Kidnapping the entire Journey to the West, starting by turning Sun Wukong against his own side.

Chapter 185 The Enemy Is Not Under the Lamp

That night, Qingdeng suddenly trembled.

It wasn't the wind. The old storehouse door was tightly shut, with dried peach leaves stuffed in the cracks. Chen Fan was holding a teacup, the rim pressed against his lips, the steam rising to his nose before it even reached his throat. He put the cup down and tapped the edge of the table twice with his fingertips.

A person walked out from the lamplight.

His sleeves were frayed at the edges, and his hair was disheveled, but his eyebrows and eyes were exactly the same as his. The man stood under the lamp, as if he were standing in an invisible line, not daring to step out even half a step.

Sun Wukong looked up, his golden cudgel resting on his lap. Without getting up, he simply turned the end of the cudgel slightly, locking the small opening at the doorway.

"Don't move," he said to Chen Fan. "I don't think he's a fake."

Under the lamplight, Chen Fan raised his hand, palm open, revealing neither weapon nor talisman. He glanced at Sun Wukong first, then looked back at Chen Fan, his voice hoarse as burnt paper: "I've come to hand over something."

Chen Fan didn't speak. He pulled the old booklet out from the innermost layer and placed it on the table, the fur-lined edge of the cover rubbing against his hands. The man under the lamp took a step closer, his toes still hovering at the edge of the lamplight. He pulled out a stack of thin pages from his pocket, the paper grayish-brown with scorched edges.

"The first nine rounds," he said, "the dead end."

Chen Fan placed the stack of papers on top of the booklet. There were no fancy words on the papers, just notes. Each page began with the same sentence—"Round X, staying under the lamp." Following that were the time, place, who came that day, what they said, and what he did at each moment.

On the seventh page, it even recorded the angle at which Sun Wukong swung his staff. The wind from the staff swept across the lamplight, causing the wick to shift by half an inch. Under the lamp, Chen Fan used his fingernail to push the wick back, his fingernail filled with black ink.

Sun Wukong's eye twitched, but he didn't say anything.

Chen Fan turned the pages one by one. At the end of the third round, the paper read: "The main tent platform opened for half a breath. The tent builder reached out. The one remaining under the lamp severed two fingers, pressed the opening shut, and withdrew in his new body."

Chen Fan looked up: "You're willing to stay under the lamp?"

Under the lamplight, Chen Fan nodded: "Every single time."

He glanced at the wick, as if afraid it would hear: "You think I'm trying to steal your place. I'm not. If I step out of the lamp, the memories of the Nine Wheels will be taken back. The Tent Builder will take them back and wipe them clean. You won't even remember how I died."

"Then how come you can remember it?" Chen Fan asked.

"I don't remember." Chen Fan chuckled briefly under the lamp. "Paper records. Bones record. The lamplight records a little too. The lamplight is a crack; I squeeze myself inside, and the tent-builder reaches in, grabbing me first."

Chen Fan closed the file, pressing his palm against the back of the paper, which still retained a scorching heat. He suddenly realized that what he thought was "his past self betraying him" was actually nine times he had shielded himself from harm.

Sun Wukong moved his staff an inch away and lowered his voice: "Is the person who set up the tent still here?"

Under the lamp, Chen Fan hummed in agreement: "Yes. The chief administrator isn't dead. It's just waiting for the seal."

Chen Fan recalled the old seal of Buddha, the indelible words in the Jade Emperor's register of fate, and the cough-like prompt from the system at the beginning. He had dismissed it as noise at the time. Now he understood—it was the hour of death.

Under the lamplight, Chen Fan raised his hand, his knuckles missing two pieces, the cuts clean, as if sliced ​​with a paper knife: "I'm not the enemy. I'm Ye. Ye who took the blow. Don't mistake me for another Chen Fan trying to kill you."

Chen Fan stared at him for a long while, then reached out and pushed the teacup towards him: "Take a sip."

Chen Fan under the lamp didn't take it. He looked at the tea as if it didn't belong under the lamp: "I can't drink it. People under the lamp can't stand the heat outside."

Chen Fan withdrew his hand, tracing his fingertip around the rim of the cup: "Then let's get down to business."

Under the lamp, Chen Fan pulled out the bottom sheet of the file. That sheet was thinner than the others, as if it had been pressed with water and then dried. There was a mark on it, half-circle and half-square, like the mark left by a palm pressing into mud.

"The operator's seal," he said. "Once the main altar is opened, the seal falls. It falls into the operator's hand. Whoever holds it can write your life and death."

Sun Wukong sneered: "Then we'll just steal it."

"We can steal it," Chen Fan said under the lamp. "You steal the prints, I'll burn the lamp."

Chen Fan frowned: "If you want to burn the lamp, then—"

Under the lamplight, Chen Fan shook his head: "I've already died nine times. One more won't count. If the lamp isn't burned, the recycling port won't open. Even if you steal the seal, you won't be able to leave. The person who sets up the accounts will erase everything back to its original state from the lamplight."

He raised his eyes, his gaze devoid of pleading, only filled with a hardened resolve: "Division of labor. The main body seizes the seal. I'll remain under the lamp to finish the recapture."

Chen Fan didn't answer immediately. He neatly folded the dead files and put them back in the old booklet. When the booklet closed, the paper rustled softly, like someone being covered with a blanket.

Sun Wukong suddenly spoke up: "Where is Xuanzang? Where is that brat Bailong? Where are the Bull Demon King and his son? If you're going to settle this score, you have to settle it cleanly."

Chen Fan raised his hand, signaling him not to rush. He turned to Chen Fan under the light: "After this is over, I'll take back all the connections."

Under the lamplight, Chen Fan nodded: "You take it. You take it while you're alive."

The green lamp trembled again.

Outside the threshold of the old warehouse, the mountain wind seemed to have been choked and suddenly stopped. Chen Fan heard a very faint tapping sound, like abacus beads falling into a wooden frame.

The main tent platform is open.

A hand appeared in the lamplight. The hand was short, pale, and its nails were strangely clean. It reached for the wick, as if touching a thread.

Under the lamplight, Chen Fan stepped into the shadows, pressing himself against the lamp base. He pressed his palm against the lamp's belly, causing the flame to surge upwards, burning the eyes. He roared at Chen Fan, his voice soft but his words harsh: "Take the seal!"

Chen Fan didn't hesitate. He pulled out the old Buddha seal from his sleeve. The old seal was originally an inanimate object, but now it seemed to come alive, its edges gleaming with a faint light. Chen Fan held it in his palm and slammed it down on the pale wrist outside the lamplight.

A muffled thud.

The mark was applied like a branding iron. The hand jerked back, and a small black mark, no bigger than a fingernail, fell silently from between the fingers.

Sun Wukong's staff arrived first. The tip of the staff flicked up the small seal and tossed it to Chen Fan's feet: "Take this!"

Chen Fan bent down to pick it up. The small seal felt like ice to his fingertips, painfully cold. He stuffed the seal into the fold of the old book and snapped it shut.

Under the lamp, the flame had already climbed to the wick. He tried to pinch the wick with his severed finger, but couldn't, so he simply pulled the entire wick outwards. Flames licked at his sleeve, and the fabric curled up at the charred edges.

The pale hand reached out again, swift and ruthless, grabbing for Chen Fan's throat under the lamp. Chen Fan didn't dodge; he used his shoulder to brace against the lamp base, knocking himself and the lamp over together.

The moment the green lamp fell to the ground, flames exploded.

There was no loud bang, only a wave of stifling heat. The old warehouse's wooden floor was scorched black. The gap in the lamplight seemed to have been cut by scissors, closing instantly. The pale hand withdrew before it closed, leaving only a fingertip, which fell into the fire and burned to ashes.

Chen Fan was also engulfed in flames under the lamp.

He looked up at Chen Fan one last time, his lips moved as if to say, "Don't look back." Before the words came out, he turned to ashes, which landed on the old book cover and were then slapped away by Chen Fan.

The room was eerily quiet.

Sun Wukong stood up, walked to Chen Fan's side, and looked down at the overturned lamp. The lamp base was cracked, empty inside, not even a trace of grease remained. He swept the charred fragments aside: "Now it's clean."

Chen Fan clutched the old booklet to his chest, his knuckles tingling. He knew it wasn't his imagination. The chilling feeling of being "held accountant" that had been weighing on his back had finally dissipated.

Footsteps could be heard outside.

Xuanzang pushed open the door and entered, peach petals clinging to the hem of his cassock. He first looked at the black circles on the floor, then at the old book in Chen Fan's arms, but without asking any questions, he simply clasped his hands together and asked, "Where is the chief administrator?"

"It's gone," Chen Fan said. "The operator's seal is also with me."

Xuanzang breathed a sigh of relief. He turned and called towards the door, "Bailong, come in."

The white dragon horse transformed into a boy, carrying a bucket of water. He stared at the charred floor and clicked his tongue, "It burned really badly."

"We don't have to keep watch over the lights anymore," Chen Fan said.

The white dragon horse put down the bucket, scratched its head, and asked, "Then should I go back to the West Sea?"

