nyslfriends Chapter 187, Page 9, True Source Chapter Ended
Chapter 187, Page 9, True Source Chapter Ended
The wooden latches on the bookcase had just been fastened, and the wind in the yard hadn't yet dissipated.
Chen Fan pushed the teacup aside and opened his palm.
The operator felt like an old copper coin, chipped at the edge, rough to the touch. It was neither hot nor cold, but surprisingly heavy, like holding a whole set of accounts in one's hand.
Sun Wukong stood under the eaves, his golden cudgel resting beside the doorframe. He didn't speak, his eyes fixed on Chen Fan's hand.
Xuanzang came out of the kitchen, his sleeves dusted with rice flour. He closed the door to prevent the smoke from drifting into the yard.
"Now," Chen Fan said.
Without waiting for anyone to nod, he got up and walked to the stone table in the courtyard.
Page Nine was already laid out on the stone table.
The page was so thin it was almost translucent, like the film of dried fish scales. The words on it were written so neatly they gave me goosebumps: Zhenyuan Recycling.
Chen Fan pressed the operator's seal onto the corner of the paper.
The stamp didn't land; instead, it seemed to bite the paper. In that instant, he heard a very soft sound, like an abacus bead sliding down from a height.
Wukong held the golden cudgel in his hand, and touched the ground with the tip of the cudgel, creating a small pit.
"Write," Wukong said.
Chen Fan did not use a calligraphy brush.
He used his fingers.
He dipped his fingertip in the remaining ink on the table and pressed it directly onto the character "回," smearing it from left to right. The ink became smeared and messy, as if he had deliberately dirtied someone else's account.
He added another stroke.
"return".
As the third stroke was made, the peach blossom branches outside the courtyard suddenly trembled, as if someone had pulled the entire mountain from a distance.
Genuine source recycling.
It has become a return of the true source.
The paper made a muffled sound, like a thick door closing. At that moment, Chen Fan saw faint lines emerge on the back of the paper, like sand ridges revealed after the tide recedes.
The port area will take the lead.
That wasn't ocean waves. It was the black water below the dock receding, receding rapidly and irrationally. The old talismans on the hull fell off one by one, only to be rolled up by a force before falling into the water and stuck back to their original owners.
A man knelt at the harbor, clutching a tattered wooden box containing fishing net needles he had lost decades ago. The needles were rusty, but he smiled as if he had been given a second chance at life.
Huaguo Mountain also moved.
The outer shell of the mountain was spewing something out from the cracks. First, a few wisps of ash, then pieces of stone like broken bones. Human voices were mixed in with the stone pieces—coughing, crying, cursing—all blended together.
Chen Fan heard it clearly.
That was the echo of the "sample" in the granary.
Their names had been erased, leaving only their numbers. Now the numbers have been torn off, and the names, like damp sheets of paper, have been pasted back onto each living person.
Si Mo and Bai Ya both put down their pens at the same time.
Si Mo used a short-haired brush, the handle worn smooth and shiny. He didn't write large characters, only names. He hung each name on the account book one by one, like pulling a homeless child through the threshold.
Baiya's hand is even faster.
He didn't care about aesthetics; his writing was crooked and forceful. After finishing, he would press his fingerprints on the paper, as if afraid they would disappear.
"It's taken," Si Mo murmured.
"A flexible account," Baiya continued.
The two words "returning to the granary" are the most feared.
An unnamed sample, once it has an owner, is no longer something to be moved around at will. It will remember who it owes to and who it should repay.
A long cry came from outside the mountains.
That's not a dragon.
It was the rhythm of horses' hooves striking the stone slabs, fast and steady, as if someone had run along an old road. The keeper's flag rose in the distance, its surface faded from washing, still embroidered with the old character: Guard.
The White Dragon Horse is long gone.
Its saddle, however, remains, hanging beside the small stone monument by the sea. The tower keeper has kept that saddle, as if upholding a tradition.
The rule is: people can go out.
They reached the edge of the chain and first carried the children out, then carried the elderly who were still chained up. Some people still had chain marks on their ankles, and they gasped in pain with every step.
The tower keeper did not try to dissuade him.
Just hand them the strips of cloth and let them wrap them up tightly themselves to stop the bleeding.
A team withdrew along the coastline.
Another team ventured into the forest, bypassing the "line" of the storage chain. That line was like an invisible net, growing colder the closer you got, like pressing your skin against ice.
Chen Fan stood beside the stone table, his fingertips still black.
He looked up at the sky.
The sky wasn't cracked; instead, it was excessively clean. Hidden within that cleanliness was an eye.
The person who set up the account finally made a move.
He didn't come from the road. He fell directly from that eye, landing beside the old stone outside the courtyard. The moment his foot touched the ground, a thin crack appeared in the stone.
He was still wearing that gray coat, his cuffs spotless. But this time, he had something else in his hand.
A general ledger.
The ledger had no cover; it was like a thin wooden board with thin iron inlaid along the edges. The iron was engraved with dense, intricate marks, all of which were the characters for "return" that he had written.
He looked at page nine on the stone table.
His gaze was like a knife scraping across paper.
"Who gave you permission to change it?" the accountant said.
Chen Fan put the operator's seal into his palm, and his knuckles snapped together, making a soft sound.
"You wrote it wrong," Chen Fan said. "The True Source isn't yours."
The person who set up the account smiled.
The smile didn't reach his eyes. He raised his hand, spread out the general ledger, and flipped it over.
All sounds in the courtyard seemed to be silenced. Peach blossoms fell in mid-air and then stopped. The embers in the kitchen also stopped, as if someone had pinched the flame.
Wukong took a step and stood in front of Chen Fan.
The golden cudgel was held horizontally in front of his chest, and the shaft of the cudgel made a muffled thud.
"The higher-level interface," the account creator said. "My main body is here."
With a flick of his finger, an old line of characters appeared on the general ledger, as if pulled from the bottom of the water: General Record of Return to the Granary.
As soon as the words lit up, many shadows suddenly appeared outside the courtyard.
It wasn't a human figure.
It's a shadow of a tent.
They resembled human figures cut from thin paper, each carrying the same thing: a lock.
Xuanzang rolled up his sleeves and walked to Chen Fan's side.
He didn't carry a monk's staff, only a wood-chopping knife. The blade wasn't sharp, worn from years of chopping wood.
"I used to chant scriptures," Xuanzang said, "now I chop wood."
He took a step forward and swung his machete down.
It wasn't the shadow that was chopped.
He struck the threshold of the courtyard gate.
With a crack, the threshold split open, revealing the old wooden plaque buried underneath. The plaque bore two characters: Military Advisor.
Xuanzang pulled out the wooden plaque and placed it next to the ninth page.
"I accept this name," Xuanzang said.
Si Mo paused for a moment, then put his pen down.
Next to "strategist," he added Chen Fan's real name. It wasn't the title outsiders used to address him; it was the two characters he had before he transmigrated here, written lightly but very steadily.
The white cliff also bears the imprint.
One by one, they hung up the names of everyone in Flower Fruit Mountain. The names of monkeys, the names of humans, the names of former demons. As the names piled up, the character "归" (return) on the general ledger began to fade, like ink being diluted by water.
The person who set up the account finally changed his expression.
He lifted the general ledger, intending to press it down.
Wukong didn't give in.
He slammed the golden cudgel into the ground, the shaft driving straight into the earth. The earth cracked open, the fissure running along the courtyard wall, as if slicing the courtyard apart from the general ledger outside.
