unpleasant way," he said. "Those whose names are not recorded are not allowed to establish their own calendars."
Chen Fan's brow twitched.
He could cut off connections, dismantle registers, and dig up old grievances. But the word "chronology" was like a nail. It was nailed to the beginning of everything. Without chronology, the things done on Flower Fruit Mountain could only be considered scattered matters, mere rumors. They would fade into obscurity with each passing generation.
Wukong muttered a curse under his breath, keeping it short.
"This is specifically for you," Yang Jian said. "The old Heavenly Court forbade you to leave your mark. As long as you live and do things, others can only give a rough outline. If they can't explain it clearly, it won't be written into history. If it's not written into history, it can be easily erased."
Xuanzang rolled up his sleeves, revealing his wrist bones. The old Buddhist prayer beads on his wrist had long been removed, leaving only a faint ring.
"I felt something was wrong a long time ago," Xuanzang said. "Scriptures can be altered, and steles can be broken. But reign titles are the hardest things to change."
Chen Fan scratched the rim of the bowl with his fingernail, making a soft, audible sound. He smiled, but not a big smile.
"I thought they were kind-hearted," he said. "Turns out they were just not in a hurry."
Yang Jian did not respond to that sentence.
He pushed the seal toward Chen Fan, then back toward himself. The push was very light, like drawing a line.
"This heavenly law must be broken," Yang Jian said. "Only I can break it."
Wukong narrowed his eyes.
"You're going to cut it off?" Wukong asked. "What are you going to use to cut it off? You still hold onto your old official title."
Yang Jian extended his right hand, palm facing upwards. There was an old scar on his palm, as if it had been burned. He held the scar up to the moonlight, making it visible to everyone.
"I started out in the old justice system," he said. "And I also came out of the old justice system."
He raised his other hand and placed it on the seal. The moment he pressed it down, it felt as if something had pressed down on the courtyard. Even the boiling sound in the kitchen seemed to subside.
Chen Fan heard a bird call from the distant mountains. The call was cut off halfway through, as if by the wind.
Yang Jian spoke, his voice low, but each word was delivered firmly.
"The old General Seal of Justice is here."
"Yang Jian is here."
"From this day forward, the old system of subordination is severed. The old legal system is severed. The old divine laws are severed."
He paused, as if waiting for some backlash. All he got was a gust of wind, which blew a few peach petals from the courtyard and onto the stone table.
With a flick of his fingertip, Yang Jian caused a thin crack to appear at the bottom of the seal.
The cracks first turned white, then black. The blackness was like ink seeping into the stone. The inscriptions on the seal surface gradually faded, until they were no longer visible.
Chen Fan's throat tightened. He didn't go to support the seal, nor did he try to stop it. He knew that this kind of thing couldn't be stopped. If he did, Yang Jian would have come for nothing.
Wukong stood up, picked up the stick by the door, and shoved it into the yard. The children's noisy chatter outside came alive again, like a blocked river flowing back to life.
Xuanzang bowed his head and clasped his hands together, then remembered that he was no longer a monk, and his hands stopped in mid-air. He simply put his hands down and went to add some firewood.
Firewood was added to the stove, and the fire crackled and popped.
Yang Jian looked up at Chen Fan.
"The old laws are invalid," he said. "I made the judgment."
The breath in Chen Fan's chest slowly subsided. He finished the last sip of soup in the bowl, the warmth spreading from his stomach, even his fingers loosened.
"What do you want?" Chen Fan asked.
Yang Jian shook his head.
"I don't want it," he said. "I owe you something. It's been a long time. I'm paying it back today."
Wukong snorted.
"You owe a lot," Wukong said. "This debt will accrue interest."
Yang Jian didn't laugh. He tucked the cracked seal into his sleeve, the cuff hanging straight down.
"The old Heavenly Court?" Xuanzang asked.
"They've dispersed," Yang Jian said. "The Jade Emperor abdicated and returned to his old palace in Ziwei to recuperate. Several senior ministers each guarded their own places and no longer descended to the mortal realm. The Pagoda-Bearer returned to the North Heavenly Gate to guard the treasury. Nezha hung his Wind-Fire Wheels under the eaves of the palace and traveled to the mortal realm for three years. Later, he opened a blacksmith shop by the East Sea, making farm tools and pots."
When Chen Fan heard the word "pot," his heart skipped a beat. He remembered the broken pot at the foot of Wuzhi Mountain years ago, and how he used stones to prop up the pot while cooking fruit.
Yang Jian continued.
"The Buddhist sect has also taken it over," he said. "The Buddha has returned to Mount Ling and will no longer interfere with the human calendar. Guanyin left a decree, revoking all the old 'Journey to the West' missions. As for Jin Chanzi's old register, Xuanzang, you can handle it yourself."
Xuanzang nodded.
"I've already burned it," he said. "The ashes are buried under the peach tree. The tree is growing well."
Yang Jian looked at Chen Fan.
"Your villains?" he asked. "That system you mentioned?"
Chen Fan remained silent for a moment. He didn't look up, his gaze fixed on the crack in the stone table. The crack resembled a road that had traveled a long way to reach this point.
"It's not dead," Chen Fan said. "It's not exactly alive either. It's like an old set of rules. It relies on people's belief and fear."
He raised his hand and pressed his knuckles against his chest.
"It was initially tied to me," Chen Fan said. "I hated it too. But then I realized it couldn't live without me. It couldn't live without people like us who were willing to risk our lives for a living."
Wukong put the stick back by the door in a low voice.
Get to the point.
Chen Fan nodded.
"The point is, it's over," he said. "With the old rules broken, its last breath was gone. It can no longer use 'anonymity' to pressure me."
The words had barely left his lips when that familiar, cold sound echoed in his mind, like water dripping from the eaves at night, a sound that had been dripping for centuries. Then the dripping stopped.
It was parked very cleanly.
Chen Fan paused, then raised his hand to rub his temples. He didn't say "system," nor did he say anything about goodbye. He simply lowered his hand, his fingertips still warm from the soup bowl.
Yang Jian got up and walked towards the mountain gate.
He paused when he reached the threshold.
"Chen Fan," Yang Jian said, "you decide on the calendar yourself. Don't follow their example. Don't write people as numbers."
Chen Fan hummed in agreement.
"I write people's names," he said. "I write about the aroma of food, how many times the peach blossoms bloom. I write about the year my child learned to write 'home'."
Yang Jian didn't turn back. With a flick of his cloak, his figure faded into the twilight of the mountain pass.
That night, Chen Fan didn't go to bed early.
