Another violent strike.
The shockwave swept out from the point of impact. Clouds in the sky rippled outward, while rolling sand and dust surged across the ground.
Amid the raging winds, Monkey gritted his teeth and drew back the Golden Staff he'd just hurled.
Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Tripitaka's figure.
He saw Tripitaka sprawled flat on the ground, curled up tightly. Both hands were clasped together as if in prayer. Beside him stood Barry Bear, reaching out to help.
Monkey froze for a moment.
But it was only a moment's hesitation. The deadlocked battle allowed not even an instant of distraction. In the next breath, he roared and charged toward Master Taiyi, slamming into the shield of the battle array once more.
Another fierce shock came from afar, and the sand and gravel swept up by the blast washed over Tripitaka’s prone body like a wave.
Not far away, Marshal Silver leaned on the only upright post, slowly rising to his feet. He gazed at Tripitaka from a distance, mouth slightly open.
A trickle of blood slid from the corner of his mouth.
At this moment, Clara Heart was flying through the raging winds, crossing a thousand mountains and rivers toward the Dharma-Quest Kingdom.
Behind her, Nathan Young followed closely, his face full of panic. He glanced at Clara Heart but said nothing.
...
High Sky Throne Hall.
A court herald hurried into the hall, weaving through the assembled immortals, and approached the Jade Emperor’s dragon desk, whispering something in a low voice.
The Jade Emperor’s brow furrowed slightly.
After a brief hesitation, the Jade Emperor stroked his long beard and said, “Let him in.”
The court herald immediately turned and called out in a drawn-out voice, “Announcing King Brightcourt’s audience—!”
Announcing King Brightcourt’s audience—!
Announcing King Brightcourt’s audience…
As the calls faded, the immortals in the hall exchanged glances, each looking slightly surprised.
“What’s going on? King Brightcourt… Ever since King Earth-Store took over the Netherworld, he’s never personally come to court before His Majesty.”
“Could it be something urgent?”
“If it really is something important… then it must be a major affair.”
In the distance, King Brightcourt was already rolling up his sleeves, bowing as he approached the grand hall.
The immortals in the hall all turned to look.
...
Leaning on a scavenged stick, Tripitaka bowed his head and staggered step by step through the wind and sand.
Behind him, Barry Bear followed closely, carrying the king’s already cold corpse.
In nearly every corner, pairs of eyes watched anxiously.
From beginning to end, Tripitaka only kept his head down, never having the courage to meet their eyes. Because he simply had nothing left to give them, no matter what he had once promised.
With Barry Bear, Tripitaka entered a ruined house—roof torn away, only four crumbling walls remaining, barely a house at all.
“At least here, the wind is blocked,” he said, turning to signal Barry Bear to lay the king down.
Barry Bear did as instructed.
Immediately, Tripitaka knelt beside the king’s corpse, expressionless as he carefully straightened the king’s robe.
“Go help the poor monks… fetch some water.”
Barry Bear hesitated, lowering his voice: “If I leave and something happens to Master…”
“Go ahead, I’ll keep watch here.” Prince Adrian, the Little White Dragon, had already appeared at the doorway, leaning casually against it.
Barry Bear nodded silently and turned to leave.
Prince Adrian stepped over to the king’s corpse and squatted down, asking softly, “What are you doing? If it’s a funeral, wait until they’re done fighting—there’s no hurry.”
“The poor monk will recite sutras for him, to comfort his soul.”
“Recite sutras?” Prince Adrian burst out laughing. “There’s no rush for that.”
Tripitaka murmured to himself, “There’s no time. Too many people, not enough time.”
“What?” Prince Adrian suddenly stood up. “You want to personally recite sutras for everyone? Are you mad?”
Tripitaka’s hands paused, but after a moment, he bowed his head again and continued straightening the king’s robe.
After a long time, he sighed softly, “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘lofty in ambition, shallow in ability’? That is the poor monk. I thought I could move the world with a few words, turn people toward goodness, and ultimately prove universal salvation… In truth, all I have ever been able to do, from beginning to end, is this.”
He said no more. He simply bowed his head, focusing all his attention on what he believed must be done, leaving Prince Adrian frozen in place.
...
Elsewhere, the fierce battle continued.
General Curtain, clutching his wound, braced himself against the wind and sand, limping over to Marshal Silver and sitting down.
He asked quietly, “Why have the Twelve Golden Immortals turned their weapons on us?”
Marshal Silver had no answer; he only watched Tripitaka’s house with slumped shoulders.
General Curtain asked, “What is Tripitaka doing?”
Marshal Silver lowered his head and said quietly, “I don’t know.”
General Curtain was stunned by the defeated look on Marshal Silver’s face; to him, it seemed as if the Westward Quest itself had already failed.
Up on Spirit Mountain, inside the Great Thunderclap Temple, a monk knelt before the Buddhas and Arhats, reporting: “The Dharma-Quest Kingdom is in chaos, casualties exceed ten thousand, even the king is dead.”
An Arhat asked, “What is Tripitaka doing?”
The messenger hesitated, then answered, “He is chanting sutras to comfort the dead.”
The Arhats were taken aback. When they learned he was reciting simple soul-comforting sutras like those used by lowly monks and Daoist funeral priests, they scoffed.
In their eyes, Tripitaka suddenly shrank from a figure who might debate Dharma with Lord Buddha to a mere street monk playing at funerary rites.