"You can't take it away," Wukong said.
After he finished speaking, he flicked the stick.
It's not about choosing the person who sets up the account.
He chose the old line of text on the general ledger.
The tip of the stick grazed the paper, sending sparks flying. The words "General Record of Grain Storage" peeled off the paper like an old layer of skin being lifted.
The person who set up the tent reached out to grab it.
Chen Fan pressed the operator's seal onto that layer of "old skin" first.
When the seal fell, there was no stamping sound, only a muffled cracking sound.
Like a rope that has broken.
A cheer erupted from the port area, followed by a sob. The last stone slab of Huaguo Mountain's outer shell was ejected, crashing down the slope and splashing mud. The mud landed on the peach petals, dirty, yet real.
The person setting up the tent swayed slightly.
He looked down at his hands.
His fingertips began to fade, as if ink had been wiped away. He tried to turn the ledger over again, but found that the number of pages was decreasing, each page spontaneously combusting, though the fire was small, only burning away the words.
He gritted his teeth and forced out the words, "You... will regret this."
Chen Fan did not respond.
He simply turned to the back of page nine, where the page had been blank. Now, however, a marginal note slowly appeared, as if someone had closed the case for him:
The true source is returned, stored away and destroyed, and the general ledger is sealed.
Si Mo put down his pen and pressed his fingers against the corner of the paper to prevent it from being blown away by the wind.
Bai Ya sat down on the ground, took a breath, looked up and cursed a very dirty word, then laughed, laughing as if someone had taken his bones out.
The person building the tent took one last look at the courtyard gate.
He seemed to want to remember something; his lips moved, but he didn't say anything. The next moment, his entire body shattered into ashes. The ashes didn't fall to the ground; they drifted with the wind, floating to the sea, to the mountains, until they were completely invisible.
The last page of the general ledger was also burned.
The ashes fell onto the edge of the stone table. Chen Fan wiped them with his finger, leaving a black mark. The black mark quickly faded, as if it had never appeared.
Three days later, the storage chain was completely broken.
The black water in the port area cleared, and ships could dock. The cracks in the outer shell of the mountain stopped spewing things out, and the mountain returned to its old appearance—uglier, but more solid. Those who had been used as examples went home. Some homes were reduced to walls, but they still rebuilt stoves and cooked rice.
The tower keeper returned the white dragon horse's old saddle to the seaside.
Wukong personally hung the saddle on and added a small stone tablet. The tablet didn't have the horse's name written on it, only two words: "Passed By".
Xuanzang continued to build roads, extending them to the port and then to the foot of the mountain. He put scriptures into the school, teaching the children to recognize characters and how to calculate grain.
The Bull Demon King came by, bringing dried rations from the Flaming Mountains. He didn't say much, just put the rations down and went back. Later, someone said that the first crop of drought-resistant rice had been planted on the Flaming Mountains; the harvest wasn't large, but it was enough to eat.
Si Mo stayed on Flower Fruit Mountain and opened a small tent.
He doesn't collect taxes, he only keeps track of favors. He even remembers who owes whom a meal. By the end of the year, everyone pays back their debts, and the accounting office closes for one night and reopens the next day.
Baiya didn't go far.
He built a shed outside the mountain specifically to shelter those who had nowhere else to go. The shed was rudimentary and leaked when it rained heavily. So he would use basins to catch the water, empty them when they were full, and then fill them again.
Chen Fan's amoral system stopped on the day it was depleted.
There was no beep, no reward. Like a lamp that ran out of oil and went out on its own. He tried calling out once, but there was no response. He stopped calling out.
Another year has come to an end in spring.
The peach blossoms were in full bloom, and new bamboo mats had been installed in the courtyard. Chen Fan sat on the threshold, basking in the sun, but the tea was still bitter. He took a sip, coughed twice, and placed the cup on a stone.
Sun Wukong teaches the little monkey to write.
This time, the monkey wrote slowly, and ink drops appeared on the corner of the paper. The little monkey was so anxious that it scratched its ears and cheeks. Wukong tapped the back of its hand to calm it down.
The little monkey finished writing the last stroke and held up the paper.
The six characters on the paper were crooked and illegible: "The person has a name, but the account has no door."
Chen Fan glanced at it and nodded: "That's enough."
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 latches securely.
A breeze blew in from the mountain pass, carrying the scent of peach blossoms mixed with the aroma of cooked food. The sounds of activity from the mountains rolled by, all the voices of living people.
Chapter 640 Upper-Level Interface
There was a moment of silence behind the main tent.
It's like a pot is placed over your head, so that not even the wind dares to let in.
Chen Fan looked up and saw a crack appear in the stone wall. A sliver of bluish-white light seeped from the crack, the light not shining out, but rather seeming to emanate from the bone itself. The crack widened, and a stele slowly rose up.
The monument was ridiculously tall, its top reaching into the clouds. There were no words on its surface, only concentric grooves, like the rim of an old well. Fine gold threads were embedded in these grooves, and when they lit up, Chen Fan heard a cacophony of sounds: the chimes of heavenly bells and chimes, the wooden fish of Mount Ling, the sound of the tides in the port area, and the opening and closing of the iron gates of various shell sites—all blended together.
Sun Wukong gripped his staff tightly, flipped his wrist, and the golden cudgel trailed a string of sparks along the ground.
"This thing," he said in a low voice, "is that the door?"
"The stone tablet at the entrance," Chen Fan nodded, "is also a lock."
Several thin rays of light emerged from the side of the stele, like slender snakes, piercing into all directions. At the end of each ray of light hung something all too familiar: the Jade Emperor's old register of fate, like a yellowed ledger; the Buddha's old seal, like a polished wooden stamp; and the black bronze bell of the port area, and the nail board of the shell field.
They were all attached to the monument.
Chen Fan understood, yet his throat tightened. He suddenly recalled a hundred years ago, when he was feeding the monkeys fruit at the foot of Five Fingers Mountain. Back then, he thought the world was vast, and only one mountain was pressing down on Wukong. It turned out there was a door at the foot of the mountain, and a tent behind that door.
"Where is the person who set up the account?" Xuanzang stood behind, clutching a piece of chalk in his hand. He had stopped chanting scriptures and started teaching characters, so his hands were always covered in chalk.
A shadow emerged from beneath the monument.
The man wore the most ordinary gray cloth clothes, the cuffs frayed. He had neither divine nor Buddha-like features; his face resembled a curtain that had never seen the light of day, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes filled with an ink-like aura. He raised his hand, his fingertips still holding a broken writing brush.
"You've finally come this far." He looked at Chen Fan, then at Wukong, his tone flat. "You've extinguished the lamps, removed the seals, and flipped the register of fate. You thought the debts were settled?"
Sun Wukong chuckled, but not a very deep one: "The debt's gone. What are you standing there for?"
The person who built the tent raised his chin and pointed to the monument.
"The accounts start here. Whoever gets to the entry point gets to write," he said. "I was the first one here. I put down the first pen."
Chen Fan stared at the broken brush and suddenly realized that many things had gone wrong. The person who built the accountant always seemed to be following old patterns; the moves weren't new, but the methods were steady. The steadyness wasn't in him, but in the structure behind him.
"You're not the creator," Chen Fan said, his voice a little hoarse. "You were just the first to claim the door."