He stood in front of the bookshelf for a long time. The general ledger on the top shelf was still there, its wooden latch fastened tightly. He didn't touch it. His fingers touched the edge of the cabinet door, feeling a thin layer of dust.
Wukong brought over a lamp; the wick was short, and the flame was unstable.
"Write it down," Wukong said. "Don't you like to remember things?"
Chen Fan took out a new piece of paper. The paper wasn't white; it had a yellowish tinge from the grass fibers. He spread it on the stone table, pressing it down with a broken stone tablet. The broken tablet was brought back by Xuanzang years ago; there was half a character on the side, resembling the word "forbidden."
Chen Fan picked up his brush, and as the ink flowed, he wrote four characters.
Flower and Fruit Calendar.
He paused for a moment, then added a line of smaller text.
Late spring of the first year of the Gregorian calendar.
Wukong leaned closer to look, his nose almost touching the paper.
"The first year?" Wukong asked. "You'll be the emperor?"
Chen Fan put down his pen and flicked the edge of the ink stain with his finger.
"I'll be a bookkeeper," he said. "Not a bookkeeper of taxes. A bookkeeper of how people lived."
Xuanzang scooped rice from the kitchen into bowls and served them to the children outside the courtyard. The children ran with the bowls, leaving footprints all over the yard. The footprints were crushed into the dust and then smoothed out by the wind.
Later, the White Dragon Horse returned to the East Sea. It no longer served as a mount. It dismantled three of the old rules of the Dragon Palace and replaced them with a covenant for the fishing village. Every spring flood, it would deliver the tide table to the Flower Fruit Mountain School, letting the children know that the sea was not a myth, but something that could be calculated.
The Bull Demon King and Red Boy dug a canal at the foot of the Flaming Mountain. Fire was no longer a scourge, but a furnace. Blacksmith shops sprang up, and so did stoves. When someone invited him to be the mountain king, he stuffed the invitation into the stove and burned it.
As for those former officials who had forced them to embark on the "journey to the West," they all went their separate ways. None of them dared to keep a record of their names again. Occasionally, when a deity descended from heaven, they would only dare to drink a bowl of water at the village entrance and inquire about the harvest.
Chen Fan wrote these details into the calendar, stroke by stroke.
By the third year of his writing, he coughed less. By the tenth year, the desks in the school had been replaced twice. The old desks were used for chopping firewood, which burned them clean. The new desks were covered with children's scribbles, the marks were shallow, and no one scraped them off.
Spring arrives as usual at the end of spring.
Peach blossoms fell onto the rim of the bowl, and the aroma of rice wafted from the kitchen. Sun Wukong still taught characters, tapping the paper with his stick. Xuanzang occasionally told stories, skipping over the part about Mount Ling and slowing down when he got to the human world.
Chen Fan washed the brush and hung it to dry on the windowsill. A breeze blew in from outside, causing the brush bristles to sway slightly.
He looked up at the sky.
The sky is very clean.
He put the paper with "First Year of the Flower and Fruit Calendar" written on it into the bookcase. It wasn't locked. When the cabinet door closed, the wooden latch clicked softly, the sound like a grain of rice falling into a pot.
Someone outside the courtyard called out that dinner was ready.
He responded and went to the kitchen to help carry the bowls. The bowls were hot, making his palms itch. He shook his hands, chuckled, and scolded, "Slow down!" The children ran off even faster.
The story ends with this meal.
The food is ready, and everyone is here.
Chapter 645 Xuanzang Writes Sutras
The food is ready, and everyone is here.
Chen Fan carried out a bowl of hot soup, his hand red from the steam. He put the bowl down, shook his hand, and didn't say a word. Wukong moved his bowl to make room for him. Xuanzang sat upright, his cassock now made of blue cloth, the cuffs frayed. He still had that habit of arranging the chopsticks before looking up.
Someone knocked on the door outside the courtyard, slowly and deliberately.
The door opened, revealing three people. The one in front was thin, carrying a box with brass clasps on the corners. The two behind him wore grey monk robes, their feet covered in mud. The thin man didn't even look at the food upon entering; he immediately examined the bookshelf and the wooden buttons.
He cupped his hands in greeting: "Now that the True Origin Chronicle has been established, the old accounts should be settled. Without scriptures, the world cannot stand. Without scriptures, every household will speak its own language. In the end, there will still be chaos."
Chen Fan put the spoon back into the bowl, the handle of which tapped the rim of the bowl with a soft sound.
Wukong looked up, but didn't smile. He tapped his fingers on the table twice, like tapping a stick.
Xuanzang spoke first: "You are the ones who set up the tent."
The skinny man nodded: "The old Buddhist sect has disbanded, but the seal remains. The bookkeeper monk is gone, but the rules must be upheld. We don't fight for official positions or land; we only fight for one word—writing."
After he finished speaking, he took out an old seal from the box, its edges worn smooth and shiny. The seal was engraved with "The Complete Record of Ling Mountain". He gently pressed the seal onto the table, leaving a light ring of dust on the surface.
"As long as the scriptures are printed, the world will recognize the old scriptures. The old scriptures recognize the old heavenly rules. The old heavenly rules recognize the old registers." The thin man stared at Xuanzang. "Master Xuanzang, you have left the mountain gate and traveled tens of thousands of miles. You understand better. Without scriptures, there is no place in the world."
The courtyard was quiet for a moment. The firewood crackled in the kitchen, and the aroma of the food grew even stronger.
Xuanzang looked down at the old seal, picked it up, then put it down again. His fingertip paused at the corner of the seal, as if touching a cold stone.
"The scriptures are written for people to read," he said, looking up. "They are not written for printing."
The skinny man chuckled: "You want to write a new sutra? What makes you think you can? You've left Buddhism, you no longer have your ordination certificate. Who will accept what you write?"
Xuanzang didn't answer immediately. He stood up, walked to the bookcase, and opened the door. The wooden latch clicked softly. The general ledger on the top shelf was still there, its cover old and the edges frayed. Next to it were several sheets of paper, written by Chen Fan a few days ago, titled "The First Year of the Flower and Fruit Calendar".
Xuanzang carried the general ledger out and placed it on the table. As soon as the general ledger was placed down, the table legs seemed to sink a little.
He then took out a stack of thin booklets from his sleeve. The paper was not new, there were water stains on the edges, and a few pages were covered in dust. At the top of the booklets were six words: List of Those Who Overturn Verdicts.
Chen Fan's eyelids twitched when he saw the register. He remembered that when Xuanzang went out, he returned with a broken stone tablet tucked in his sleeve. So it wasn't just a broken stone tablet.