Xuanzang nodded: "Go back. The sins you owe can no longer be recorded in the old ledger. I'll pass on a message to the Dragon King of the West Sea for you. Just live your life well."

The white horse's eyes reddened slightly, but it didn't cry. It clasped its hands in a salute, turned, and walked away. Reaching the threshold, it turned back: "Strategist, I'm going to plant some seaweed too. Anyone who says I'm only fit to carry people, I'll kick them."

Sun Wukong snorted, "Go then."

Chen Fan hadn't forgotten the storyline involving the Bull Demon King and his son. That night, he wrote a letter and had the little monkey deliver it to the Flaming Mountain. The letter contained only one sentence: "Old scores are settled, and the mountain should no longer burn people." Later, the Bull Demon King brought Princess Iron Fan back to the mountain, closed the fire gate, and, together with Red Boy, built an irrigation canal. Still later, Red Boy went to the South Sea to see Guanyin, kowtowed, but refused to become her disciple, only asking to borrow a bottle of clean water to take back and water the land. He said he wanted to be "someone who can suppress fire."

In Heaven, the Jade Emperor's Register of Fates had become worthless. The Register of Fates relied on the main altar for support, but now that the altar was shattered and the seal stolen, the names written on it no longer bound anyone. Li Jing, the Pagoda-Bearing Heavenly King, visited Flower Fruit Mountain once, without troops, only carrying a jug of wine. After drinking it, he put the jug down and said, "You've won. Don't come causing trouble in Heaven again, and I won't descend to the mortal realm to bother you." He then left, his figure appearing shorter than before.

In Buddhism, the Buddha's old seal had lost its use. The sutra-writing gathering at Vulture Peak was discontinued, and Xuanzang sealed his revised sutra pages in a box, burying them under a peach tree on Flower and Fruit Mountain. He said, "Sutras are written for people to read, not for accountants to read."

As for the amoral system, Chen Fan only heard it make a soft sound, like an old wooden door closing. The words "mission reset" flashed through his mind once, and then there was no more sound. It had come, it had caused trouble, and it had accompanied him to the end.

As time went by, many more years passed quickly.

The peach trees on Flower Fruit Mountain have been replaced for the fourth time. The threshold of the old warehouse has been worn smooth by countless footsteps. The green lamp has not been lit again; the fragments of the lamp base have been cleaned up by Sun Wukong and buried under the roots of the peach tree.

One day in late spring, Sun Wukong sat on a rock teaching a little monkey to write. The same two characters remained on the paper.

"Concluded".

After finishing writing, the little monkey looked up and asked, "Strategist, did I write it correctly?"

Chen Fan descended the stone steps, holding a cup of tea. The tea was still bitter. He glanced at the paper and nodded, "Yes."

Sun Wukong rested his staff across his lap and lazily grunted. Xuanzang sat beside him, drying his scripture box; the lid was open, and the box was empty. A breeze blew by, carrying only the scent of wood.

Chen Fan looked back at the old warehouse. The door was closed, and no light could get in through the cracks. He didn't try to open it.

The story ends here; the ledger is closed, and the fire is extinguished. Waves of noise roll through the mountains—the voices of living people.

Chapter 629, Page 6, Operator Section

The door to the old warehouse hadn't been opened for a long time.

Chen Fan raised his hand and pushed the door open. The hinges creaked, as if pulling old memories out from the cracks. There was no smell of ashes inside, only the coolness of wood. The green lamp was not in its original place; the wick was pressed against the edge of the lamp dish, as if someone had deliberately left a gap.

Sun Wukong stood at the door, not coming in. He held his golden cudgel across his knees and tapped the wooden door frame twice with his knuckles, as if urging him to come in.

Xuanzang carried the scripture box, which was empty and light in his arms. He looked at Chen Fan's retreating figure and asked, "Are you really going to turn to page six?"

Chen Fan didn't turn around, but simply spread the old booklet out on the table. The cover was frayed at the edges, and felt prickly to the touch. When he turned to the sixth page, the paper was completely white, without a single ink spot. It was excessively white, like paper that had just been cut.

The next instant, a gust of wind rose above the paper.

The wind was light, causing the ashes in the lamp dish to slide to one side. A seal emerged from the white page, hovering half an inch above the surface, as steady as if nailed to the air. The seal was half black and half gray, with sharp edges, as if it had been newly carved.

Sun Wukong's eyelids twitched: "Operator's Seal."

Chen Fan stared at the half-black, half-gray mark for a long time until his eyes started to ache. He reached out, but before his fingertips even touched the mark, the black half moved first. The black part stretched out like a line from the mark into the distance, into the void, as if being held by someone.

Xuanzang said in a low voice, "The one who sets up the tent."

No one had mentioned that name in a long time. Even when it was mentioned, it didn't ring a bell, but it seemed to lower the temperature in the room slightly. Chen Fan withdrew his hand, his palms sweaty. He saw Hui Ban tremble slightly, as if recognizing him, and move closer to him before stopping.

Gray is temporarily his.

The black half was remotely pre-occupied.

Sun Wukong grinned, but the smile didn't come across as genuine: "It's not over yet?"

Chen Fan didn't reply. He saw three lines of thin characters floating up below the seal. The characters weren't written in ink; they seemed to be cast out by themselves under the lamplight.

—Right to modify pages.

—The right to inherit the wrong.

—Right to terminate.

After the first three lines were written, two more smaller lines were added.

"Each one is indispensable."

"Open upon verification."

Xuanzang put down the scripture box and rubbed his fingers on the corner of it: "Do we have the right to modify pages?"

Chen Fan nodded. He pulled out three thin, fish-scale-like fragments from his sleeve. The second, third, and fourth pages were fragments of what was fought fiercely back then, and were also ruthlessly preserved. Each fragment carried the scent of old ink, and holding it in his palm felt like touching a wound.

Sun Wukong pointed his staff at the three pieces: "As long as they work."

Chen Fan placed the tattered page next to the blank page. The tattered page moved gently by itself, as if returning home, and stuck next to the sixth page with a very soft "click." It was the sound of the paper closing.

We have the right to modify the page.

Of the three lines, the one about "right to modify pages" lit up, as bright as a lamp wick being turned up.

Xuanzang looked up: "What about the right to inherit the wrong title?"

Chen Fan looked at the unlit lamp. A small wooden plaque was pressed under the lamp dish, bearing a burn mark. He reached out and flipped the plaque over; two words were engraved on the back: Chen Fan.

That was the mistake he admitted under the lamp years ago.

He didn't speak, but pressed the wooden plaque against the edge of the sixth page. Below the seal, the line for "Right to Inherit Errors" also lit up. After it lit up, it sank back down, as if it had been recorded.

The remaining right is to terminate the contract.

A moment of silence fell over the room. Sun Wukong stood his golden cudgel upright and planted it on the ground: "Where is the right to terminate?"

Chen Fan stared at the seal, his throat feeling dry. He had guessed many possibilities: the jade table in Heaven, the lotus platform on Mount Ling, even the last page of that old book. But now, the three lines of text were crystal clear, as if someone were whispering in his ear.

The right to terminate is unknown.

Xuanzang spoke first: "We can only go to the main tent platform."

Sun Wukong raised his eyes: "Wasn't the main platform itself collapsed long ago?"

"What collapsed was the platform." Chen Fan closed the old book, pressing his finger against the cover. "The main body is still there. It never relied on bricks or stones."

After saying this, he gave a bitter laugh. The laugh was brief, like swallowing a mouthful of bitter tea.

They didn't stop at the old warehouse for long.

They knew the paths of Flower Fruit Mountain so well they could walk them blindfolded, but this time they took a different route. Behind the mountain, in that ravine, lay the shattered shell of the True Source Lock, buried long ago. The shell was entangled by peach roots, as if held down by time, unable to turn over. Chen Fan glanced at it as he passed, but didn't stop. He knew in his heart that the thread of the True Source Lock had long since broken, completely severed. No one had ever tried to mend it since.

At the end of the rift valley, there was a shadowy doorway—not a door, but a vertical shadow. Chen Fan held up the old book, its back facing the shadow. An echo came from within, like someone turning over a curtain.

The door slowly opened, revealing a section of stone steps.

The stone steps were free of moss, as if swept daily. At the end stood a table. It wasn't large, like a small altar for offering bowls in an ordinary household, yet it commanded respect. Fine lines were etched on its surface, like words written and erased countless times.

The main body of the ledger.

A figure stood in front of the stage, his back to them. He was short, with narrow shoulders, and his clothes looked like they were made of paper. A gust of wind blew, and the hem of his clothes rustled.

Sun Wukong gripped his staff tightly: "Tent builder."

The man didn't turn around, but simply raised his hand and lightly tapped the table with his fingertips. The half-black image of the operator above page six was pulled slightly, sinking half an inch in this direction.

The figure spoke, its voice like two sheets of paper rubbing against each other: "You've been searching for too long."

Chen Fan stepped to the front of the table, neither drawing his sword nor assuming a fighting stance. He placed the old booklet on the table and pushed it forward half an inch: "The accounts are settled. You're still occupying half the space; what are you trying to do?"