The person who set up the tent twitched, then quickly suppressed his anger: "Occupying the gate is quite an achievement."
"What about the zeroth closure?" Chen Fan took a step forward, stepping onto the edge of the main platform. The surface was cold, like a stone mortar in winter. "The previous text said that the closure was to patch up the loopholes. Some people said it was to save the Three Realms. You changed it to a cyclical harvest. Whoever owes a debt must pay it back, and the more they pay, the more they owe."
The person building the account remained silent, twirling the broken brush between his fingers.
Chen Fan continued, "The Buddha's old seal and the Jade Emperor's old register of mandates are all external terminals. You use them as seals and registers. The real source is this stele. As long as the stele exists, you can change the shell, change the accounts, and change batch after batch of administrators."
Xuanzang frowned slightly upon hearing the word "terminal," but quickly relaxed. He didn't understand the word, but he understood the meaning. He raised his hand, chalk dusting between his fingers: "So even Buddha is just a stamp."
The man who built the tomb finally smiled, a thin, mocking smile: "So what if you understand? By destroying the monument, the rules of the Three Realms will be thrown into chaos. The Heavenly Laws, the Precepts, and the scales of the Underworld will all malfunction for a while. A number of people will starve to death in the human world, and there will be droughts and floods for a season. Can you bear the consequences?"
Sun Wukong slung his staff over his shoulder and stared intently at the top of the monument: "Carry it."
Chen Fan didn't rush to answer. He reached out and touched the thin booklet in his arms, its corners frayed from being turned over so many times. It was the "List of People" they had revised along the way. It wasn't the Heavenly Register of Fate, nor the Book of Life and Death in the Underworld. It recorded the names of living people, how many people were in each family, who owed whom food, who taught whom to read, and who had saved whom.
Chen Fan looked up: "As long as the monument isn't destroyed, there will always be people in the Three Realms trapped in your accounts. A period of chaos, and they'll live like human beings. But with your system, you'll live like a ghost in debt."
The man who built the tent frowned and pointed the broken brush forward. The golden lines on the stele suddenly shone, and several thin beams of light, like ropes, were pulled out, first wrapping around Wukong's wrist, then around Chen Fan's neck.
Wukong didn't dodge. He slammed his golden cudgel on the ground, causing a crack to appear and scattering the fine light. Xuanzang rushed up from behind, drawing a string of words on the main tent platform with chalk.
"The person has a name, but the account has no door."
The moment the words left his lips, Chen Fan felt a surge of heat in his chest. The lingering echo of the "moralless system" within him seemed to be awakened, emitting a crisp "ding" before subsiding again. It ceased assigning tasks and deducting points. Like a final unlocking, it placed the key into Chen Fan's hand.
Chen Fan spread out the list of names and placed it on the table.
"Open," he said softly.
The words on the register lit up one by one, not dazzling, but like the flame of an oil lamp. The flame climbed up the table to the plaque, into the groove, and suppressed the light of the gold thread. The person building the tent took half a step back, as if someone had pulled away the stool under their feet.
Sun Wukong swung his staff.
This blow was unpretentious. He struck down on the shoulder, a solid blow. The surface of the monument first made a dull thud, like striking thick wood. When the second sound came, the gold thread in the groove began to break, springing apart in segments like snapped strings.
The tent-setter tried to rush forward, but his ankle buckled as soon as he took a step. He looked down and saw the layer of gray sheen on his leg peeling off, like old skin detaching. His hand still gripped the broken brush, but the handle felt light, as light as a withered twig.
A large crack appeared at the top of the monument, and light burst forth from within. The clouds in the sky were dispersed, revealing a blank space. In that blank space, there were no stars, nor any shadows of gods or Buddhas, only tiny circles of runes spinning erratically.
Chen Fan's heart sank.
The rules are falling apart.
The next moment, screams erupted from afar. It wasn't the shouts of battle, but chaos in the mortal realm: the river suddenly flowed backward, the city bells rang erratically, and the underworld officials, Ox-Head and Horse-Face, ran in a sweat, shouting that the Book of Life and Death wouldn't turn the pages. The gates of Heaven opened and closed uncontrollably, and the bells of Mount Ling failed to strike a beat.
Xuanzang gritted his teeth and stuffed the chalk back into his sleeve: "I'm going to the human world."
"I'll go too." Chen Fan closed the list of names, a fine layer of sweat appearing on the back of his hands. "We'll fix the holes that need fixing."
Sun Wukong stood before the stele, carrying his staff, like a stone monkey guarding the gate. He didn't turn around, only saying, "Go. The stele is broken like this; it can no longer record accounts."
The man who was setting up the tent knelt on the ground, looking as if he had suddenly aged decades. He looked at his palm; the broken brush had fallen onto the table, rolled twice, and stopped. He reached out to pick it up, but his fingers trembled violently, and he finally withdrew his hand.
Chen Fan glanced at him: "How will you live from now on?"
The person setting up the accounts moved his throat and uttered two words: "Keep accounts."
"Okay." Chen Fan nodded. "Go to Flower Fruit Mountain. Keep track of rice for the kitchen and paper for the school. Anyone who slacks off will be beaten by Wukong."
Sun Wukong then turned around, his eyes like nails: "Dare to write distorted accounts, and your staff will still be used."
The person who set up the tent lowered his head and remained silent.
The interface marker broke completely after the third strike. A deafening roar followed, like a mountain collapsing. The marker shattered into countless pieces, which turned to ash before hitting the ground, the ash swept away by the wind, leaving not a trace. The old seals and books that had been attached to the site first lost their luster, then returned to their original state: the Buddha's old seal became an ordinary piece of wood, and the Jade Emperor's old register of destiny became a moldy old book. A crack appeared in the port area's bronze bell, and the nail plates in the shell site rusted red.
In just three days, the Three Realms were in complete chaos, like porridge bubbling in a pot.
On the third night, Chen Fan and Xuanzang set up a soup kitchen at the street corner of a county town. Wukong diverted water from the river outside the town; his staff, once inserted into the riverbed, made the water flow obediently. The Bull Demon King arrived from the Flaming Mountains, carrying sacks of drought-resistant seeds, which he distributed to the disaster-stricken households. Nezha also came, not wearing armor but a short jacket, and helped carry firewood. He was stubborn, but his hands were always busy.
On the seventh day, the water and wind stabilized, and the scales of the underworld could finally weigh things properly. Heaven ceased issuing new registers of life, and Mount Ling no longer collected offerings by knocking on people's heads. The old administrators' authority became invalid; no one could now simply reach across a single page and take away someone's life.
Later, the person who built the tent really went to Flower Fruit Mountain.
He set up a small table in the corner of the kitchen, with an abacus and ink on it. Every morning, he would first record the rice in the jar, then the paperwork for the school. The little monkeys called him "Old Accountant." He neither argued nor hid. If Wukong knocked on his head twice, he would behave for two days. A few years later, his back became more hunched, his eyesight more failing, and he breathed his last under a peach tree. Xuanzang erected a small wooden plaque for him, inscribed with four characters: "This man has paid his debts."
Chen Fan didn't leave.
The day the system went completely silent, he tried calling out three times, but there was no response. He felt a moment of emptiness, but quickly got used to it. It was better that it was gone; one less voice urging him on.
He built a small hut on Flower Fruit Mountain, with a table and a lamp inside. The lamp oil was ordinary vegetable oil, and the smoke was a bit pungent. He coughed twice as usual and opened the window a crack.