Xuanzang spread out the register and slowly showed it to the people who had built the tents. Every page was written tightly. The handwriting wasn't fancy; it looked like it was written on their laps while they were on the go. After each name was a short line: originally from such-and-such temple, in what year and month did they resign and return home; originally a bookkeeper monk, in what place did they burn the tents to save people; originally a protector of the Dharma, in what year did they lay down their weapons to farm.
The skinny man's expression changed: "This is a stigma."
Xuanzang shook his head: "This is the Register of Living People."
He flipped to the last few pages of the general ledger. There were no old heavenly rules, no Buddhist precepts, only blank pages. Xuanzang took out a pen; the handle was somewhat old, the one Chen Fan had left drying on the windowsill. The ink was freshly ground, carrying a slight smell of pine soot.
"You said one cannot stand in the world without scriptures." Xuanzang looked at the thin man. "I'll write one. I'll write it tonight. I'll show it to you when it's finished. The rules you want, I'll give you. The lock you want, I won't give you."
The skinny man said in a deep voice, "You can write a scripture in one night?"
Xuanzang sat down and pushed his rice bowl aside. He didn't eat; he started writing.
The first line contains four characters: True Source Record.
He wrote slowly, each stroke deliberate and solid. The children in the yard ran over, only to be glared back by Wukong. Wukong didn't speak, but picked up his chopsticks and tapped his bowl, signaling them to eat and not crowd around.
Chen Fan picked up a piece of food, but it tasted bland as he chewed. He stared at Xuanzang's pen tip, watching the ink spread on the paper. The ink was uneven, with one spot forming a small blot. Xuanzang didn't wipe it away and continued writing.
He didn't write about gods or Buddhas, nor about military exploits.
He wrote about the fruit beneath Five Finger Mountain. He wrote about the monkey gritting his teeth and swallowing his last breath. He wrote about Tang Sanzang taking off his cassock for the first time and draping it over a shivering little demon. He wrote about the White Dragon Horse standing by the river, carrying luggage on its back, its head bowed as it drank, creating ripples on the water's surface. He wrote about the Bull Demon King and his son swinging their tridents for the last time to block falling heavenly fire and protect a village's woodsheds. He wrote about the monks who had once used account books to oppress people, but later burned those books and knelt on the edge of the field, kowtowing and begging for a meal.
The person building the tent grew increasingly restless. He tried to interject, but Xuanzang cut him off with a single sentence.
"Don't rush," Xuanzang said. "The sutra must be written in its entirety. Only if it's incomplete will it become chaotic."
As night deepened, the fire in the kitchen dwindled. Chen Fan added firewood twice. Wukong went for a stroll outside the courtyard and brought back a cool breeze. The breeze carried the scent of peaches, but also a dampness.
Xuanzang finished writing, put down his pen, and blew on the ink. He pushed the old seal aside and took out a newly carved wooden plaque. The plaque had only two characters on it: True Source.
He did not affix his seal, but simply placed the wooden plaque next to the "True Source Record".
"You want my approval?" Xuanzang looked up and asked the thin man. "It's not me begging you. It's you begging the world."
The skinny man stared at the scroll of characters, his Adam's apple bobbing. He reached out and touched the old seal, as if grasping at the last rope. Suddenly, the seal surface made a crisp sound, and a thin crack appeared. The crack started from the character "灵" (spirit) and climbed all the way to the character "录" (record), like a crack in dried mud.
The two gray-robed monks behind them suddenly knelt down, their foreheads touching the ground: "The seal is broken."
The thin man's face was pale. He picked up the old seal, intending to press it again. The seal surface was dusty and gray; pressing it down left only a dark shadow, the characters wouldn't appear. When he lifted it again, another piece of the corner had broken off.
Xuanzang neither laughed nor sighed. He closed the "True Source Record" and gently patted the cover.
"The old seal is no longer valid, so the bookkeeping monks have dispersed," he said. "Go back. If you want to stay, go to the school to help with the grain records. If you want to leave, take the broken seal fragments back and bury them. Don't use it to scare people anymore."
The skinny man sat for a long time, looking as if he had aged suddenly. He finally put the old seal back in the box, stood up, bowed to Chen Fan and Wukong, and then bowed deeply to Xuanzang.
"I've kept accounts my whole life," he said, his voice hoarse. "Only today did I realize that accounts can both hold people accountable and oppress them. From now on... I'm going to farm."
He walked to the door, glanced back at the bookshelf: "That general ledger..."
Chen Fan closed the cabinet door and fastened the wooden latches: "Leave it. It's too dirty to even use as firewood."
The skinny man nodded and left with his men. The door closed, and only the sound of firewood burning remained in the courtyard.
Xuanzang then picked up the cold rice and ate a couple of bites. The rice was cold, but he didn't complain. Chen Fan served him some soup, which wasn't too hot anymore. After Xuanzang finished drinking, he wiped his mouth: "Make three copies tomorrow. One for the school. One for the villages. And one… I'll keep for you."
Wukong asked, "Aren't you leaving?"
Xuanzang washed his brush clean and placed it on the windowsill: "I won't leave. I'll write scriptures. I'll write until my hands tremble and my eyes blur. When I've finished writing, those who come after me won't need to ask who decided their fate."
Chen Fan didn't reply. He simply moved the pen on the windowsill to its proper place, as if settling a small matter.
Later, many things were explained.
In Heaven, the old Heavenly Rules were completely abolished. The Jade Emperor never returned to Lingxiao. Some say he went to the mortal realm to become a tutor, teaching children to recite texts, and dared not charge an extra grain of rice. On Mount Ling, the Buddhist community scattered into many small temples. Those who were willing to abide by the rules stayed to farm and copy scriptures; those who wanted to use their seals to oppress others were driven out by the new village heads in various places. The White Dragon Horse returned to the rivers and became the river god who protected the canals, diverting water during droughts and opening the sluice gates during floods. The Bull Demon King and his son guarded the western pass, adding a ladle of hot water to passersby, and separating those who wanted to fight. Those whose cases were overturned either returned to their hometowns or went to schools to teach; their names are all recorded in the *True Source Record*.
As for the "morality-free system" within Chen Fan, it suddenly fell silent on the day the True Origin Era began. There was no sound, no notification. Chen Fan waited for three days, but received no word. Finally, he let go of that lingering attachment in his heart, like cutting an old thread. He didn't search for it again.
Spring has passed and summer has arrived.
Another table was added to the classroom. The children wrote faster. Wukong was still strict in his teaching, tapping the paper for every mistake. After tapping, he pushed the paper back and made them rewrite it. Xuanzang sat to the side copying the "True Source Record," stacks of paper hanging on the line. When the wind blew, the corners of the paper fluttered like a flock of little white birds.