The figure finally turned around.

His face was deathly pale, not like flesh, but like an old sheet of paper pasted onto his bones. His eyes, however, were very clear, so clear it sent a chill down one's spine. He glanced at Chen Fan, then at Sun Wukong: "You altered the pages, creating a way out. But this way out isn't yours. It belongs to the accountant."

Sun Wukong raised his staff to strike, but Chen Fan stopped him with a raised hand.

Chen Fan asked, "Where is the right to terminate?"

The person who set up the account chuckled, a thin laugh: "The right to terminate is with the station. If you can get it, that's your skill."

As soon as he finished speaking, the fine lines on the table lit up, like ripples on water. Chen Fan saw a handprint emerge from the lines; the handprint was very small, like a child's. Next to the handprint was a line of small characters.

"Termination: to be proven by the operator."

Xuanzang took a step forward: "Prove what?"

The accountant didn't look at him, only at Chen Fan: "Prove that you're willing to push your little bit of 'acceptance of fault' to the very end. To the point where even you can't protect yourself."

Chen Fan understood.

The right to terminate is not a thing. It's an action. Pressing it, the operator's seal merges, and the account stops. But the person terminating the account will also write themselves into the termination column. Once written in, there's no turning back.

Sun Wukong snorted: "Who are you trying to scare?"

He stretched out his staff, intending to help Chen Fan. The moment the staff tip touched the grooves, the grooves suddenly contracted, like thorns. Sun Wukong's hand went numb, and he almost dropped the staff.

The person who set up the account said calmly, "You're not part of the operator group."

Chen Fan pushed Sun Wukong's staff back down: "I'll do it."

He extended his right hand. His palm was calloused, and his fingertips had thin cuts from years of use. He pressed his palm firmly onto the child's handprint.

The platform suddenly tightened, as if it wanted to swallow his hand. Chen Fan didn't pull away. Many images flashed through his mind: stuffing fruit into the monkey's mouth at the foot of Five Finger Mountain, snatching scriptures at the foot of Spirit Mountain, stomping on broken jade tablets on the Heavenly Court steps, and the cup of bitter tea at the entrance of the old warehouse of Flower Fruit Mountain.

He didn't swear any oath, nor did he shout anything.

He only said one thing to the person who set up the account: "You treat people as numbers, and I'll treat people as people. That's enough."

The countertop clicked, like a lock being put on.

The operator's seal on the sixth page suddenly sank, the black and gray halves colliding. There was no light during the collision, only a chilling sensation brushing against the skin. The black line representing the person who established the account was severed, as if cut by scissors.

The paper on his face began to wrinkle and crack.

He reached out to grab the edge of the table, but only grasped air. He looked at Chen Fan, a flicker of panic in his eyes for the first time: "You really dare to stop?"

Chen Fan didn't let go: "I dare."

The figure of the tent-setter gradually thinned, like paper being soaked in water. A final gust of wind blew, and he shattered into tiny pieces of ash, which fell to the ground below. The ash didn't accumulate; it scattered as soon as it hit the ground, as if he had never been there.

Sun Wukong didn't chase after him, nor did he deliver a final blow. He simply stared at the pile of ashes for a long time, then exhaled, "This time it's really gone."

Xuanzang squatted down and rubbed a sliver of ash that hadn't completely dissipated. A speck of black, like ink residue, was mixed in with the ash. He wiped his fingers clean on the stone steps, then stood up: "The villain's score is settled."

Chen Fan released his grip.

The embossed pattern faded, and the handprint disappeared. The operator's seal on the sixth page landed on the paper, becoming a real seal. The surface was no longer distinguished by black and gray, but became a plain, dark gray. The gray wasn't pretty, but it felt solid.

The old book was opened, and finally words appeared on the sixth page.

There were only three lines of text, written in the style Chen Fan usually did, without paying attention to the brushstrokes.

"Revised page: Return to all living beings."

"Responsibility for mistakes: attributed to the operator."

"End: Return to Today."

After reading it, Chen Fan closed the booklet and put it back in his arms. He felt a void in his chest, and a sense of lightness.

When they returned to Flower Fruit Mountain, it was already broad daylight.

The stone at the entrance to the old warehouse is still there. The little monkey lies on the stone practicing his calligraphy; the paper still bears the same two characters: "Completed." After finishing the last stroke, he looks up and shouts, "Strategist, did I write it correctly?"

Chen Fan stood at the bottom of the stone steps, not offering tea. He raised his hand and gently erased a small part of the crooked stroke the little monkey had written, then handed the brush back to him: "Correct it yourself this time."

The little monkey bit its tongue and rewrote it. It wrote it straight now, and its eyes shone brightly.

Sun Wukong placed his golden cudgel across his lap and tapped the paper: "Alright."

Xuanzang placed the scripture box in the old storeroom and closed the lid. This time, the box wasn't empty. He put in a stack of new paper, on which were written the names of the children in the mountains: who liked to fight, who liked to steal peaches, and who liked to cry. He would remember them all and teach them later.

The white dragon horse later returned to the Western Sea. He no longer served as a mount, but became an official in charge of patrolling the tides at the sea mouth. Every year when the peach blossoms bloomed, he would send a jar of sea salt up the mountain, which contained fragments of seashells that would be hard to chew.

The Bull Demon King and his son returned to the Flaming Mountain. Red Boy stopped calling himself the Holy Infant King and instead built a water channel at the foot of the mountain. With the channel flowing, the heat of the Flaming Mountain dissipated considerably. Princess Iron Fan scolded him for three days, but after she finished, she still gave him a bowl of rice.

No new registers were established in Heaven. The Jade Emperor's register of fate was later stored in the innermost layer of the old archives by Xuanzang, with two pieces of paper pasted on the cover, one saying "Old" and the other "Cessated". The Buddhist sect did not send anyone to investigate again, and later someone dismantled the bell on Mount Ling to cast a pot. The pot had a thick bottom, so the porridge cooked in it did not become mushy.

Chen Fan didn't become any new master. He took the operator's seal and did only one thing: stamped "closed" on every page of the old book. After stamping, he put the seal under the lamp dish, pressed down the wick, and stopped it from lighting up.

Many years later, Flower Fruit Mountain was still noisy. The noise included laughter, curses, and tears. The old warehouse door was always open; the wind would come in and then leave, and no one was afraid.

Spring was drawing to a close once more, and peach blossoms fell onto the stones. Chen Fan sat in the doorway, basking in the sun, with no book in his hand, only a cup of tea. The tea was still bitter. He took a sip and placed the cup on the edge of the stone.

The little monkey has grown taller and is now helping the even smaller monkey practice writing. The same two characters are still written on the paper.

"Concluded".

After he finished writing, he looked up and asked as usual, "Strategist, did I write it correctly?"

Chen Fan glanced at it and nodded: "Yes."

Sun Wukong grunted in agreement and tapped the ground with his staff, marking the end of the lesson.

The wind blew in from the mountain pass, carrying the scent of peach blossoms. There were no lights in the old warehouse, nor was there any need for them.

Chapter 630 The Main Tent Opens

Chen Fan placed the cup of bitter tea back on the edge of the stone, and the bottom of the cup made a soft sound as it tapped.

The door to the old warehouse opened a crack by itself. Not by the wind. A sliver of light squeezed through the crack, as thin as the edge of paper. Then, that sliver of light widened inch by inch, illuminating the perpetual clump of dust on the threshold. The dust didn't fly away, as if someone had held it down.

Sun Wukong glanced up, his golden cudgel still on his knee.

"Have you finished writing again?" he asked.

Chen Fan didn't answer, but reached out to touch the wooden shelf in the old storeroom. The old book on page six lay on the innermost layer, its cover rough and scratchy. He turned it over, and surprisingly, the corners weren't brittle; instead, they were cold.

The previously empty "Operator" field on the page now has a line of small print. The handwriting is neither elegant nor illegible, like an accountant writing for a colleague.

—The tenth time it has been granted access.

Xuanzang fastened the sutra box, his finger lingering on the clasp for a moment.

"Were those quotation marks at the beginning written for us?"

Chen Fan closed the booklet and noticed his throat was a little dry.

"Yes. It's urging us to believe the debt is settled."

The white dragon horse stamped its hoof outside the door, splashing a little dampness onto the bluestone. The Bull Demon King, carrying his large sword, tapped the ground with the back of the blade. The little monkeys crowded behind, none of them making a sound; even the usually noisy yellow-haired monkey was biting its own tail.

Sun Wukong stood up and hoisted his staff onto his shoulder.

"Then let's go in. Old Sun's tired of this whole thing."

Chen Fan nodded and stepped over the threshold. As his foot landed, he realized that the threshold was not wood, but a cold stone, like a bone buried in the ground.

The old, dim lamp in the warehouse, which had never been lit before, now burned steadily. Its flame remained still, as if someone had restrained its temperament. Below the lamp was a black iron lock. Engraved on the lock were the words "True Source," with fine cracks in the characters, like dried mud.

Chen Fan spread out the old booklet and pressed his fingertip on the line "Tenth Entry".