Xuanzang rewrote the scriptures into three thin volumes: one on literacy, one on arithmetic, and one on farming. Every late spring, he would bring a group of children to the mountain to borrow the books, and then stuff the newly written pages into the bookshelf. Wukong didn't like reading, but he was serious when teaching. He would tap the paper with a stick, and if he made a mistake, he would tap the back of the hand, but not hard.
When the Bull Demon King's family planted their first patch of green on the Flaming Mountain, they specially sent over a jar of wine. The wine wasn't strong, but had a hint of grain aroma. Wukong drank half a jar, his face turning as red as a peach. He scolded the Bull Demon King for being "slow and indecisive," then hid the remaining half jar in the cellar, saying he would save it for next year.
The White Dragon Horse's monument still stands by the sea. When the tide comes in, a section of the monument is submerged. Wukong visits it once a year, bringing a bundle of dry grass to place in front of the monument, like an old friend.
Many years passed, and Chen Fan's hair turned gray. He stopped thinking about where he came from. Occasionally, he would dream of tall buildings and the sound of cars, and when he woke up, he would hear monkeys clamoring and pot lids banging against the edges of the stove. He would turn over and feel at peace.
That late spring, new desks were installed in the school. The old desks were taken away to be used as firewood. Wukong continued to teach writing, his stick pointing at the paper. The little monkey wrote slowly, ink splattering on the corners of the paper. He nervously pursed his lips, only lifting the paper after finishing the last stroke.
The four characters on the paper were neatly written: "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. Xuanzang walked over, closed the cabinet door, and fastened the wooden latch.
Peach blossoms fall on the stones outside the courtyard, and also on the rim of the bowl. The aroma of rice wafts from the kitchen, mingling with the spring breeze, making one want to take a nap.
Chapter 641 The Final Counterattack
The monument stands beneath the crack in the sky, like an inverted black stone. A thin layer of light floats on its surface, within which are words, and within those words, an account. Every stroke seems to draw life from the land, to drain the heat from the mountains and rivers.
Chen Fan stood at the edge of the clouds, his throat dry. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing an old piece of paper pressed against his palm. The corner of the paper was curled up, revealing the first line of words he had copied at the foot of Five Finger Mountain years ago. Those words were worthless long ago, but he couldn't bear to throw them away.
Sun Wukong slung his golden cudgel across his shoulder, and before looking at the monument, glanced around.
"Is everything in place?"
Chen Fan nodded: "Start fighting once everyone's in position. Don't drag it out."
As soon as he finished speaking, a burst of crimson flames exploded on the horizon.
The Bull Demon King goes first.
He didn't bother with those fancy tricks from the heavens; instead, he led the demon race straight into the outer mountain. Outside the interface monument was a ring of "shell," like a stone ring protecting a city, within which flowed tributaries. These were inconspicuous, as thin as spider silk, yet they were connected to the lucrative resources of the mortal world.
As the Bull Demon King landed, he lowered his horns and shoved his shoulders, causing a crack to appear in the stone ring. He raised his hand and grabbed the black thread that was pulsating in the crack, as if he were grabbing a slippery intestine, the muscles in his arm twitching.
"Break!"
He roared loudly, his voice hitting his lungs.
The black thread struggled, trying to burrow into his palm. A demon from behind handed him a bag of salt, sprinkling coarse salt down. The black thread immediately became stiff and slowed down. Taking advantage of that moment, the Bull Demon King bit the end of the thread with his teeth and ripped it open. A sweet, fishy smell emanated from the torn part, like sugar that had gone bad in the kitchen.
With the branch vein severed, the light on the outer stone ring dimmed by an inch.
On the other side, Yang Jian emerged from the remnants of the old Heavenly Court's judicial system.
He wasn't wearing a cloak, only an old suit of armor, two buttons missing. As he raised his hand, with a clatter, the secondary chains of his life registers dangled from the void, like strings of rusty iron rings. That was a contingency plan left by the Heavenly Court, so that even if the Inscription on the Gate fell, it could drag others down with it.
The celestial dog lay at his feet, its teeth grinding softly.
Yang Jian didn't waste words. With a slant of his three-pointed, double-edged sword, he severed the outermost ring first. A gust of cold wind, carrying with it paper ash, spurted from the broken edge. The remaining soldiers, following his instructions, each took a copper nail and hammered it into the node of the secondary chain. The copper nails burned as soon as they were driven in, causing blisters to form on their palms, but no one let go.
"Don't be afraid of getting burned," Yang Jian said. "Once you've been burned this time, you won't have to go through that again."
The secondary chain falls to the ground segment by segment, like a dead snake.
The lettering on the interface mark started to become messy, as if someone had splashed water on it.
The mystery is hidden in the quietest place on the front.
There stood a "True Origin Chronological Table," resembling a wooden pillar with era names engraved on it. Next to each era name was an old judgment, determining a person's good or evil, and their destiny. If the pillar swayed, the world would collapse back into its old ways.
Xuanzang stood in a circle with the people who had overturned the verdict and the former deacon. He stopped chanting scriptures and began reciting the mantras he had taught people over the years—short, direct, and like forging iron.
"Remembering the year is one thing, eating is another."
"People write their own words without needing someone else to write them for them."
The former deacon held a basin of water, in which lay a handful of broken calligraphy brushes. The person seeking to overturn the verdict fished out the brushes, broke them in two one by one, and threw them into the brazier. The fire was small, but the smoke it produced was heavy, making people's eyes water.
Someone was coughing so hard they couldn't straighten up. Xuanzang reached out and patted their back: "Cough up your tears. It'll feel better once you do."
The date column made a muffled thud, like an old wooden beam straightening itself. The old judgments on the pillars had faded, looking like cloth that had been dried in the sun for years.
Pigsy and White Dragon Horse ran on the most dangerous flank.
The impact zone of the main platform is like a vortex. Every "sample" released from the tent must pass through it first; only those that pass are considered truly alive. Those that fail will be pulled back by the interface marker.
Pigsy was carrying a large bamboo basket crammed full of people. Some were newborns, their limbs as limp as noodles. Pigsy grumbled, "Don't sleep, open your eyes. You all owe me a meal."
The white horse, though no longer possessing its former stamina, still kept its hooves steady. It pulled a wooden cart with strips of cloth tied to it, each strip bearing a name. As each person passed, it touched the cloth with its nose, as if calling out names.
A black hand reached out from the whirlpool. Pigsy swung his nine-toothed rake, and with one swipe, the black hand shattered into ink. The ink splashed onto his face, which he wiped with his sleeve, revealing two front teeth: "Again? One more, I'll slap it down."
As the white dragon horse, carrying the last child, charged out of the impact zone, it suddenly trembled. It didn't fall, stubbornly maintaining its balance. Pigsy turned back and scolded, "Don't throw a tantrum now!"
The white dragon horse took a couple of breaths, flicked its tail, and continued walking. It knew this was the last trip.
Everyone was gritting their teeth in their seats.
There is only one true master core.
Chen Fan and Sun Wukong charged straight at the main body of the interface monument.
There's a thin layer of "reputation" surrounding the monument, like mouths spewing out comments, recounting the past, and revealing the dirty work they've done along the way. That stuff is the most insidious, specifically targeting the softest parts of people's hearts.
Chen Fan heard someone call him "the fruit-feeding slave." He also heard someone say he "corrupted the monkeys." The voices whispered close to his ear, like mosquitoes.