One evening, Chen Fan brought out a pot of porridge from the kitchen. The porridge was thick, and the aroma of rice filled the air. He placed the pot on the stone table and called out, "Dinner's ready!" Wukong leaned his staff against the door, Xuanzang closed his book, and the children swarmed around him.
The last petal of a peach blossom fell from the tree outside the courtyard, landing right on the edge of the pot lid. Chen Fan saw it, reached out, picked up the petal, and tossed it into the ashes.
He looked up at the sky.
The sky is very clean.
He sat down, picked up the bowl, and took a sip of porridge. It was so hot that he gasped, but he held back and didn't put it down.
The aroma of food filled the courtyard, and the words on the paper grew page by page.
The story truly ends here.
Chapter 646, Page 10, Double Signature
The wooden latches on the bookcase didn't rattle this time.
When Chen Fan pushed open the cabinet door, his fingertips brushed against a layer of fine dust. The general ledger was still on the top shelf, its spine frayed, as if it had been baked against the stove for years. Outside, people were still calling for their children to eat, and the sound of a pot lid hitting the iron stove was muffled.
Wukong didn't stop him, but just leaned his stick against the door frame.
Xuanzang closed the scroll, pressing his fingertips against the cover as if holding back a breath. He said, "It's time to turn the pages."
Chen Fan carried the general ledger down and placed it on the stone table. The cover was heavy, and the table shook slightly when it hit the ground, causing the water in the teacup to slosh around.
There was another person outside the courtyard gate.
He wasn't from the village. Nor did he resemble those well-dressed people in the sky. He wore an old black robe with neatly stitched cuffs, but his feet were covered in mud. The strangest thing was the pen in his hand. The handle was like bone, coldly white, yet the nib was excessively clean, without a single stray hair.
He stood in the shadow of the peach tree, and before entering the courtyard, he nodded to Chen Fan.
"We're here to set up the tents," he introduced himself, his voice low, like the rustling of turning pages. "You've let the tents cool down."
Chen Fan looked up: "You're going to clean up the mess?"
The person who created the book smiled: "It's time to collect it. Page ten has been blank for too long. If it's left blank, people will be interested. If they're interested for too long, then someone else will have to fill it."
Wukong rolled up his sleeves a little, revealing an old wound on his wrist. It was a scar left from being stabbed in Heaven years ago, which had faded from sun exposure, but now it looked as if someone had repainted it with ink. He didn't speak, but walked to the stone table and pressed his palm against a corner of the account book.
Xuanzang looked at the person setting up the tent and asked Deping, "Where is the pilgrimage tent from heaven?"
The person who set up the ledger twirled the pen in his palm: "It's over. You burned the Buddhist merit book once, and tore up the Heavenly Court's register. Did you think it was all gone? The rules are still there. Rules don't rely on paper, they rely on whether people are willing to acknowledge them."
Chen Fan opened the cover.
The first nine pages were densely packed with words, the characters resembling worms. He had seen those names far too many times: the Jade Emperor's edicts, the seals of Mount Ling, the marks made by the Black and White Impermanence. Every word carried a price. Who should kneel, who should die, who should be made a horse—it was all written clearly.
Page ten is empty.
Only a thin line remained at the corner of the page. That line clung to the edge of the paper, like the last strand of hair. Chen Fan stared at it, his throat tightening. He remembered the hundred years under Five Finger Mountain, remembered the cold words the system uttered the first time it beeped—"System binding successful." That thing never made a sound again, but it kept nagging at his bones, reminding him: the debt wasn't settled.
The person building the tent took a step forward, his shoe crushing a peach blossom petal.
"Don't drag it out," he said. "Sign it, and the debt is yours. If you don't sign, I'll tear out the pages and rewrite it. I'll still hold you accountable for everything you've done over the years. Those who should be suppressed will be suppressed, and those who should be bound will be bound. The demons you took away will be taken back. The people you saved will be compensated."
The courtyard fell silent for a moment.
The children chased each other outside the yard, their laughter echoing through the walls as if separated by a layer of water.
Chen Fan took the pen down from the pen holder. It was the bamboo pen he usually used to teach his children to write. The bristles were soft from being soaked in water, and the characters he wrote were not sharp, but rather sounded like human speech.
The person setting up the account book saw the bamboo pen and his eyelids twitched: "Use this to sign? You're playing games."
Chen Fan ignored him. He flattened the tenth page and rubbed his palm on the paper. The paper was cool, as cool as the edge of a well in winter. He dipped his bamboo pen in ink; the ink was from the old ink jar in the kitchen, not finely ground, and still contained a grain of sand.
His hand didn't tremble when he put pen to paper.
The two characters weren't written very well; the strokes were a bit crooked. But every stroke was solid. After writing the last dot, he lifted the pen, and the ink droplet lingered on the tip without dripping.
"Chen Fan," he said, as if to confirm that he was still there.
The ledger trembled slightly. It wasn't the wind, nor the table. It was as if the page had come to life; the ink had seeped into the paper, sunk to the bottom, and could no longer be scraped off.
The person who set up the account book frowned slightly.
Chen Fan handed the pen to Wukong.
Wukong took the pen and first looked at his own hands. His palms were thick and rough, the space between his thumb and forefinger thick; he had once wielded the Golden Cudgel, smashed the Lingxiao Palace, and even carved a wooden horse for a child. He held the pen steadily, the tip pausing briefly on the paper.
"What should I write?" Xuanzang asked.
Wukong said, "The name of the mountain lord."
The person who set up the account sneered: "The master of Flower Fruit Mountain? You think you're still outside the register?"
Wukong looked up, his eyes neither fiery nor smiling. He simply said, "There is only one master of Flower Fruit Mountain."
He put pen to paper.
Four characters, each stroke like a stick touching the ground. After writing, he put the pen back on the pen holder, pressed his fingers down on the line of characters, making the paper slightly dent.
At that moment, the old title at the top of page ten moved on its own.
The words "Tenth Cycle" were originally written on it, the handwriting looking as if it were engraved. Now, those words are fading away inch by inch, as if being washed away by water. The new title is slowly emerging, the ink not thick, like the first drop of ink freshly ground.
"The True Origin Chronology".
Looking at those four words, Chen Fan felt a weight lift from his heart. He wasn't happy, but he did feel a sense of relief.
The person who set up the account suddenly raised his hand.
His bone-in pen gleamed, its tip sharp as a knife. He made a stroke on the tenth page, and a thin gash immediately appeared on the paper, running from beside the signature straight to the thin line at the edge of the page. Grayish-white paper scraps, like snow, emerged from the gash.