"The True Source Lock isn't a door lock," he said softly. "It locks the hearts we thought were closed."

Sun Wukong, impatient with the long conversation, raised his staff and tapped it against the lock's core. The moment the staff touched it, the lock trembled slightly, then the cracks widened sharply. There was no loud bang, only a muffled cracking sound, like ice breaking in winter.

The lock shattered into a shell, which, instead of falling to the ground, spun in mid-air before transforming into nine thin pieces. Each piece flew towards the wall and adhered to one of the nine hidden doors.

When the first door opened, Chen Fan smelled a faint scent of ink.

When the second door opened, fine, intricate patterns emerged on the stone surface beneath our feet.

When the third door opened, scratches appeared on the wall, like old accounts being repeatedly scratched off.

The doors opened and closed nine times, one after another, without making a sound. With each opening, the green lamp lit up a little, its light illuminating everyone's faces, as if pulling them out of the shadows bit by bit.

When the door on the ninth floor opened, the wind stopped.

Before them was neither a passageway nor a storeroom. It was a flat area. At the far end of the area stood a table. The tabletop was wide, the wood dark in color, and the edges were rounded. There was no abacus or inkstone on the table, only a similar blue lamp. Under the lamp was an old wooden plaque with four characters written on it: Main Account Table.

Behind the table stood nine old stone tablets. The tablets weren't tall, only waist-high to chest-high. Their surfaces were worn white, and each tablet bore nine lines of names, all crossed out and re-engraved. Chen Fan leaned closer for a look; the first tablet didn't have a name inscribed on it, but rather a sentence: "First attempt to enter, failed, archived."

The ninth stele is empty. Only a small "ten" is carved at the very bottom.

Beside the table was a stone core, like an egg encased within a rock. The core bore handprints of varying sizes, as if many people had visited and pressed their hands before leaving. Xuanzang stared at the stone core for a while, then murmured:

"The mountain lord... wasn't on the mountain after all."

Chen Fan didn't reply. He saw a dark golden light hanging behind the table. Within the light was what looked like a seal, or perhaps a scepter. It didn't touch the ground, but remained three feet above the table back, with nine chains hanging around it. The chains were thin, yet they jingled loudly, producing a dull metallic echo with the slightest movement. The chain ends were nailed into the bases of nine old steles, as if locking them in by failure.

That thing must be the Zhenyuan authority.

Sun Wukong walked over and reached out to grab it. The chain suddenly jerked, like a living thing whipping someone. Sun Wukong didn't dodge; instead, he flipped his wrist, and his staff blocked the blow. The chain struck the staff, and sparks flew out, falling to the ground but not extinguishing; instead, they seeped into the stone like ink spots.

The Bull Demon King cursed under his breath and swung his blade. The blade struck the chain, leaving a white mark. The white mark disappeared in an instant, like an account being smoothed over.

"We can't cut it down." The Bull Demon King gasped for breath. "This thing is unreasonable."

Chen Fan gave a forced smile, but it was a smile he couldn't quite manage.

"It's inherently unreasonable. It's all about accounts."

He walked around to the front of the main tent and looked up at the table. The table was excessively clean, as if waiting for someone to write. The line "Tenth Entry Permit" echoed in his mind.

Xuanzang walked to his side and put down the scripture box. The box was empty.

"I won't carry it anymore," Xuanzang said. "I made a vow years ago to finish the journey. Now the journey is right here at this table."

The white dragon horse transformed back into human form, covered in moisture, and carrying a short spear.

"Strategist, what are you going to do?"

Chen Fan pulled out the old book and flipped to the last page. There was a blank space at the bottom, as if it were reserved for someone to sign their name. Chen Fan stared at the blank space for a while, then suddenly remembered those hundred years under the Five Fingers Mountain, when he handed fruit to Sun Wukong, his hands cracked from the cold, the blood dripping into the mud and quickly disappearing. At that time, he thought his life would always be like that.

Later, he ascended to the Heavenly Court, overturned the Buddhist order, cursed the Jade Emperor, and even deceived the Bodhisattvas. He showed no mercy in his words, but he always kept one thing in mind—never again should anyone treat people like accounts.

"The person who set up the account won't come out," Chen Fan said. "They only left a single instruction, wanting us to guess each other's intentions and waste our time."

Sun Wukong slammed his staff into the ground, and the ground shook.

"Then force him to come out."

Chen Fan shook his head.

"It's a master of hiding. It's inside the tent, not behind the stage."

He raised his hand and pointed to the nine old steles.

"Nine attempts to gain entry, nine failures. It's not that those who failed weren't strong; it's that they all wanted to smash the door down in the end. The door was smashed, but the debt remained."

Xuanzang understood and his brows relaxed.

"You want to change the accounts?"

"It's not about changing it." Chen Fan placed the old book on the main table and pressed the cover down with his palm.

"It's over."

Sun Wukong stared at him. His gaze was direct, as direct as a knife.

"After it's over, will we still be alive?"

"Yes," Chen Fan said. "We don't owe it anything."

He picked up the pen on the table. Under the lamplight, the pen looked like an old bamboo stick, yet it felt heavy in his hand. Chen Fan didn't rush to write; instead, he brought over the cup of bitter tea. The tea was there too, the rim of the cup still warm from his hand.

He took a sip; it was so bitter it made his tongue numb. After the numbness subsided, his heart calmed down.

Chen Fan put down his pen.

With his first stroke, he wrote the character "已" (already). The moment the brush touched the ground, all nine chains tightened simultaneously, as if to snap his wrists. Sun Wukong stepped forward, pressing his staff down on the most aggressive chain. The staff emitted a low hum, and Sun Wukong gritted his teeth, remaining silent as he pressed down harder.

With his second stroke, he wrote the character for "knot." The chains lashed wildly, and the Bull Demon King raised his sword to block, the blade turning red from the blows. The White Dragon Horse flicked its short spear, deflecting two chains that were about to wrap around Chen Fan's shoulders. Xuanzang, instead of carrying the scriptures, took an empty box and braced it against Chen Fan's back, as if to give him a breath of fresh air.

As the pen finally brought the brush to its final stroke, the lamp suddenly flickered for a moment. The flame rushed forward, licking the cover of the account book. The cover didn't burn; instead, it seemed to have been soaked in hot water, revealing layer after layer of interlocking pages inside.

The insert was densely covered with quotation marks.

Each "complete" character is like a stamped coffin.

Chen Fan raised his hand and closed the ledger, then slapped his palm hard.

That's enough.

The sound wasn't loud, but it was like loosening a wedge under a table. All nine old steles trembled simultaneously, the scratches on them beginning to peel off, falling piece by piece to the ground and turning to ash. From the ash, the original characters beneath were revealed—not failure, nor filing, but two characters each written by one of the nine individuals: Release them.

The tent chains suddenly came undone, as if someone had snapped their neck. The dark golden light, now free, slowly descended behind the main tent platform, hovering in mid-air, as if waiting for someone to reach out.

Sun Wukong went to grab him first, but Chen Fan raised his hand to stop him.

"Don't take it."

Sun Wukong frowned.

"Then why did you write 'finished'?"

Chen Fan pushed the Zhenyuan authority back onto the table very slowly.

"A thing like Zhenyuan is unstable no matter who controls it. What we want is not to change the accountant, but to dismantle the accountant altogether."

After he finished speaking, he blew out the lamp.

The instant the lamplight went out, the entire Ninth Origin Field wrinkled like paper. The nine old steles, the stone core, the main altar—each faded one by one. In the end, only a clean stone floor remained. In the center of the stone floor lay the shattered shell of the True Origin Lock, silent.

The words "Tenth Entry" in the air had faded, like ink being washed away by water.

The person who created the ledger never appeared. Nor could they ever appear again. Later, Chen Fan realized that the person who created the ledger wasn't a face; it was a set of rules, cold characters written by a group of people to save trouble. Once the cold characters were closed, they could only lie in the old book and mold.

When they emerged from the old warehouse, it was still not dark. The wind on Flower Fruit Mountain still carried the scent of peach blossoms. The little monkeys crowded around, their eyes shining, but none dared to ask first.

Sun Wukong placed his staff across his lap and sat back down on the rock as usual.

"Write," he said to the little monkey.

The little monkey held the pen, his hand trembling slightly. He wrote the two words on the paper once, then again. Finally, he looked up and asked:

"Strategist, did I write it correctly?"

Chen Fan looked at the paper. It no longer said "Concluded". The little monkey had written "Release". The strokes were a little crooked, but he straightened them himself.

Chen Fan nodded.

"right."

The rest doesn't need to be described in great detail. Xuanzang burned the Jade Emperor's natal record into the fire, leaving only ashes. The ashes were scattered at the mouth of the Milky Way, and the water didn't change taste. Sun Wukong crushed the old seal on Mount Ling with his staff, burying the fragments under the peach trees on Flower Fruit Mountain; the peaches were even sweeter the following year. The Bull Demon King returned to Mount Jilei with his son, no longer collecting tolls, occasionally sending a couple of jars of wine, stubbornly insisting it was "repaying you for that mistake." The White Dragon Horse stayed in the mountains to teach the little monkeys how to navigate waterways, complaining that they always fell into the streams.