He raised his hand, pressed the old piece of paper to his lips, and bit down hard on the corner. The paper was rough, and biting it hurt his gums. The pain was right; it meant he was still here.
"Quiet down." He spat out the paper scraps. "I've already admitted it; I don't need your praise."
Sun Wukong ignored their comments. He stretched out his golden cudgel, pressing the head against the surface of the monument as if it were holding up a door that was about to collapse.
"Chen Fan," he whispered, "you tell me how to smash it."
Chen Fan looked at the words on the monument and suddenly smiled: "Don't smash the words. Smash the hand that wrote them."
He pointed to the center of the monument. There lay the main node of the pilgrimage system, and also the old rules of "who should do what." The amoral system, which had been fighting against it all along, had now become as quiet as if it were about to fall asleep.
Sun Wukong understood, and pressed his staff down, creating a crack. A golden thread appeared in the crack, its end connecting to somewhere in the sky, as if connected to an unseen hand.
Chen Fan gripped the gold thread in his hand. The thread was scorching hot; blisters immediately formed on his palm. A voice from the Moral System echoed briefly in his mind, as short as a sigh.
—It's over.
Chen Fan didn't let go. He pulled hard, pulling out even more of the golden thread. The other end of the thread began to struggle, and the plaque emitted a piercing sound.
Sun Wukong swung his staff, not at the surface of the monument, but at the very root of the thread. Each strike felt like hitting bone, making his hands go numb. He didn't care; on the third strike, the golden thread finally snapped.
The moment it broke, all the "mouths" closed at once.
The faint light of the benchmark was extinguished in an instant. It was extinguished cleanly, like a lamp wick being snapped.
There was no celestial music or divine retribution in the sky. Only the wind, carrying the scent of salt and earth. That was the world's natural smell.
The Bull Demon King's horn was completely severed, its outer stone ring shattered into a ring of fragments. He sat on a rock, panting, and touched his horn; a small piece was missing from the tip. He chuckled, "I'll fix it when I get back, so the kids won't laugh at me."
Yang Jian stomped the last piece of the chain into the ground, causing a layer of white frost to form on the surface, which quickly melted away. He sheathed his sword and patted Xiaotian Dog's head: "Let's go back. The old case is closed."
Xuanzang stood before the year-counting column, holding a blackened pen nib in his hands. He dipped the nib into the water; a ring of black ink rose to the surface, then gradually dispersed. The person overturning the case asked him, "Will we still need to record the years from now on?"
Xuanzang said, "Record it. Record it using your own handwriting."
Pigsy put down the bamboo basket, and one by one, the people inside climbed out, touching the ground, the sun, and their own faces. Some cried, some laughed, but none of it was loud. Pigsy spat, "Alright, if you're alive, stop howling. Go back and learn to cook."
The white dragon horse stood to the side, head bowed, drinking water. A white hair had appeared on its nose, like a tiny thread. After finishing its drink, it looked up at Wukong, its gaze steady.
Chen Fan walked to the monument. The monument was still there, just an ordinary black stone. He raised his hand and touched the crack; there were no words inside, only cold stone dust.
The system without morality remained silent. Chen Fan waited, his mind as blank as a room that had just been swept. In that instant, he felt a sense of relief, as if he had unloaded a sack he had been carrying for a long time.
Sun Wukong stood his golden cudgel upright on the ground and asked him, "Do you regret it?"
Chen Fan shook his head: "No regrets. It's just that my hand hurts."
Wukong reached out and smoothed the blisters on Chen Fan's palm with his spiritual energy, but his movements were clumsy and it stung a little. Chen Fan took a breath: "Be gentle."
Wukong snorted, "So you know what pain is."
The things that weren't explained in the narration should be said here.
Later, the Heavenly Register of Destiny became worthless. The Jade Emperor abdicated, replacing him with a god willing to farm, who guarded the Heavenly Gate. The Heavenly Gate no longer accepted offerings. The old thrones of Buddhism crumbled, the golden statues cracked, and temples began to offer rice and grain. Monks learned to treat people as human beings first. Those souls bound by the register gradually returned to the mortal realm, choosing their own surnames and living their own lives. Chen Fan never sent the letter he intended to send back to the "present world." The connection was broken, and there was nowhere to send it. He burned the letter and scattered the ashes under the peach trees on Flower Fruit Mountain.
Later, the Bull Demon King turned over the land of the Flaming Mountain and planted the first crop of drought-resistant grain. His son, Red Boy, calmed down and learned to write from Xuanzang, and his writing became quite neat. Yang Jian led his remaining army to disband and became a local official, in charge of bridges, roads, and irrigation canals. The people didn't call him "True Lord" but "Lord Yang." Pigsy stayed at the school as a handyman, complaining about being tired every day, but he couldn't sit still even if he was given a day off. When the White Dragon Horse's lifespan ended, it collapsed in the grass by the sea. Wukong buried it himself, and Chen Fan erected a stone beside it, on which only two words were engraved: "Bai Lai" (meaning "White Comes").
Chen Fan neither became an immortal nor returned home. He lived as an ordinary teacher on Flower Fruit Mountain. His hair turned white quickly, and he coughed often. Wukong continued to teach the little monkeys to write, tapping the paper with his stick; if they made a mistake, he would tap it lightly.
Many years have passed, and spring comes as usual at the end of spring.
A new table had been installed in the courtyard, the old one chopped into firewood, and the aroma of rice wafted from the kitchen. 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, looked up, and saw two little monkeys holding up a piece of paper, writing slowly but steadily with the ink.
The paper bore five words: "No need for accounts in the human world."
Chen Fan glanced at it and nodded: "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 peaches mixed with the aroma of food. Someone outside the courtyard called out, "Dinner's ready!" The voice carried far and wide, all the voices of living people.
Chapter 642, Page 10
The sound of the wooden buckle fastening was like an old door latch being put into place.
A voice called out from outside, "Dinner's ready!" echoing through the courtyard. The aroma of rice wafting from the pot wafted into the house against the wind. Chen Fan, holding a cup of tea, took a sip and frowned. He placed the cup on the threshold, rubbing his fingertip along the rim, as if searching for a reason not to move it.
Suddenly, the top shelf of the bookcase clicked.
It's not a piece of wood. It sounds like someone pressed down on it.
Sun Wukong looked up, his staff still poking at the paper. He didn't say a word, but his eyes were fixed on the wooden clasp. Xuanzang shooed the little monkeys away to wash their hands, then took two steps closer, his hand hovering over the cabinet door, not daring to pull it open directly.
Chen Fan stood up, his knee cracking. He smiled faintly: "What's meant to happen, can't be avoided."
The wooden buckle pops open on its own.
The cabinet door slowly slid outwards, as if a breeze was blowing inside. The breeze was odorless, rather cold, and made the candle wick flicker. The stacks of papers inside the cabinet shifted outwards by an inch, revealing the bottom ledger.
The cover of the general ledger was old and gray, with white fuzz on the edges. It turned the pages by itself, very quickly, with a rustling sound, as if it were turning not pages of paper, but a hundred years of confessions.
Until "page ten".
The sound of pages turning stopped.
That page was thicker than the others, and its surface was unusually clean. The header read five words: "New Calendar Confirmation Page." The characters looked engraved, yet the ink was fresh.
At the bottom of the page are two blank signature fields. The left one reads: Operator's Signature. The right one reads: Mountain Lord's Signature.