"You signed too quickly," the accountant said in a low voice, "so quickly that I didn't have time to change anything. So tear it up. Tear it up and start over. All the good days you've accumulated over the years, I'll treat as a debt to you."
Xuanzang stood up, flicked his sleeve, and took the broken stone tablets from under the threshold, placing them on the stone table. The tablets were inscribed with old scriptures, fragmented yet able to form the phrase: "Human beings need no accounts."
He pressed the broken stone tablet against the edge of the account book, as if pressing down a snake that was about to turn over.
"Your account has nothing to do with this one sentence," Xuanzang said.
The person who was building the account book turned cold and the white bone pen fell again.
Wukong moved first.
He didn't swing the stick. He simply reached out and grabbed the man building the tent's wrist. The force wasn't strong, but it felt like an iron clamp. The man struggled, and his sleeve tore open an inch, revealing his wrist bone, which was covered with densely packed characters. Those characters weren't names; they were authorizations, seals, layers of "permissions."
Chen Fan then realized that this person was neither a god nor a Buddha. He was something that grew out of the "book". He lived as long as someone needed the accounts. He lived even more as long as someone feared the accounts.
Chen Fan placed the bamboo pen horizontally on the tenth page of the signature, pressing down on the tear. He said softly, "The debt ends here."
The amoral system made a soft sound in his ear, like a wooden door that hadn't been used in a long time creaking.
There was no reward, no hint.
There was only one clean ending—the thin thread broke.
It broke silently.
The blank space at the edge of the tenth page was filled with ink, like water overflowing the last patch of parched land. The words on the writer's wrist faded instantly, as faint as a piece of cloth that had been dried in the sun. The bone pen in his hand shattered into two pieces, falling to the ground with a crisp sound.
The man setting up the tent staggered backward, his foot slipping into thin air, as if he had stepped into a piece of paper. His shadow thinned from his feet down until only a thin shadow remained, pasted onto the paving stones at the courtyard gate.
He looked up at Chen Fan, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes for the first time.
"Aren't you afraid that no one will remember your merits and demerits in the future?" he asked.
Chen Fan closed the ledger, patted the cover twice with his palm, as if drying a wet garment: "When you're alive, you keep your own records."
The shadow of the person building the tent was blown away by the wind.
The courtyard fell silent instantly. Someone shouted from the kitchen, "The porridge's burning!"
Chen Fan snapped out of his daze, picked up the account book, and placed it back on the top shelf of the bookcase. He didn't lock it, only closed the cabinet door. The wooden latch clicked lightly, like a grain of rice falling into a pot.
Wukong stood at the door, picked up his staff, and casually tapped the dust off the doorframe. He called out to the courtyard, "Time to eat."
The children burst in with a clatter, their feet covered in mud. A little monkey peeked out, saw the bookshelf, and asked, "Will we still look at that book?"
Chen Fan came out of the kitchen carrying a pot. The rim of the pot was hot, so he switched it to his hand and said, "I'm not flipping it."
Xuanzang stuffed the scroll into his sleeve and chuckled, "Wash your hands first. You've smeared ink all over the bowl."
They ate slowly that night. The porridge was thick, the peaches were sweet, and the children scrambled for the last piece of pickled vegetables. Wukong tapped the edge of the table with his chopsticks, not too hard. Chen Fan finished a bowl, then had half a bowl more, which was so hot that he gasped for breath, but he still didn't put it down.
Later, Huaguo Mountain truly established a calendar.
In the first year, Chen Fan taught calligraphy in the courtyard. In the second year, Xuanzang sent the completed scriptures to the Human World Temple, refusing incense offerings and only leaving a lamp. The White Dragon Horse guarded the river at the foot of the mountain; whenever a family suffered from drought, he would stir up waves, which would just bring relief. The Bull Demon King and his son stopped causing trouble and opened a blacksmith shop, forging farm tools and pots and pans, and would come over for drinks during festivals.
As for Heaven and Mount Ling, no one came to take attendance anymore. The old book was missing its tenth page, and they couldn't find a place to start writing new accounts. It was said that some of the gods who used to be most fond of managing people had gone down to the mortal realm to farm, but they weren't very good at it; instead, they learned how to carry manure.
Spring is drawing to a close again, and the peach blossoms are blooming as usual.
Chen Fan sat on the doorstep, basking in the sun, holding a cup of tea. He took a sip and frowned. He put the cup down and saw two little monkeys holding up a piece of paper; the ink wasn't dry yet.
The paper reads: "The thirty-sixth year of the True Origin Era."
Wukong grunted in agreement, folded the paper, and tucked it into the top shelf of the bookcase. The general ledger was still there, its cover covered with a thin layer of dust, like a extinguished stove.
They didn't touch it again.
Someone outside the courtyard called out that dinner was ready, and the voices carried over layer by layer; they were all the voices of living people.
Chapter 647 The Real Name of the Person Who Built the Tent
Text content
The general ledger on the top shelf of the bookcase was covered in a thick layer of dust.
Chen Fan originally intended to postpone it for another year. Until the peaches ripened again, until the child could write more fluently. But that night, the wind was strong, and the cabinet door slammed shut by itself, the wooden latch making a clear sound. He got up in the middle of the night to press it, and when he touched it, the knot was loose.
Wukong was sharpening his staff in the courtyard. Sparks flickered on the stone, like someone blinking in the distance.
"Let's open it." Wukong didn't turn around. "Leaving it here indefinitely isn't the end of the story."
Xuanzang lit the lamp. The wick was short, and the flame was yellow. He took out the few broken pieces of stone tablets from his sleeve and placed them on the corner of the table. The inscriptions on the tablets were incomplete, and the edges were charred. He said, "The evidence of the broken joint is also here."
Chen Fan carried the general ledger down and placed it on the stone table. He peeled back the cover, and the paper was as dry and crisp as old wheat straw. The first page wasn't an account book, but a copy. It read: "Accident Zero." The characters were straight, like they were carved with a knife.
He laid out the items one by one.
The zero-accident copy was placed in the center.
The cut document was pressed on the left. There were handprints on it, the knuckles were thick, and the ink had seeped into the skin.
The list of names was laid out on the right. The list was very long, and the last few lines had been hastily altered, resulting in messy handwriting.
The incriminating file was placed at the front. It was a seal, not sealed with wax, but with grayish-white bone powder. Chen Fan smelled it, his throat went dry, and he immediately covered it up.
"Is that enough?" Wukong asked.