Chen Fan didn't become a mountain lord, nor did he touch the account books again. He still loved to sit in the doorway basking in the sun, holding his cup of bitter tea. Sun Wukong continued teaching characters, lightly tapping the paper with his stick. Xuanzang placed his empty scripture box under the eaves, containing only a clean cloth, saying it was for wiping the table.

Another spring has come to an end, and peach blossoms have fallen on the stones. Chen Fan finished his tea, the bottom of the cup tapping against the edge of the stone with that familiar soft sound. The little monkey finished writing the last stroke and held up the paper for him to see.

The paper had two words written neatly: Release the person.

Chen Fan took the paper, folded it, and tucked it into his sleeve. A breeze blew in from the mountain pass, carrying the scent of peach blossoms and the sweat of living people. The old warehouse door remained closed, never to be opened again.

Chapter 631, page 7, error column

Text content

The air still carried the scent of peach blossoms. Chen Fan tucked the piece of paper with "Release" written on it into his sleeve, the cuff touching his wrist, the corner of the paper digging into him. He didn't look at the door of the old warehouse, but his feet circled halfway around and stopped in front of the threshold.

There was no light coming through the crack in the door.

Sun Wukong teaches writing on a stone, tapping the paper lightly with his stick. Xuanzang wipes a table under the eaves; the cloth is clean, but no matter how much he wipes, he can't get any dust out. The little monkeys laugh and play, none of them afraid of anyone else; it seems like only these trivial sounds remain in the mountains.

Chen Fan placed his hand on the door. The wood was cool, and the grain pricked his palm. He paused for a moment, then pushed it open.

There were no lights in the old storeroom. There was no dust flying around, as if someone came to clean it every day. On the main table against the wall, there was an old book, its cover more frayed, and a cracked mark pressed into the corner.

Chen Fan sat down, not in a hurry to turn the pages. He first poured himself half a cup of tea. The tea was still bitter, but the bitterness rolled down his throat, which ironically made him more alert.

The old booklet turned to page seven on its own.

An extra column appeared on the paper, as if someone had carved it with a blunt pen; the characters were messy but eye-catching—the wrong column.

The following is a single sentence: The person operating in this round must accept the consequences of all nine previous failures. Only after accepting this can you continue to the next page.

Chen Fan stared at the words and tapped his knuckles twice on the edge of the table. The tapping wasn't loud, but it could be heard clearly in the old warehouse.

"The first nine times?" he said in a low voice. "You certainly know how to hold a grudge."

A voice called out from outside, "Don't lean back!" It sounded like it was coming from far away, yet also like it was right next to the door. Chen Fan didn't turn around. He reached out to touch the crack; there was ash in the crack, like a burnt thread.

The lamp suddenly lit up a little.

The lamp wasn't in the room, yet it seemed to shine through the paper. Chen Fan's vision blurred, and he saw his "old self."

It wasn't another person standing opposite him. It was more like a shadow falling on the table, with familiar movements in the shadow: turning pages, making accounts, gritting his teeth and writing down the word "retreat," then crumpling the paper into a ball and stuffing it into his sleeve.

The shadow looked up, its eyes not fierce, but weary.

"You want to take the valuables I left behind?" Shadow said, his voice as if he'd been drinking bitter tea for three days. "Take all the things I lost first."

Below the "Acceptance of Errors" column, a line of smaller text appeared: "Can be borne by one person alone. The one who bears it alone will be swallowed up on the spot."

Chen Fan smiled, but it didn't quite look like a smile. He reached out his hand, as if to press it down.

The shadow didn't stop him; instead, it opened its hand, revealing a ring of black marks on its palm, as if it had been burned.

"If you press it, I'll be clean," the shadow said. "And you'll be clean too. So clean you won't even remember who you are."

Chen Fan's hand stopped. He recalled the hundred years under the Five Fingers Mountain, the trembling stubbornness of his lips when he first tried to persuade Sun Wukong to defect, and how each time he thought he had outmaneuvered someone, he was ultimately forced back into the mud by the rules of Heaven and Buddhism. Nine dead ends, nine blocked paths, each time feeling like a piece of flesh had been torn away from his back.

He didn't want to carry it alone. It wasn't that he was afraid of the pain, but that he was afraid that after carrying it all, there would be no one left by his side.

He withdrew his hand and walked to the door.

Sun Wukong was taking the paper from the little monkey's hand, frowning as he looked at it. Xuanzang looked up and saw Chen Fan standing by the door, stopping his wiping of the table.

Chen Fan didn't beat around the bush: "Page seven of the main account has come out. Someone has to admit to the previous nine defeats. If only one person admits it, they'll be swallowed by the lamp."

Sun Wukong rolled up the paper, stuffed it into his sleeve, and held his staff horizontally: "You think you can carry this all by yourself?"

Chen Fan neither nodded nor shook his head. He looked at Sun Wukong's hands, the knuckles calloused from years of using the staff. Then he looked at Xuanzang, his sleeves worn, the ink stains from years of writing scriptures and copying accounts still visible.

Xuanzang put down the cloth and took two steps closer: "Accepting mistakes is not admitting defeat. It's taking over the debts incurred so that things can be settled later."

Sun Wukong snorted: "Speak human language."

Xuanzang looked at Chen Fan and said, "Remember the mistakes you've made. Don't repeat them."

Chen Fan felt that bitter taste of tea return to his throat. He nodded: "Together."

Sun Wukong didn't ask any more questions and turned to walk towards the old storehouse. Xuanzang followed, his steps unhurried. The little monkeys wanted to follow, but Sun Wukong silenced them with a single look: "Practice calligraphy."

The old book is still lying open in the old warehouse. The container looks like it's open its mouth, waiting for someone to put it in.

Chen Fan sat back down in the main seat and pushed the old book between the three of them. Sun Wukong pressed one hand on the corner of the page, with considerable force. Xuanzang pressed his fingertip on that line of text, as if pressing a punctuation mark in a scripture.

Chen Fan said, "Nine times are on me. They're on our side. Don't let you guys waste your time with me."

The words in the "Incorrect Entrance" column trembled slightly, as if confirming something.

The next instant, light peeked through the cracks in the paper, not hot, but heavy. Chen Fan felt a weight on his shoulders, as if nine soaking wet sacks had been placed on his back. The sacks didn't contain stones, but a pile of trivial matters: once he had arranged for the White Dragon Horse to the wrong ferry, almost causing it to have its scales scraped off by the heavenly soldiers; once he had pushed Red Boy too hastily, causing half of the Fire Cloud Cave to burn down, and Princess Iron Fan knelt in the rubble without crying, only saying, "You owe me"; and another time, he tried to use the Buddha's old seal to set up a trap, but the old seal backfired, and the wound on Sun Wukong's chest didn't heal for a year, and it hurt even when he turned over at night.

These scenes unfold like pages of a ledger, offering no escape.

Chen Fan gritted his teeth, trying to tough it out. The shadow of the green lamp had already stretched to his feet, like water about to rise.

Sun Wukong suddenly spoke up: "That time you told me not to go back to Flower Fruit Mountain, but I didn't listen. As a result, the heavenly soldiers followed the clues and killed thirty-seven monkeys. I'm counted in for it too."

He pressed his palms even tighter. Chen Fan saw the veins on the back of Sun Wukong's hand twitch.

Xuanzang continued in a low voice, "That time I insisted on going to the old site of the Western Paradise, hoping to find the last scroll of scripture. I slowed down the group on the way, giving them a chance to catch their breath. That scroll of scripture was never found. Count me in."

The shadow of the green lamp paused, as if it couldn't find a crack to swallow someone whole. The words in the blank space began to fade, like ink being washed away by water.

Chen Fan heard a "snap" sound.

It wasn't thunder, nor a stick, but a speck of dust that had fallen from the crack in the old book. The dust settled on the edge of the seventh page, like a stamp.

The tightness in his chest suddenly dissipated. What dissipated wasn't bitterness, but a clarity: where he had failed nine times, where he should have stopped nine times, and where he shouldn't have reached out nine times. Those memories that were originally just painful were forcibly compressed into usable rules, etched into his heart.

A new line of text appears below the error message: Passed.

Chen Fan raised his hand and noticed that the gray mark on the back of his hand had expanded by half an inch. The original black mark had been pushed to the edge, like an old scar that had been pressed down.

Sun Wukong glanced at it and raised the corner of his mouth: "You've managed to suppress it this time."

Chen Fan closed the old booklet and said softly, "Beating the black half doesn't count as winning. It means I won't use you as chips anymore."

Xuanzang folded the tablecloth and put it back in the scripture box: "The accounts for the first nine times are settled today. The accounts for the living are the next ones."

The wind blew in again from outside. The old warehouse door was open, and the light fell on the threshold, not too bright. The little monkeys were still practicing their writing, but the words on the paper had changed. It was no longer "settled" or "released," but three words—"no more debts."