Chen Fan stared at the two columns, his throat tightening. He thought of the hundred years beneath Five Finger Mountain, of his hand as he slipped fruit into the cracks in the rocks. Back then, all he wanted was to survive. Later, he learned to keep accounts, revise accounts, and burn accounts. Now, all that's left is this one page.
Suddenly, it became quiet outside the courtyard.
The wind stopped, and the commotion in the pot ceased. Even the little monkey's squeals seemed to be muffled.
The "interface marker" next to the stone table lit up.
White light shone through the cracks in the monument, flowing out like water, passing through the cracks in the floor tiles, and winding around to the foot of the bookshelf. The monument hummed, as if hundreds of bees were burrowing into the stone.
"Full power," Sun Wukong uttered, his voice hard.
Chen Fan nodded: "It's getting anxious."
There was an extra shadow in the room.
The shadow made no sound, as if it had slipped through the paper. It wore an old official robe, the cuffs stained with ink. Its face was indistinct, but its hands were exceptionally clear, with slender knuckles, holding a pen.
The person who sets up the account.
The pen fell with incredible speed, as if it were a race against time. The tip was aimed directly at the "Operator's Signature" field.
Xuanzang took a step forward, intending to stop him, but as soon as he moved his foot, his knee buckled, as if an invisible rope was holding him down. He gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead, but could only look up at Chen Fan.
Chen Fan neither shouted nor cursed.
He pulled his old calligraphy brush from his sleeve. The handle was made of bamboo, polished to a shine. The tip was no longer sharp, but rather spread out, much like his temperament over the years.
With a flick of his wrist, the tip of his brush touched the inkstone.
There was only water in the inkstone. Wukong had already put the ink away. Chen Fan was not flustered. He wiped the brush in his palm, and a line of red seeped out from the old scar on his palm. There wasn't much red, just enough to write.
He picked up his pen and wrote it down on the blank page.
The pen of the person who created the account also fell.
The two pens touched the paper almost simultaneously.
Chen Fan's pen first sank into the paper fibers. In that instant, he heard a "thump" in his heart, like someone beating a drum in his chest. He didn't write a long sentence, just four characters—"True Origin Chronicle."
The handwriting isn't pretty, it's even a bit crooked. But every stroke is solid.
The ink from the person who was writing the inscription seemed to fall into thin air. A faint light shimmered on the paper, blurring the characters into a dark mist. The dark mist receded, shrinking back into the pen.
The person setting up the tent stopped abruptly.
It raised its head, finally revealing a sliver of its face. Its face was like a paper mask, with only a slit in it, from which a chilling aura emanated: "You write first."
Chen Fan placed the pen on the corner of the page, pressed his finger against the four characters until his fingertip went numb: "I'll write it first."
The writer's hand, gripping the pen, began to tremble. It tried to put the pen down again, but the tip wouldn't stick to the paper. The buzzing of the plaque changed tone, like a chokehold, growing ever more shrill.
Sun Wukong strode to the bookshelf.
He ignored the person who had set up the tent and only looked at the "Mountain Lord's Sign." He pulled a short stick from his waist; the stick was originally a broken piece of the Golden Cudgel. He scraped the stick with his fingernail, scraping off a bit of gold dust, which landed on his fingertip.
He didn't use a pen.
He stretched out his finger and pressed it directly into the signature box, writing two characters—Wukong.
The handwriting seemed etched into the paper, gleaming with gold. After finishing writing, he wiped the back of his hand on his sleeve, as if wiping away mud.
Suddenly, the corner of the page felt hot.
A thin line lit up from the middle of the page, like a flame moving along the grain of the paper. The fire produced no smoke and didn't burn the cabinet; it only burned what was unseen. The pen of the person who built the account book cracked first, splitting in two. From the crack, a string of black dots, like insects, shot towards the plaque.
The reputation of the interface is so bright it's blinding.
The next instant, a muffled "bang" resounded from the surface of the monument, like a large stone falling into water. The white light abruptly receded, and the cracks closed up one by one. The monument fell silent, even its temperature dropped, and it became an ordinary stone.
The black spots are gone.
The person who set up the account also faded away.
It stood there, as if its bones had been removed, its official robes tattered. It gave Chen Fan one last look, its voice as soft as wiping paper: "Ten cycles... it ends with you."
Chen Fan looked up: "That's enough for me."
The person who set up the account chuckled, but there was no anger in his laughter, only exhaustion: "I've been keeping track of things for them for too long. In the end, I can't even remember who I am."
After saying that, it released its grip.
The cracked pen fell to the ground without a sound, turning to ash as soon as it hit the ground. The ash didn't scatter; it seeped into the soil through cracks in the ground, like going home.
The oppressive feeling inside the room dissipated.
Sounds came from outside the courtyard again. A bubbling sound came from the pot, and the aroma of food wafted out again. The little monkeys peeked in from the doorway, hesitant to go in.
Xuanzang was able to move first. He grabbed the corner of the table, took a breath, and his eyes lit up: "That's it?"
Chen Fan gently pressed the tenth page flat and closed the ledger. His fingers lingered on the cover, as if touching an old scar: "It's over. The accounts will no longer be linked to people. The cyclical calendar system of the Three Realms ends here."
Sun Wukong fastened the wooden button back on, tightening it forcefully: "Who will reach out again?"
Chen Fan shook his head: "It can't get in. The intermediary's reputation is broken. There's only one old ledger left. It can record, but it can't manage."
Xuanzang was silent for a moment, then suddenly laughed: "My revised scriptures have become genuine."
Chen Fan hummed in agreement: "Teaching someone to cook is better than teaching them to kneel."
He turned and walked towards the threshold, his legs feeling a little weak. Wukong reached out to steady him, saying nothing, only offering a firm support. Chen Fan sat back down on the threshold, picked up his teacup, and took another sip; it was still bitter. He smacked his lips: "Bitter is good. Bitterness is what makes life feel like it."
Only then did the little monkeys dare to enter the house. They circled the bookshelf, their eyes wide. Wukong raised his stick and tapped the ground: "Go wash your hands. Write something before you eat."
"What should we write?" the smallest one asked.
Chen Fan gazed at the peach tree in the courtyard; most of the blossoms had fallen, and small green fruits were budding on the branches. He thought for a moment, then decided to write, "The mortal world needs no accounts."
The little monkey scratched its head: "Where's the ledger?"
Sun Wukong slung his staff across its shoulder and led it toward the table: "Lock up the account books. Let it sleep."
-
Later, the plaques on the Heavenly Court side were removed one by one.
It wasn't that anyone smashed them; it was that no one offered them fire anymore. Those priests who had secured their positions through "conferment" and "merit" suddenly found that the books in their hands had turned into blank pages. They argued, they fought, and finally they all went their separate ways. Some went down to the mortal world to become teachers, some returned to the mountains to farm, and some simply found a small town to open a shop, selling incense and salt.
It's quieter over there at the Buddhist temple.
The bell at Lingshan rang for a while, until the seventh day, when it stopped ringing on its own. Several elders wanted to revive the old practices, but when they opened the scriptures, only the few sections that Xuanzang had rewritten remained: literacy, arithmetic, cooking, and sewing. Some sighed, some were angry. But even anger eventually led to the need to eat, so the temple gained vegetable gardens and lost its incense altar.