"That's enough." Chen Fan withdrew his hand, his palm covered in scraps of paper. "This time, let it talk for itself."
They didn't go to the Heavenly Court, nor did they go to Mount Ling.
The main platform wasn't in either of those two places. It was beneath the old sealed field, not far from Five Finger Mountain. That was where Wukong was sealed, and also where Chen Fan fed him fruit. The ground looked ordinary, with grass growing in the cracks of the rocks. Xuanzang led the way to an inconspicuous earthen slope, kicked it, and cleared a thin stone slab.
Below were steps. A damp feeling rose up, carrying the scent of aged ink.
Chen Fan walked at the front. Every step he took made a sound. But he felt a sense of peace, as if he had finally entered a room he had to enter.
At the end of the steps was a platform. It wasn't large, resembling an offering table in a village ancestral hall. The surface was shiny, so shiny it didn't attract dust. In the center of the platform was a round hole, the inside of which was black, so black it seemed bottomless.
"The main accounting desk," Xuanzang said softly, "the place where accounts are kept."
Chen Fan placed the four pieces of evidence on the table in order. The table vibrated slightly as soon as the papers hit the surface. It wasn't a strong vibration, more like someone tapping on the table from underneath.
A faint light emanated from the circular hole, circling the evidence. It paused when it reached the list of names on the death register, as if deciphering characters. When it reached the seal on the dead file, the light suddenly tightened, and a soft "click" sounded on the table.
Chen Fan heard another voice.
It's like someone putting down their pen.
The area behind the stage was originally empty. Now, however, a chair has appeared. The chair back is old, and the legs are of different lengths, as if it was temporarily placed there to make up the space. Sitting on the chair is a shadow, a shadow without a face, only two hands are visible. The hands are very white, with long fingers and neatly trimmed nails.
The shadow spoke, its voice excessively clear: "Who gave you permission to overturn the accounts?"
Chen Fan didn't reply. He turned to the last page of the zero accident copy and pointed it out. In the corner of that page, there was a line of small print, well hidden: "Site closure administrator, acting as accountant."
"Acting on behalf of someone else?" Chen Fan chuckled, his laughter echoing long underground. "How long did you act as someone else?"
The shadow remained still. It extended a finger and touched the edge of the round hole. Instantly, numerous words appeared on the tabletop, densely packed, like ants emerging from their nest. The words lined up on their own, skipping lines, and finally stopped at an empty space.
The blank space only had three words: "The person who set up the account".
Chen Fan pushed the document closer. It bore an old seal, the ink blackened. It was the seal from when the market was sealed off. The document's content was simple: the true source was divided, and the year was rewritten.
"You stole the true source," Chen Fan said. "You changed the calendar. You stuffed everyone into the ledger you wrote. You hid behind the interface, pretending no one was there."
The shadow finally looked up. It had no face, but Chen Fan still felt it was looking at him.
"More evidence doesn't mean you win," the shadow said. "I set up the account. Your names are in my hands too."
Wukong slung his staff over his shoulder and took a step forward. The tip of the staff touched the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. He didn't preach any grand principles, but simply asked, "What's your real name?"
The shadow paused for a moment.
Its finger slid across the table, as if to erase that column. But the moment its fingertip touched the words "Accountant," the table lit up. It was blindingly bright.
The main accountant can check back themselves.
The characters emerged from the empty space, as slowly as if squeezed out of bones. First one stroke, then another. With each stroke, the shadow trembled. By the third stroke, the shadow let out an uncontrollable gasp.
The real name has finally been revealed.
That wasn't a title, nor an official name. It was a very ordinary name, as ordinary as that of a granary manager in the countryside. But as soon as those three words were uttered, the sound of chains suddenly rang out from all around the platform. Chains swung out from under the platform and snapped onto the shadow's wrist with a loud crack.
The shadow shrieked, "Don't write it! Who gave the chief tabernacle permission to write my name!"
The chief tabernacle does not respond.
Another line of judgment appeared on the desktop, the words were cold and unpretentious: Number One Source Thief.
The next line is even shorter: reverse signature back to source.
Chen Fan felt a release in his throat, as if he had finally exhaled a breath he had been holding back for many years. He recalled those hundred years at the foot of Wuzhi Mountain, when the fruit was sour, the cracks in the rocks were damp, and the sunlight was always just a thin line. What he hated most back then wasn't the bitterness, but the uncertainty of who was remembering him up there.
Now I know.
That's enough.
The shadow tried to struggle. It swayed, attempting to shrink into the opening. That's how it always hid. The opening was like a crack in a door; no one could catch it.
Wukong raised his hand, pressing his palm against the staff. A ring of fine lines lit up on the staff. That was the authority of Zhenyuan, the imprint left after they reclaimed the True Source. Wukong held the staff horizontally against the side of the main tent, like blocking a door.
"Go back to the original responsibility column," Wukong said.
His voice wasn't loud. But the shadow seemed nailed to the ground. Its body was dragged up by chains and shoved back into the empty cage inch by inch. As it struggled, it shed dust, which crumbled into pieces of paper on the ground, the papers covered with other people's names.
Xuanzang squatted down and picked up the scraps of paper one by one, placing them into the brazier. The fire was weak, and the paper burned slowly. As it burned, he recited, not scriptures, but the one he had written himself. When he reached the part about the white dragon horse, he paused and softly added, "Ao Lie later returned to the Western Sea, repairing dikes and planting algae. He no longer carried people on his back, but carried his own children."
The moment the shadow was shoved back into the empty space, the main tent platform let out a deep thud, like a gate being slammed shut.
The chain was retracted. The chair was empty. The shadow was gone too.
The "Tenant" section on the table was empty. The real name, however, remained. It was like a brand, indelible. Chen Fan looked at those three words and suddenly found it laughable. So this thing that had suppressed the Three Realms for so long had ultimately failed because of a single name.
The main tent light lit up again.
This time, the light was gentle. The few lines on the death register that had been altered returned to normal on their own. The bone dust from the sealed archive slowly dispersed, like snow melting into mud. A small note appeared on the last page of the Zero Accident copy: "Error corrected, sealed and returned."
Chen Fan carefully put away the four items, without taking any words from the main ledger. He simply closed the general ledger and resealed it.
On the way back, it was just dawn. The grass outside the earthen slope was covered with dew and felt cold and prickly to the touch.
Wukong walked ahead, his silhouette broad. Xuanzang lagged behind, carrying the brazier in his arms, still containing ashes. Chen Fan, sandwiched in the middle, suddenly thought of many people.