Chen Fan went outside and stood at the door for a while. He turned back and closed the old warehouse door, not locking it, but just making sure the door was tightly shut. The sound of the wood fitting together was solid.

Later, the Jade Emperor personally changed the Heavenly Court's register of destiny back to normal, abolishing the "destiny of the pilgrimage." The Jade Emperor retreated to the rear hall of the Lingxiao Palace, guarding an old bell, and no longer mustered troops. On the Buddhist side, the Buddha's old seal was broken in two and left in the old storehouse of Flower Fruit Mountain as a paperweight. Mount Ling stopped sending people down the mountain, and Xuanzang never returned. He left the empty scripture box under the eaves and began teaching the little monkeys to read, also instructing them not to bully the weak with sticks.

The Bull Demon King returned to Mount Jilei and opened a winery. Princess Iron Fan no longer fanned the fire, but only the wind. Red Boy learned to write from Xuanzang, and his temper subsided considerably, though he was still occasionally stubborn. The White Dragon Horse refused to be a mount anymore and went to the East Sea, becoming a sea-guarding dragon, bringing two baskets of salted fish to the mountain during festivals.

Chen Fan lived. He didn't become a saint, nor a Buddha. He simply got up a little earlier each day to boil water and brew bitter tea. Sun Wukong continued to teach writing, tapping the paper with his stick, and making them rewrite if they made a mistake. The mountains grew more lively each year; the sounds of noise rolling by were all the voices of living people.

Many years passed, and the peach blossoms of late spring still fell on that same stone. Chen Fan finished his tea, the bottom of the cup tapping against the edge of the stone with that familiar soft sound. The little monkey finished writing the last stroke and held up the paper. Four words were neatly written on the paper: The accounts are settled.

Chen Fan glanced at it and nodded: "Cleared."

Sun Wukong grunted and sheathed his staff. Xuanzang wiped the table clean and spread out the cloth to dry under the eaves. The wind blew in from the mountain pass, carrying a fainter scent of peach blossoms, but it was still strong.

Chapter 632, page 8: Termination Clue

The cracks in the old warehouse door hadn't let in any light for many years.

The wind wasn't strong that day, yet the mountains were unusually quiet. The monkeys' calligraphy practice papers remained untouched, not even the tablecloth under the eaves made a sound. Sun Wukong propped his staff up beside the threshold and tapped the door twice with his fingers. After tapping, he looked at Chen Fan.

Chen Fan held the cup of bitter tea but didn't drink it. He placed the bottom of the cup on the edge of the stone, loosened his grip, and the cup came to a steady stop.

"Open," said Sun Wukong.

The door wasn't locked. But it looked like it was covered in layers of old mud. Sun Wukong didn't pry it open with force; he placed his palm on it and slowly pushed. The wood made a muffled thud, like someone clearing their throat.

There was no dust in the old storehouse. It was as clean as if someone had cleaned it long ago. The main table was still there, with a shallow mark on its surface from when Sun Wukong used it as a table.

Xuanzang followed in, carrying a small lamp instead of a scripture box. The lamplight fell on the table, illuminating the rough edges of the book pages. The white dragon horse, transformed into a young boy, stood guard at the door, not pushing its way in. He smelled faintly of hay, as if he had just come from the stable.

The Bull Demon King and his son also arrived. The old bull removed the copper ring from his horn and held it in his hand as if afraid of breaking something. Red Boy stood behind him, but his eyes were fixed on the tent platform, staring intently.

"We've looked at page seven," Xuanzang said in a low voice. "The 'Mistake' column is empty."

Chen Fan didn't reply. He reached out and flipped the booklet to the last page. The pages rustled softly, like dry leaves being brushed aside by his fingertips.

Page 8.

This page had no tables. No columns. There was only a thin line running across the middle, with a thin layer of ink pressing down on it. Chen Fan moved the lamp closer and saw that the ink wasn't a stain, but rather words deliberately covered up.

Sun Wukong extended his fingertip and rubbed it against the layer of ink. The ink wouldn't come off. He looked up: "Old trick."

Red Boy couldn't help but say, "Why not just burn it?"

"You can burn the paper, but you can't burn the person who wrote this account." Chen Fan put the lamp aside and reached into his sleeve to pull out a thin piece of peach wood. It was a branch that had fallen from an old tree on Flower Fruit Mountain. He had flattened it and kept it under his sleeve.

He pressed the peach wood sliver onto the ink layer and gently scraped it. The ink layer cracked open like a dry husk, revealing a line of even finer characters underneath. The characters were very small, as if afraid of being seen.

—The right to terminate does not belong to the administrator.

—In the original source that was first cut open.

Xuanzang's lamp flickered, the flame elongated, and it almost went out.

The white dragon horse frowned at the door: "Who is the administrator?"

Chen Fan put the peach wood piece back: "They're the ones who always treat account books as the rule. Whether it's the Heavenly Court or Mount Ling, whoever sits in a high position claims they have the authority to manage everything."

The Bull Demon King's voice was hoarse: "What is 'True Source'?"

Sun Wukong didn't laugh. He stared at the words, his gaze fixed on an old scar.

Chen Fan finished his sentence: "That year at Five Finger Mountain, you were suppressed. What suppressed you wasn't the mountain, but a line written by a hand. Where did the line come from? It was cut from the source of truth. Only after it was cut open could there be accounts, books, and the path to the West."

Xuanzang understood. He raised his hand and touched the Buddhist prayer beads around his neck that he hadn't used in a long time; the beads were warm to the touch.

"The right to terminate is tied to Zhenyuan's authority." He put down his prayer beads. "Whose name is Zhenyuan?"

Chen Fan looked at Sun Wukong: "Mountain Lord."

The moment those two words were uttered, the old warehouse fell even quieter. Red Boy took a breath, then held it in.

Sun Wukong picked up his staff, tapping the end against the edge of the platform with a clear sound: "I've been the mountain lord before. And I've been punished before."

Chen Fan didn't dodge the question: "You were the one who came later. Page eight is about the original one."

After he finished speaking, he tapped the paper with his finger. Besides the hidden note, there was an even fainter mark on the paper, like a shadow lying within it. Chen Fan moved the lamp closer, and the shadow slowly emerged.

It's a monkey.

This wasn't the Sun Wukong of today. That monkey was thinner, with brighter eyes, like a taut string. It stood within the paper, its feet seemingly treading on pebbles.

The shadow looked up, and a voice emerged from the paper, dry and hoarse: "The end line. Only one person can sign this."

Red Boy was so frightened that he took half a step back, but the Bull Demon King grabbed him and said, "Don't embarrass yourself."

The shadow ignored them, staring only at Sun Wukong: "You borrowed my power. You took my name. You haven't returned to oneness."

Sun Wukong put down his staff, placed his palm on the tent platform, his knuckles turning white before relaxing: "What do you mean by 'Return to One'?"

The shadow raised its hand and pointed to the area beneath the platform. There was a hidden compartment at the bottom of the platform. Sun Wukong bent down to feel it, touching a cold, hard button. He pressed it, and the compartment popped open.

It wasn't a treasure inside. It was an old seal. The seal was small, like it had been polished from a mountain stone. Two characters were engraved on the seal face: Mountain Lord.

When Chen Fan saw the seal, his heart sank, then settled. Everything was finally complete.

The shadow said, "Mountain Lord is not a title. It is about putting the severed source of truth back together. You must bring me back to you. It's not about borrowing, it's not about using."

Xuanzang asked, "What will happen if we combine them?"

The shadow glanced at him: "The line will stop. The tents will regroup. You don't need to run anymore."

The white dragon horse muttered under its breath, "It should have stopped a long time ago."

Sun Wukong remained silent. He held the seal between his fingers, the corner digging painfully into it. He looked up at Chen Fan: "You knew all along?"

Chen Fan shook his head: "I only know that one thing is missing. The missing thing is not in heaven, nor on Mount Ling, but on you."

Sun Wukong chuckled briefly, then said, "Let's go."

A shadow stepped out from the paper. It made no sound. It stood before Sun Wukong, like a reflection in a mirror. The two monkeys stared at each other, neither willing to back down.

The shadow reached out and placed its hand on Sun Wukong's chest. Sun Wukong also reached out and placed its hand on the shadow's chest. The moment their hands touched, the wind outside the old warehouse suddenly picked up, and a few petals fell from the peach tree branches.

Chen Fan smelled a faint burnt odor, not like burning wood, but more like paper being scalded. The pages on the main table turned by themselves, stopping at the eighth page. The thin line flickered, then dimmed again.

Sun Wukong groaned, sweat beading on his forehead. He didn't fall. He held his staff horizontally in front of him, as if supporting something.

The shadow's voice lowered: "Are you scared?"

Sun Wukong took a breath: "I've been afraid of the mountain-pressing spell and the tight headband. What I'm afraid of now is that if I break them together, you'll have to suffer for me again."

Chen Fan picked up his teacup and took a sip. The bitterness went down his throat. He placed the cup back on the stone edge: "Don't talk like you owe me a debt. We settled our accounts a long time ago."

Xuanzang also spoke up: "I'm not reciting the scriptures anymore. And don't recite them for me."