The Bull Demon King guarded the Flaming Mountain and actually managed to grow drought-resistant crops. Princess Iron Fan sent two bags of rice to Flower Fruit Mountain every year, saying it was to repay the favor from that meal years ago. Red Boy changed his ways and started teaching children martial arts at the foot of the mountain, accepting apprentices without charging them incense money, only a bowl of rice.
The small stone tablet of the White Dragon Horse has always been by the sea. With the ebb and flow of the tide, the characters on the tablet have faded, and Xuanzang would go and repair it every few years. He repaired it very slowly, as if afraid of waking someone.
No more morally devoid systems have emerged.
Chen Fan waited three months, until the peaches ripened, but he never heard that familiar "ding." He felt a little uneasy, tossing and turning twice during the night, but eventually slept soundly. He said to Wukong, "It's good that it's gone. The fire it started shouldn't be extinguished by it in the end."
Wukong nodded: "From now on, we'll rely on you."
-
Twelve years have passed.
Chen Fan's hair had turned completely white, and he needed a cane to walk. The desks in the school had been replaced three times, but he still sat on the threshold, though he would get sleepy if he basked in the sun for too long. Xuanzang's back had also become hunched, and he had to stop and rub his wrists when writing. Wukong hadn't changed much, only become more silent, and tapped the characters more lightly when teaching.
That autumn, the osmanthus flowers in the mountains bloomed early.
Chen Fan woke up once at the smell of sweetness. He called Wukong to his side and handed him the ledger: "Lock it up. Don't burn it. It'll serve as a reminder."
Wukong took it, his knuckles tightening slightly: "You still want to see it?"
Chen Fan shook his head: "I've seen enough."
He then summoned Xuanzang as well: "Don't revise those volumes of your books anymore. The words are enough. As long as people can understand them, that's fine."
Xuanzang nodded, his eyes reddening, but he didn't shed a tear: "I'll remember."
The night air was cool.
Chen Fan lay inside, the window paper rustling softly in the wind. He heard the little monkey in the yard reciting his lessons, stumbling and staggering. Wukong corrected him, tapping the table with each correction. The sound was like raindrops, precise and orderly.
He turned over and his fingers touched the old pen on the pillow.
The pen tip had long since broken.
Chen Fan put the pen back and didn't reach out again. When he closed his eyes, his face still carried the heat from the daytime sun.
The next morning, the fire in the kitchen was lit as usual.
The aroma of rice wafted out as usual.
Wukong pushed open the door and stood there for a long time before gently closing it. He didn't call out to anyone, but simply sat down outside the door, his back ramrod straight. Xuanzang brought in a bowl of hot porridge and placed it on the threshold. Two osmanthus blossoms floated on the porridge, neither sinking.
Wukong picked up the bowl of porridge, blew on it twice, and didn't drink it.
He put down the bowl and looked up at the sky.
The sky was very blue, as if it had been washed.
-
Later on, Huaguo Mountain Academy became just an ordinary place in the human world.
Some came from the East Sea, carrying salt; others came from the Flaming Mountains, carrying grain. Children ran around in the yard, picking peaches when they got tired of writing. Wukong continued teaching characters, and Xuanzang would occasionally come to sit for a while, telling a story. He would always pause when he got to the White Dragon Horse, then continue.
That ledger was always locked on the top shelf of the bookcase.
The wooden buckle is replaced with a new rope every year, but it's always fastened tightly. Nobody bothers to look at it anymore. It doesn't matter whether it's looked at or not.
Spring comes as usual, year after year.
The peach blossoms were in full bloom, and the aroma of cooked food wafted from the kitchen. Wukong tapped the paper with his stick, giving it a light tap if he made a mistake, just enough to make it remember. The words on the paper grew longer, line by line, like a mountain path, steadily stretching forward.
The story truly ends here.
Chapter 643 Interface Break
The wooden latches on the bookcase clicked softly.
Xuanzang reached out to touch it, his fingertips pausing in the buttonhole as if afraid of waking something. Chen Fan unbuttoned it, but instead of rushing to open the door, he first rolled up his sleeve an inch to reveal the operator's seal.
The ink was no longer burning hot; it was only slightly cool, like a stone that had been left in the shadows for too long.
Sun Wukong stood by the door, not holding a staff, but the Zhenyuan Authority. The object didn't resemble a weapon; it looked more like the bone of an old stele. It was rough, heavy, with fine lines on its surface, and felt rough to the touch.
"Which page do you want?" Xuanzang asked.
Chen Fan didn't look at him, but only at the general ledger on the top shelf of the bookshelf.
The ledger was thick, its edges worn from frequent handling, yet it had been kept clean for many years without being touched. Chen Fan picked it up and patted the cover. There wasn't much dust; it settled on his knuckles like flour.
He flipped to the last page and stopped at page ten.
That page was blank.
There was only a faint crease on the paper, as if it had been written on and then erased. Chen Fan pressed the crease with his palm and whispered, "The break is still there. The seal is still there. It won't let any words be written on this page."
Sun Wukong grinned, but the smile wasn't very deep: "Then let's go smash it."
The three of them did not disturb the school.
Two little monkeys were still practicing calligraphy in the yard, picking peaches when they got tired. The kitchen smelled of rice, and the pot lid gurgled. As Chen Fan was leaving, he glanced back, as if leaving a lamp in the house.
The break is in the shady area of Huaguo Mountain.
The place was barren, the stones were black and slippery underfoot. Some said they were pits left after nails from the old Heavenly Court were pulled out, while others said they were cracks from a broken Buddhist alms bowl. Chen Fan didn't believe these explanations before, but after meeting the person who built the tent, he believed most of them.
The interface marker stands in the center of the break.
The monument isn't tall, barely half a person's height. Yet, it makes one reluctant to approach. It's like a cold face, unblinking to anyone who looks at it. The base of the monument is buried in the rock, surrounded by fine lines, like spider silk or the shadows of chains, one end connecting to the sky, the other to a more distant place.
Chen Fan spread the general ledger out on a flat stone and used pebbles to weigh down the corners of the pages.
"I'll only deal with the words," he told Wukong. "You just smash them."
Wukong carried the Zhenyuan authority on his shoulder, walked to the monument, and stomped on the stone with a dull thud. He didn't roar or strike a pose; he simply lowered his waist, just like when he used to push stones at the foot of Five Fingers Mountain.
The power has fallen.
The first blow landed on the base of the monument.
The sound was strange, more like hardwood breaking than stone cracking. The base of the monument trembled, and a sliver of light seeped from its grain, as if someone had lit a lamp in the crack.
A crack appeared.
It wasn't large, only about the width of a fingernail, yet it climbed an inch up from the base of the monument. A watery substance, odorless, gushed from the crack, flowing along the stone surface. Where it flowed, the black stone lightened, as if it had been washed clean.
True source tributary.
It had been suppressed for too long, so when it emerged, it wasn't in a hurry, but rather very steady. Chen Fan watched that stream, his heart tightening. He remembered how the system used names as accounts back then, and he also remembered the look in Wukong's eyes when he was written as a "template monkey." Those old things were in that stream, washed out and drifted away.
A soft laugh echoed from the monument.
The laughter wasn't in his ears, but in his heart. Chen Fan looked up and saw a line of words appear on the monument, as if ink were growing out of itself—"The Tranchet Builder."
The moment those two words appeared, the mark on the back of Chen Fan's hand twitched.
The person who built the inscription did not appear, but instead wrote the characters deeper. The "chain shadows" in the inscription trembled, as if being pulled.