The Bull Demon King and his son survived that battle. They surrendered their weapons, returned to the Flaming Mountain, and fetched water for passersby. Red Boy changed his temperament and became a cheerful boy. Later, he learned to read from Xuanzang and opened a small school in the human world, teaching demon children to write their names.
The celestial official who loved to meddle in people's affairs descended to the mortal realm to farm. He wasn't a very good farmer, but he was skilled at carrying manure. Every year at the end of spring, he would send over a basket of green vegetables, stubbornly insisting it was too much. Chen Fan never called him out on it.
No one from the Buddhist side came again. Xuanzang personally removed the old memorial tablets from Lingshan. He didn't smash them, but simply put them in a box and locked it. The box was placed behind the temple and slowly grew moss. Later, the box rotted, the wooden strips fell apart, and the tablet pieces were buried in the ground.
As for the old route to the West, it ends here. The road is completely cut off. No one sets off again, and no one urges them on.
Chen Fan returned to the courtyard and went to the kitchen to add firewood. Rice was bubbling in the pot. Children chased each other in the yard, their feet kicking up dust. Wukong leaned his staff against the door and, as usual, tapped the paper with the end of the staff, knocking lightly if he made a mistake. Xuanzang sat beside him, opening his scriptures, the scent of ink mingling with the aroma of rice.
Chen Fan put the general ledger back on the top shelf of the bookcase. This time he didn't lock it.
He stood in front of the cabinet for a while. The dust would still fall. The wooden buttons would still creak. But no one could change their calendar anymore, and no one could stuff anyone's name into the archives.
Many more years have passed.
Chen Fan's hair had turned white, unevenly white, like salt turned up from the bottom of a pot. He no longer went hunting in the mountains, but instead grew vegetables in the yard. Wukong was still the same, teaching characters, teaching the staff, and also teaching the children how to bury peach pits deeper. Xuanzang's back was a little hunched, but his scripture writing was more steady. When he finished writing the last volume, he washed his brush, placed it on the windowsill, and went to the kitchen to get some porridge.
That day was also in late spring.
The peach blossoms were in full bloom, carpeting the courtyard in pink. Chen Fan sat down with his bowl, blew on it to cool it down, took a sip, and gasped from the heat, but still chuckled and scolded, "Slow down!" The children laughed even louder.
On the top shelf of the bookcase, the general ledger lay quietly. Fresh dust settled on its cover, like a stove that had been extinguished.
The aroma of rice wafted from the kitchen. Outside, a gentle breeze blew, and the sky was clear.
The story truly ends here.
Chapter 648 Old Debts Settled
The general ledger on the top shelf of the bookcase still lies there in the same place.
The cover was covered in a thick layer of grime. The old wooden buckle and rope were loose, rattling at the slightest touch. Chen Fan stood in front of the cabinet, rubbed his palms against the seams of his trousers a couple of times, and then picked it up. The book was heavy; when it landed on the table, the corner of the table trembled slightly.
Wukong was whittling bamboo strips by the door when he heard the sound. He looked up and asked, "Are we going to touch it today?"
Chen Fan hummed in agreement and opened the ledger. The edges of the paper were brittle, and a few grains of dust fell as he turned the pages, landing in his teacup and creating a ring of small specks on the surface of the tea. He ignored them, his fingers running along the margin of the page until he touched a dent, as if someone had pressed it countless times with their fingernails.
Xuanzang came out of the kitchen, still holding a rag in his hand. He approached, but instead of looking at the accounts, he folded the rag and placed it on the corner of the table to prevent the wind from blowing the papers around.
"You told me the real name of the person who built the tent last night," Xuanzang said. "Now, which page should we write on?"
"Page zero," Chen Fan said.
He took out the old pen. The handle was made of bamboo, polished to a shine. There wasn't much ink, so he squeezed out the little bit of black ink from the bottom of the inkstone and slowly ground it. Wukong put down the bamboo stick, walked to the table, rolled up his sleeve, revealing the old scar on his wrist.
"Do you have the operator's seal?" Wukong asked.
Chen Fan pulled a thin piece of paper from his pocket. It looked like jade, yet also like bone. The edges were uneven, and it felt cool to the touch. He placed the paper on a blank space in the ledger, pressed it with his fingertips, and felt a slight warmth in his palm.
A soft sound suddenly came from the desktop, like many thin lines tightening and loosening at the same time.
Chen Fan saw a line of thin characters emerge from the paper, the characters small, as if seeping from the paper itself: "Tenant—So-and-so." He didn't want to read the rest a second time. He simply lifted his pen and crossed out the line.
"Initiate the reverse signature and source tracing process." He put down his pen and spoke calmly.
A gust of wind blew outside, and the peach tree in the courtyard swayed, dropping two petals. The petals landed on the general ledger, sticking to the ink marks like two pink patches. Chen Fan reached out and picked the petals up, tossing them onto the windowsill to prevent them from smearing the writing.
That's when the old things came back to life.
He heard an echo coming from a great distance. It sounded like the dragging of chains in a harbor, or the lingering echo of a temple bell. Then came the crackling of pages turning, not inside the room, but elsewhere, countless pages turning simultaneously.
Wukong wrinkled his nose: "Someone wants to take advantage of me."
Chen Fan didn't look up. He pressed the seal onto the center of the ledger page. The moment the thin sheet pressed down, a dark red line appeared on the paper, like a thread hidden in a hot coal.
"Send back the page responsible for the zero accident," Chen Fan said.
The wrinkles around his neck receded inward, as if pulling something back forcefully. Even though the door wasn't open, a gust of cold wind blew in through the crack. Xuanzang gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white for a moment before slowly releasing his grip.
Wukong reached out and pressed down on the door frame, as if afraid that someone might break in from outside.
The wind didn't last long. As soon as the chill subsided, the aroma of rice filled the yard again. The pot in the kitchen bubbled and gurgled, as if someone was urging them not to dawdle.
Chen Fan turned to the last page of the general ledger. That page was even whiter, as if it had never been used. However, there was a small hole in the corner, through which an old thread was threaded, the thread tied in a knot, with a speck of black residue on the knot.
"Termination of old debts." Chen Fan picked up his pen and wrote six words on the page.
After writing, he didn't sign his name. Instead, he pressed his seal heavily onto the six characters. The tabletop made a dull thud, like a mallet striking a drumhead.
As soon as the seal was removed, a dark mark appeared on the paper. The mark wasn't a pattern, but rather a series of tiny broken lines, like some kind of net had been cut into pieces.
At the same moment, the distant echoes all stopped.
It was completely shut out. It was as if someone had blown out all the lights in a room, one by one, until not a single one remained.
Wukong listened intently for a long time before muttering under his breath, "Finally, they've stopped arguing."