The white dragon horse raised its chin: "I've been a mount, and I've been a sinner. Now all I want is to go back to the river and sleep."

The Bull Demon King grinned: "I've been eating and drinking on your Flower Fruit Mountain for so many years, consider it a profit for me. Sign if you want, stop dawdling."

Red Boy turned his face away and muttered softly, "I...I'm not leaving either. I'll guard the fire for you."

Hearing these words, Sun Wukong's eyes softened. He pushed his palm forward. The shadow seemed to be pulled into his body. In that instant, the shadow's outline shattered into fine light, seeping into Sun Wukong's flesh.

Sun Wukong regained his footing. His chest heaved a few times before settling down. He raised his hand to touch his forehead; the braces were no longer in place, but his fingers still instinctively reached for the mark left by the braces.

He pressed the mountain lord's seal onto the thin line on the eighth page.

"I'll sign," he said.

The print fell, without red ink or vermilion. A ring of pale gold seeped into the paper, like morning light falling on water. The thin line broke cleanly in the middle.

The lights in the old warehouse were kept still. When the ledgers were closed, there was no crisp "snap" sound, only a soft exhale, as if someone had finally fallen asleep.

The shadow did not reappear.

Xuanzang blew out the lamp and stood in the darkness listening for a while: "Outside... it's very quiet."

Chen Fan walked to the door. The mountain wind blew as usual, and the monkeys practiced calligraphy in the distance, their shouts clear and distinct. There were no swirling clouds in the sky, nor was there any oppressive golden light overhead. The eyes that had been watching them all those years ago seemed to have been shut off.

Sun Wukong picked up the account book, put it back in the hidden compartment, and then closed the compartment. He didn't lock the old vault again. He just closed the door, leaving a small crack.

"Those who should leave should leave," Chen Fan said.

The white dragon horse left the next day. He didn't say much, only glancing back at the mountain pass. His gaze was neither fierce nor lingering. Later, I heard from the little demon that he returned to the Jing River and slept at the bottom of the river for three years. After waking up, he guarded the water veins and never came ashore again.

The Bull Demon King took Red Boy back to the Flaming Mountain and paid off all the old debts. Princess Iron Fan stopped scolding him. She opened the door and let him in for a bowl of soup. Later, the fire on the Flaming Mountain subsided, travelers could walk on it, and caravans no longer had to detour. The Bull Demon King opened a small wine shop at the foot of the mountain, and Red Boy stopped breathing Samadhi Fire and started cooking noodles over a stove.

Xuanzang remained on Flower Fruit Mountain. He dismantled his scripture box and used the boards to make a bookshelf. The bookshelf held no Buddhist scriptures, but rather scraps of paper the monkeys had scribbled on. The writing was crooked and uneven, but he studied them carefully. Someone asked him if he was still considered a monk. He thought for a moment and said, "I'm more like a teacher of writing."

Chen Fan didn't leave either. He stopped flipping through the books, and stopped staring at the sky. The days became fragmented. Fragmented like firewood, enough to last through the winter.

Many years have passed. It's still late spring. Peach blossoms fall on that old stone, only to be swept away by the wind.

Chen Fan sat by the door with a cup of tea in his hand. The tea was still bitter. He finished it, and the bottom of the cup tapped against the edge of the stone, making that familiar soft sound.

The little monkeys have been replaced. The new little monkey's grip on the pen is unsteady, and ink splatters on the back of his hand. After writing the last stroke, he holds up the paper, his eyes shining.

The paper had four words on it: Terminated (signed).

Chen Fan glanced at it and nodded: "Yes."

Sun Wukong grunted and put away his staff. He stood up, leaned the staff against the door, and brushed a peach blossom off his shoulder. Xuanzang tidied the papers on the bookshelf, folded them into a stack, and put them into a bamboo basket.

The wind blew in from the mountain pass, carrying the scent of peach blossoms and the aroma of cooked food. The sounds of activity from the mountains rolled by, all the voices of living people.

Chapter 633 Original and Supplement

The bottom of the cup tapped against the edge of the stone, the soft sound like a thread being cut.

Chen Fan looked up and saw a sliver of grayish-white light shining through the crack in the old warehouse door. It wasn't a lamp. It looked like moonlight, but not quite. A gust of wind blew, and the light from the crack flickered, as if someone was turning over inside.

Sun Wukong saw it too. He didn't knock on the door with his stick; he just leaned the stick against the door and pressed his palm against the door panel. The wood was cool, and the grain was rough to the touch.

"You're quite late," someone inside the door said.

The voice wasn't loud, it sounded like it was squeezed out of a stone. The tone was exactly the same as Sun Wukong's, even the slight laziness at the end of the note was identical.

The door opened halfway by itself.

There was no musty smell of a warehouse, nor any paper ash. Just a stone path leading straight into the mountainside. The stone walls were carved with old patterns of Huaguo Mountain, and moisture clung to the patterns, as if it had just rained.

At the end of the stone path was a platform. It was a stone platform. Chen Fan had only seen it in account books before. The inscription was very brief: "Mountain Lord Judges Platform, Originally Unseen, Later Replacements Not Established."

A monkey is standing on the platform.

It didn't wear the golden headband. Its fur was a bit darker than Sun Wukong's, and there was no smile in its eyes. It didn't hold a staff, but only a broken branch. The branch was old, as if it had been broken for many years.

It looked at Sun Wukong and spoke its first words without beating around the bush.

"You didn't come from the stone embryo," it said. "You're an external combat entity created by the Tent Builders. Used for their purposes."

Chen Fan's throat bobbed. He subconsciously reached for the folded papers in his sleeve. The edges were frayed. He didn't speak.

Sun Wukong raised his hand and scratched his ear, the movement slow, as if he were listening to a teacher reading aloud.

"The one you mentioned, he guarded the mountain," Sun Wukong said, "guarding it until it was closed off. Guarding it until no one called his name anymore."

The shadow of the native monkey pushed the branch towards the platform. The stone platform emitted a muffled thud, like a blow to the chest.

"He guards the foot of the mountain. You guard a group of people. You're fighting different things." It stared at Sun Wukong. "You can fight, you can cause trouble, you can win. That doesn't mean you're the mountain lord."

Sun Wukong didn't make a sound. He took two steps forward and stood by the platform. The stones under his feet were very cold, so cold that his toes twitched.

"I have walked through this world," Sun Wukong said. "I came out of the Five Elements Mountain with one person and a pile of tattered debts. Later, I gathered a troop of monkeys, taught them to write, and taught them to grow peaches. The Heavenly Court came, the Buddhist sect came. I fought them. Not for fame, but to let them live."

He lowered his voice slightly when he said the word "alive." He didn't look at Chen Fan, as if afraid he would interrupt.

The native monkey shadow didn't respond to that sentence. It looked up at the top of the platform. There was a crack in the top of the platform, and a little white mist seeped out of the crack. The mist fell down and landed on the table, like fine salt.

A line of words appeared in the fog, as if carved with a knife.

—The Trial of the Mountain Lord's Reinstatement: Both offer irreplaceable records of the Mountain Lord.

Chen Fan looked at the words and suddenly felt a bitter taste in his mouth. He hadn't brought his tea with him, but the bitterness followed him.

The original monkey shadow moved first.

It put down the broken branch it was holding and placed both hands on the table. With a press of its knuckles, a shadow appeared on the table.

The scene depicts an ancient Flower and Fruit Mountain. There are no houses, no stoves. Only a large rock at the entrance of a cave, with watermarks on it, as if it had been battered by rain for years. The monkeys are thin, their fur disheveled. They are quiet, circling the cave entrance, as if waiting for something.

Instead of peaches, a troop of armored heavenly soldiers arrived.

There was no stick to smash the sky back then, only a monkey stepped forward. It didn't have a golden headband, and it had a wound on its shoulder. It didn't roar, it didn't jump. It led the monkey troop into the cave, and stood at the entrance itself.

The heavenly soldiers said they would seal off the mountain, claiming there was unrest inside. The monkey nodded and pushed the stone at the cave entrance up. Halfway up, it glanced back. That glance was brief, as if afraid that if it looked any longer, it wouldn't be able to let go.

As the stone closed, a few soft cries of small monkeys came from inside the cave. They cried very softly, as if afraid to make a sound.

The film stopped there.

The original monkey shadow loosened its grip. There was a bit of stone powder on its fingertips, which came off easily when rubbed.

"This is called the Old Record of the Mountain Guardian," it said. "On the last night before the pass was closed, he blocked the mountain pass and stayed outside. The heavenly soldiers put chains on him, but he didn't break free. Those chains are still buried at the foot of the mountain to this day."

Sun Wukong stared at the spot where the image had stopped, his lips remaining still. He reached out and touched his wrist. There was a faint mark there, as if it had been strangled before.

It was his turn.

He pressed his palm against the cold stone surface. He didn't apply any pressure, yet the surface slowly brightened. What shone was another image.

The scene in the film is the present-day Flower and Fruit Mountain.