Just before Sun Wukong slammed down the second time, the words on the screen suddenly changed.
Four more characters appeared on the monument: Template Monkey King.
Chen Fan heard Wukong snort.
Wukong's figure swayed slightly.
It wasn't a retreat, it was a change. His shoulders and back were a little narrower, and the laziness in his eyes had faded, as if someone had put the old skin back on. In that instant, Chen Fan saw the shadow of the stone monkey at the foot of Five Fingers Mountain, dirty and stubborn, covered in mud.
The person who created the account must write it back to him.
The title "Sole Mountain Lord" must be removed from him.
"Chen Fan," Xuanzang called out, his voice strained.
Chen Fan did not answer.
He pushed the tenth page of the general ledger toward the monument, the paper gliding across the stone surface and stopping half a step in front of it. A gust of wind blew through the broken edge, causing the page to billow slightly.
Chen Fan raised his hand and pressed the operator's mark onto the paper.
He didn't write a long message.
He only wrote two words.
Delete the name.
He wrote with his fingertips dipped in the true source of the stream. The characters were not black when they fell, but like a thin layer of ash. But the two characters "template" seemed to have been uprooted. The surface of the monument first turned white, then hollow, and finally only the two characters "Monkey King" were left spinning there, unable to find a place to land.
Wukong regained his footing.
He reached up and touched his chest, as if to make sure it was still there. He looked up at Chen Fan, his eyes showing no gratitude, only a flat question: "Is that enough?"
"That's enough," Chen Fan said. "You're the mountain lord, not a template."
The laughter of the person setting up the tent stopped.
The "chain shadows" within the stele's patterns began to loosen. They loosened very slowly, but truly. A tributary of the true source surged upwards along the cracks, as if to wash the entire stele open.
Sun Wukong didn't wait for it to finish washing.
The third time, the fourth time.
He swung the Zhenyuan authority around and smashed it, his palms calloused from the blows. With each strike, the crack widened. The three characters "Jianzhangren" (建帐人, meaning "the person who built the inscription") on the monument trembled, the strokes chipping away like old plaster crumbling.
On the seventh strike, the monument cracked open from the middle.
There is no stone in the crack.
It was a dense network of lines. The lines stretched into the distance, their end nowhere in sight. As soon as the true source struck the lines, they began to break. There was no light when they broke, only a faint "popping" sound, like someone extinguishing a string of wicks one by one.
Chen Fan suddenly remembered many people.
I remember the White Dragon Horse bowing his head to drink water by the river, saying, "I don't want to carry anyone anymore." I remember the Bull Demon King smashing his wine bowl on the ground, saying, "I've already paid off all my debts." I remember those names that were conferred titles, demoted, written into the register, and then crossed out.
Those lines are the ropes hanging over their heads.
The more lines broke, the lighter the sky appeared on the other side of the breaks. It was as if someone had removed a thick cloth. A deep thud came from afar, like the sound of a palace gate closing. After a while, a faint fragrance wafted from the broken lines, very faint, neither sandalwood nor lotus, but more like earth after rain.
Xuanzang clasped his hands together and uttered a short phrase: "That's enough."
The person who set up the account finally spoke up.
The voice squeezed out from the monument, hoarse, like ink that had dried and then been forcibly ground: "You can delete a name, but you can't delete the rules."
Chen Fan closed the ledger and hugged it to his chest: "Rules don't need to be written by you. People live by setting their own rules."
He took a step towards the monument and stepped into the tributary of the true source. The water-like current clung to his shoes, its coolness refreshing him.
"You've lost your old privileges," Chen Fan said. "You rely on APIs for your livelihood. If the APIs are cut off, you'll starve."
The person who created the account didn't curse.
He remained silent. In that silence, the last stroke of those three characters fell away. The surface of the monument became clean, like an ordinary stone. The oppressive aura emanating from the broken edge dissipated.
A side note from the narrator: After that, the Heavenly Court's register of titles never fell again, and the newly appointed minor deities couldn't hold their positions as "accountants"; the golden statues of the Buddhists remained, but the chains that bound all beings to their predetermined fate were gone. Some returned to the mountains, some entered the world, each going their own way, and no one could ever again use a pen to rewrite them as they were.
Sun Wukong slammed the Zhenyuan authority onto the ground.
With a "hum," the authority cracked open twice and shattered into three pieces. Wukong didn't even look at it, kicking it away: "It's no longer needed."
Chen Fan picked up the three pieces and placed them in a nearby stone hollow: "Keep them. Show them to the children. Let them remember that stones can be broken."
Xuanzang bent down and picked up a piece of broken stone from the edge of the stone tablet, putting it into his sleeve: "I'll take it back and put it under the threshold of the school. Everyone who comes in will step on it."
When I got back to the courtyard, the food was already cooked.
The little monkeys ran around with bowls in their hands, rice grains sticking to the rims. Seeing that Wukong's hands were chafed, one of the monkeys tore a strip from his sleeve and clumsily tried to wrap it around his hands. Wukong disliked that it was wrapped crookedly and didn't shake it off, but instead reached out and straightened it for him.
Chen Fan put the general ledger back on the top shelf of the bookcase.
This time he didn't lock it.
He closed the cabinet door, fastened the wooden latch, and left without a word. Xuanzang glanced at the latch and chuckled, "Aren't you afraid someone will rummage through it?"
"We can't find any accounts even after searching through them," Chen Fan said. "There are only blank sheets of paper left inside."
Time flies.
The White Dragon Horse was no longer his mount. He dug a small canal at the mouth of the East Sea to bring water to the dry land. The Bull Demon King took Red Boy back to the Flaming Mountain and turned the scorching land into fields, planting heat-resistant grains. Princess Iron Fan no longer waved her fan; she learned to use well water to suppress the fire. The former demon kings dispersed, some opening shops, some guarding small temples, occasionally coming to Flower Fruit Mountain to drink, curse the past, and laugh a couple of times.
Xuanzang stayed in the mountains to teach.
He didn't lecture on grand Buddhist scriptures; he only talked about how people eat, how they write, and how to repay debts. When he talked about the old journey to the West, he would pause, take a sip of tea to moisten his throat, and then continue. No one urged him on.
Sun Wukong still teaches characters.
The stick tapped the paper; a wrong tap resulted in a light tap. Chen Fan sat on the doorstep, basking in the sun. The tea was still bitter; he took a sip, frowned, and then drank again. Someone asked him what he would do in the future. He said, "I'll stay here. The mountains need someone to feed us, and someone who likes to talk."
Another ten years have passed.
Spring came as usual. Peach blossoms fell as usual. The desks in the school had been replaced twice; the new desks were flatter, making it easier for the little monkey to write without ink bleeding. The general ledger on the top shelf of the bookcase hadn't been touched, and the wooden clasp hadn't been replaced either. It just sat there, like a stove that had been extinguished.
That evening, new rice was steaming in the kitchen. Children chased each other outside the courtyard, kicking up dust. Sun Wukong lit paper inside the door, while Chen Fan washed a basin of peaches and placed it on the stone table. Xuanzang returned from outside, carrying a few broken pieces of a stone tablet in his sleeve, which he casually placed under the threshold.
The wind blew into the yard, carrying the aroma of food.
Chen Fan looked up at the sky; it was very clear.
He stopped thinking about those old lists and who had written their names in them.
He only said one very soft word: "That's enough."