Chen Fan closed the general ledger but didn't immediately put it back on the bookcase. He got up, walked to the courtyard gate, and looked outside. In the distance, on the mountain path, several figures emerged from the mist, their clothes tattered, and their feet bearing the marks of iron rings.
The leader saw Chen Fan, paused for a moment, then suddenly knelt down, his forehead hitting the dust: "Can we... still settle accounts?"
Chen Fan went over and helped the man up. He touched the man's wrist; his skin was as cold as stone. He took off his coat and draped it over the man's shoulders.
"It's not about the account," Chen Fan said. "Go home. You can live in the port area if you want, or go to the mountains if you want. It's up to you."
The man opened his mouth, but the sound caught in his throat. He raised his hand and wiped his face; the back of his hand was covered in mud. He didn't ask any more questions, turned and ran down the mountain, then turned back after a few steps, bowing deeply to Chen Fan.
Not just this route.
Throughout the day, people from the port area gradually returned. Some carried wooden planks, others pushed broken carts. Some even led children, the children as thin as bamboo poles, but with bright eyes; upon seeing the peach tree in the yard, they reached out to pick the blossoms.
Xuanzang moved his scripture desk to the corridor and used it as a registration table. He didn't write "number," only names. If he couldn't write it down, he would have someone put their handprint on it. One by one, the handprints were pressed onto the paper, the red clay mixed with sweat, and after drying, they looked like a string of small lamps.
Wukong went to the port and returned carrying an iron stake on his shoulder. He stuck the stake into the ground, and it easily and easily sank into the soil.
"The storage system has stopped," Wukong said. "Those large warehouse doors opened by themselves. The shells piled up inside have all become empty shells. They'll collapse with a gust of wind."
"Sample collection has also stopped," Xuanzang added. "Someone just dragged in an old box; inside were their hair, nails, and drops of blood that were taken from them back then. They're all moldy."
Chen Fan felt a lump in his throat. He walked to the corner of the yard and opened the old boxes. A musty smell rushed out, like a damp cloth covering his nose. He squatted down, picked up a small tuft of hair, and the hair broke at the slightest touch.
"The venting has stopped too." Wukong kicked the iron stake, but it didn't budge. "People used to leak into the port area at night, but not anymore. The sea breeze is normal too."
Chen Fan closed the box and looked up at the sky. The sky was still clear. But this time he could see further into the distance, as if an invisible gate had been locked.
Xuanzang wiped the red mud off his hands: "The True Origin Chronology column has taken over?"
"We've taken over." Chen Fan nodded.
He wasn't guessing. He could sense that those famous mountains and towns no longer displayed their old signs. The City God no longer went door-to-door checking the records. The mountain gods could come and go as they pleased, and no one forced them to. The high seats in the heavens were still there, but those above could no longer bring themselves to change a single detail.
As for the person who created the account—
Chen Fan saw no more shadows. The man returned to page zero, as if shoved back into a blank sheet of paper. The paper wouldn't write anything, and he couldn't get out. Wukong put it more bluntly: "He can't even dream anymore."
Later that evening, the Bull Demon King arrived with Red Boy. The Bull Demon King carried two sacks of rice on his back, the sacks tightly sealed so that not a single grain of rice leaked out. Red Boy carried a bundle of firewood, but after a few steps he complained that it was too heavy and stubbornly refused to put it down.
"I heard the old debts are settled." The Bull Demon King put down the rice, took a breath, and said, "The contracts on my mountain have also fallen apart. No one will use my son as a source of warmth anymore."
Red Boy threw the firewood on the ground, raised his chin, and said, "I'm burning the stove now, not people."
Wukong chuckled and reached out to ruffle his hair. Red Boy tried to dodge but failed, his ears turning slightly red. He then turned to help Xuanzang wash the rice.
The white dragon horse also arrived. It no longer wore dragon scales, but had transformed into a white horse with a string of old bells around its neck. It entered the courtyard, first drinking a couple of sips from the water trough, the bells ringing softly. Xuanzang touched its forehead and said he would give it an extra handful of beans tonight.
Chen Fan picked up the ledger again and placed it back on the top shelf of the bookcase. This time he didn't use the old rope. He used a new hemp rope and tied the knot very tightly. Not because he was afraid it would run away, but because he was afraid the little monkey would rummage through it and find old things, which would cause trouble.
He closed the cabinet door, his palm lingering on the wooden surface for a moment, as if to confirm that the stove was indeed completely extinguished.
Inside the kitchen, the pot lid was shaking incessantly.
Xuanzang called out, "Dinner's ready!"
Wukong leaned his staff against the door and casually moved the iron stake to the corner as well. The Bull Demon King washed his hands and sat properly. Red Boy hissed as he held his bowl, burning himself, but still wouldn't let go. The White Dragon Horse stood under the eaves, its tail sweeping the floor in a clean arc.
Chen Fan sat down, first serving himself half a bowl of porridge, then adding a spoonful to the bowl of porridge for the child who had just returned to the port area. The child's hands trembled violently as he held the bowl, almost spilling the porridge. Chen Fan steadied the bowl and whispered, "Slow down, it's hot."
The child nodded, lowered his head and took a sip, his eyes immediately welling up with tears. He didn't cry out loud, but buried his face in the rim of the bowl.
After late spring that year, the fog in the port area ceased. New grass sprouted on the embankment. The old warehouses were demolished, and the timber was used to build houses. The few celestial officials who still wanted to manage affairs came down to farm, though they weren't very good at it, but they did learn to weave straw sandals for the children. The monks on Mount Ling dispersed; some returned to their temples to sweep, others went down the mountain to practice medicine, and no one mentioned "which path to take" again.
The True Origin Chronicle continues to be written. People appear in every year it reaches. Chen Fan no longer serves as a strategist; he grows vegetables in the yard, sweet potato vines climbing the fence. Wukong occasionally goes hunting, but spends most of his time teaching the monkey cubs to read under the trees. Xuanzang finishes writing his scriptures and puts them away, no longer displaying them in a high place. He places the scrolls under the stove to prevent moisture and keep out mice.
Another late spring has arrived, and the peach blossoms are blooming as usual.
Chen Fan took a new sheet of paper from the bookcase and wrote: "True Origin Chronicle, Year 40." After writing, he tucked the paper into a book and closed the bookcase door. Outside, someone was urging him to eat; the voice traveled through the courtyard walls, layer by layer.
He responded and turned to go to the kitchen to get the pot.
The pot was very hot, and the aroma of the rice was very strong.
Everyone in the courtyard was there, and all the bowls were full.