There were more monkeys than before. The little monkeys ran around, their feet covered in mud. Someone was turning a pot of thin porridge by the stone stove, steaming hot. Xuanzang sat under the eaves, disassembling his scripture box and replacing it with a wooden box containing a pen and paper. Chen Fan sat at the doorway, his teacup resting on the edge of a stone, its rim chipped.

Sun Wukong stood on a flat stone, his staff poking at the paper.

"Write," he said to the little monkey.

The little monkey's grip on the pen was unsteady, and ink splattered onto its nose. It dared not wipe it away, but only blinked. It wrote two words, crookedly and awkwardly: "Release them."

Sun Wukong didn't laugh. He raised the tip of his staff and lightly touched the left-falling stroke of the character "人" (person).

"Don't shake," he said. "If you shake, rewrite it."

The image moved forward a bit.

Dark clouds pressed down on the horizon. Golden light shone beneath them. The Heavenly Court's flag stood at the mountain pass, as did the Buddhist lotus platform. Many people arrived, and much talk ensued. Yet no one ran through the mountains; the monkeys stood in a row, clutching their babies. Chen Fan unfolded a piece of paper from his sleeve, revealing names from the account book, which he crossed out one by one. Xuanzang pushed the empty scripture box to the front; inside was only a piece of cloth.

When Sun Wukong reached the mountain pass, he didn't swing his staff immediately. Instead, he held up the piece of paper that read "Release the people" and waved it in the wind.

"Look carefully," he said to the visitor. "This is not scripture, it's just words."

Then he swung the stick.

When the stick fell, there was no blood in the image. Only dust swirled, the flag fell, and a corner of the lotus platform cracked. The people who came retreated. They retreated at a leisurely pace, as if they knew they wouldn't gain anything today.

The film stopped here.

Sun Wukong withdrew his hand, leaving a white mark on his palm. He shook it off, as if shaking off water.

"This is a record of reigniting the monkey troop's history." He looked at the native monkey figures. "It wasn't written by me alone. It was written by them. I only taught them with a stick."

The stone platform remained silent for a moment. The white mist on the surface swirled, as if someone had changed a line on a piece of paper.

Words appeared again from the fog.

— Both certificates are valid. Neither the original nor the supplementary certificates are complete.

The native monkey's eyelid twitched. It gripped the broken branch tightly, the cut end digging into its palm.

Sun Wukong didn't move. He just looked up, staring at the line of words as if they were an IOU.

The third line of text fell through the fog.

—A re-evaluation is required after the cases are combined.

Chen Fan heard his breathing quicken. He remembered a line of text popping up from the system many years ago: "The person who creates the account can delete or modify it, but the account closure is irreversible." He didn't understand it then. Now he did.

The original monkey shadow chuckled first. The chuckle was short, like sand stuck in its throat.

"Unity?" it said. "You've taken my name, and now you want to take my memories?"

Sun Wukong picked up his staff from the doorway, without pointing it at anyone. He placed the staff horizontally in front of him, like a plank of wood.

"I won't take it," he said. "And you shouldn't take it either. We'll make up for the missing parts."

The primordial monkey shadow stared at him for a long time. Suddenly, it raised its hand and pointed at Chen Fan.

"Are the things the person who created the ledger still there?" it asked.

Chen Fan pulled out a few sheets of paper from his sleeve. There weren't many; they were all old pages folded and refolded over the years. He unfolded the bottom sheet, on which was written a column that read "Operator." There used to be writing in that column, but he had covered it up with ink. He had covered it up so badly that the ink had seeped through to the back of the paper.

"It's long gone," Chen Fan said. "I killed it off. Page six, the last stroke."

The native monkey shadow looked at the dark mass as if it were a scar. It didn't ask any more questions.

It threw the broken branch onto the stage. The branch rolled twice and came to rest at Sun Wukong's feet.

"Come," it said, "you won't regret it."

Sun Wukong picked up the broken branch and put it back in its hand.

"Take this," he said. "These are your belongings for guarding the mountain. Don't lose them even when you're setting up your tent."

He took a step forward and stood in the center of the platform. The native monkey shadow also walked over. The two monkeys stood facing each other, with a palm's width between them.

A click came from beneath the stone platform, like a lock being released.

White mist dripped from the crack, landing on their heads. The mist wasn't cold, it was like lukewarm water. Sun Wukong closed his eyes briefly, his brow furrowing slightly. It was as if someone in his mind had closed two ledgers together, the pages flipping rapidly until they reached the earliest one.

He saw the wind on the night the pass was sealed off. He saw the chill of the chains. He saw himself blocking the mountain pass, and the cries of the little monkeys behind him. He also saw the hundred years beneath Five Finger Mountain, Chen Fan bringing fruit, his fingers cracked from the cold, yet still smiling and saying, "Eat." These things did not belong to him alone, nor to anyone else.

The native monkey's shoulder twitched. It gritted its teeth, remaining silent. As the white mist dissipated, the hardness in its eyes softened.

The last line of text appeared on the stone platform.

—Unified Judgment: The Mountain Lord returns to his rightful place. The posting to the outside world is revoked. The old locks are released.

The click from under the platform rang out again, this time clearer. It sounded like someone pulling out a chain buried at the foot of the mountain and casually tossing it into the river.

Sun Wukong opened his eyes and raised his hand to touch his forehead. The golden headband was still there. He didn't remove it. He simply lowered his hand and glanced at Chen Fan.

That glance was brief. Like that glance back before the stadium closed years ago, it was as if saying: We've arrived here.

Chen Fan folded the sheet of paper in the operator's section and set it on fire. The fire wasn't big; the edges of the paper curled up, and the black ink cracked first, like a brittle shell. The ash fell to the corner of the table and scattered in the wind.

"Where's the system?" Xuanzang asked, standing at the door. He didn't go inside. He knew he shouldn't.

Chen Fan watched as the last spark went out.

"It's gone," he said. "It was never part of the accounting system anyway. Once the accounting is cleared, it can't stand on its own."

Xuanzang nodded, rolled up his sleeves, as if preparing to cook.

The original monkey shadow no longer stood alone. Its form faded, becoming as faint as a shadow behind Wukong. It followed Wukong with every step he took. Not because it was being suppressed, but because it willingly followed.

As I emerged from the mountainside, the old warehouse door closed by itself. The gray and white residue seeping through the cracks was gone. The warehouse was still the same warehouse; the smell of wood was still there, and so was the dust. Only, no one needed to go inside and rummage through that pile of old papers anymore.

Several more years passed.

Chen Fan's hair turned white very quickly. Not overnight, but strand by strand. The little monkeys still came to write. They wrote "Release the people," "The accounts are settled," and "Termination signed." Later they wrote other things. They wrote "The rice is ripe," "The rain has stopped," and "The mountain pass has been repaired." The characters were not neat, but the strokes were steady.

Sun Wukong continued to teach. He no longer taught them just two words. He taught them to count and to recognize herbs. If there were sick monkeys in the mountains, he would carry them to find medicine, without caring that it was dirty.

Xuanzang stopped reciting scriptures. He turned his scripture box into a bookshelf, which he filled with account books from the mountains and scraps of paper the children had written on. He said these were more important than the scriptures.

In Heaven, the Jade Emperor changed twice. The Buddhist abbot also changed. Someone came to settle old scores, and upon reaching the mountain pass, saw a troop of monkeys drying grain, and saw Wukong sitting on the stone steps whittling bamboo sticks, whittling them very finely. The visitor stood for a while and then left. After that, no one mentioned the words "journey to the West" again. The narration can clearly explain this: that path later grew overgrown with grass, and no one ever left footprints there again.

The Bull Demon King and his son remained in the west. They never again claimed the title of king. The old bull smoothed his horns and followed a group of demons to dig ditches in the wasteland. Red Boy went back to visit once, leaving behind a bag of medicinal seeds, saying that the children in the mountains would need them. Those seeds later sprouted and grew into a patch of mint, fragrant with just a touch in the summer.

As for the person who built the tent, Chen Fan last heard this name after a spring rain. The stones at the mountain pass gleamed from the rain, and a little monkey found a broken copper plaque with half of the character "帐" (tent) engraved on it. Sun Wukong took it and crushed it, shattering the plaque into powder. The powder fell into the mud, and the mud stepped on it, and it was gone. After that, no one mentioned it again. It was as if this person had never existed.

As spring draws to a close once again, peach blossoms fall on that rock as usual.

Chen Fan sat in the doorway, basking in the sun; the tea was still bitter. He took a sip, coughed twice, and put the cup down. Sun Wukong was right beside him, his staff pointing at the paper. The little monkey finished writing and held it up for him to see.

The four characters on the paper were written slowly and carefully: "The Mountain Lord Returns to His Position."

Chen Fan glanced at it and nodded: "Yes."

Sun Wukong grunted in agreement and sheathed his staff. He took the paper, folded it, and placed it on the top shelf of the bookcase. Xuanzang walked over, closed the cabinet door, and fastened the wooden latch.

The wind blew in from the mountain pass, carrying the scent of peach blossoms and the aroma of cooked food. The sounds of activity from the mountains rolled by, all the voices of living people.