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

Chapter 184, First Time

Chen Fan's feet suddenly sank.

The crack, like a mouth, shut out the light from the old warehouse. Ash embers crept up his boots, not burning his clothes, but only making the chill in his bones ache.

Sun Wukong landed, his golden cudgel held horizontally, and first probed around. The head of the cudgel struck something, making a dull thud, like hitting an empty jar.

"This place... isn't right." He frowned. "No wind, no sound."

Xuanzang landed with his knees bent, his fingertips pressing against the ground. The soil was neither wet nor dry, like a layer of polished paper dust. He looked up into the distance, his gaze fixed: "The old site of the sealed-off area. Zeroth time."

Chen Fan flicked his sleeve, and the black mark rolled into his palm. The burning sensation intensified, as if urging him to hurry up. The old lines on the black mark shone into thin lines, pointing forward to a shadowy area resembling a precipice.

They walked into the shadows.

After walking a dozen steps, Chen Fan suddenly heard a sound.

It wasn't footsteps, nor breath; it was the clattering of abacus beads sliding down your knuckles. The voice was very soft, close to your ear, as if someone was standing behind you, bending down to do your math.

Sun Wukong looked back, but there was only darkness behind him.

"Don't look back," Xuanzang said. "This place loves to borrow the shadows in people's hearts."

Chen Fan didn't turn around. He stared at the precipice ahead. Only when he got closer did he realize that it wasn't a cliff, but a wall. The wall was smooth, like the cover of an account book. There was a crack in it, and inside the crack was a piece of grayish-white stone.

The stone body has fine, hair-like lines that rise and fall, as if it is panting.

Sun Wukong was stunned, his Adam's apple bobbing: "This... looks like my old shell from back then."

"It's not like that." Xuanzang took out the fourth page and placed it next to the crack in the wall. "It is."

As soon as the paper was pasted on, the wall suddenly became bright. It was dazzlingly bright, but not painful. Chen Fan saw shadows receding from the wall, like old paintings being turned over.

The first time, Huaguo Mountain wasn't called Huaguo Mountain yet.

At that time, there was a ledger in the Three Realms. The ledger was not a book, but an invisible thread. Every thought and deed that sentient beings had moved the thread forward a little. If it went astray, it would get tangled and leak.

The exposed section is called the "general ledger loophole".

Someone discovered the loophole. The person wore neither armor nor a robe, and held only a pen. With each stroke of the pen, a new name, a new mountain, and a new prefecture appeared in the Three Realms.

He extracted the true essence of Flower Fruit Mountain, made it into a black seal, and pressed it onto the hole.

The black seal pressed down, closing the leak. But the true source was restless. Like a living thing, it wanted to grow, to expand, and to find a crack.

The person who built the account stared at it for a long time, and suddenly became greedy.

He disassembled the true source into a "shell," breaking it down into countless small pieces, and stuffed them into various famous mountains and cities. Each piece was a sample field. He recorded the count each time a sample field was run. If one wasn't enough, he would run it again. Ten runs were simply him patching something up and changing his approach.

Chen Fan's knuckles ached from gripping the screen so tightly.

No wonder it feels like a cycle of reincarnation. It turns out that reincarnation is just a restart after a failed repair.

The screen flips again.

The true essence was broken down too finely, and one piece was not properly sealed, leaking out from the seam of the tent. It landed on a stubborn rock in Dongsheng Shenzhou, which cracked open, and a stone core took shape.

The stone structure didn't acknowledge the debt owed to the person who built it. It took a deep breath and first learned to laugh, then to curse, and then to smash things with a stick.

Sun Wukong's shadow stood beside the stone embryo, turning his head to grin at Chen Fan, as if to say: Look, I'm not the one written in your books.

Chen Fan's throat tightened, and he didn't catch the tooth.

The last painting is by Chen Fan.

It wasn't his current physical form, but rather a series of unfamiliar faces. These faces were nameless, as if they had been crossed out of a family tree. An unseen hand scooped up those faces, stuffing them into different patches to plug different leaks.

Xuanzang said softly, "Correction medium. Unclaimed celebrities captured from the outer tent."

Chen Fan heard himself laugh, a dry laugh.

"Turns out I'm not even a chess piece." He gripped the black seal tightly. "I'm just a rag."

Sun Wukong slammed his staff on the ground and said in a low voice, "Even a rag can be thrown in someone's face."

The light on the wall suddenly went out, and the clicking of the abacus stopped. A person emerged from the shadows.

The man was dressed in gray, his cuffs clean, but his hands stained with ink. He looked like an old accountant, but his eyes were devoid of human warmth. He stood before the wall and bowed slightly to the black mark.

"The auditors are here," he said, his voice as swift as turning the pages of a book. "The tenth time filling in, and sure enough, they've arrived here."

Chen Fan held up the black seal: "So you're the one who established the account?"

"The name is what's written in the account book," the man said calmly. "You can call me whatever you want. The important thing is whether you want to continue filling in the gaps."

Xuanzang turned to the fourth page, revealing a thin booklet tucked inside. The edges of the booklet were yellowed, and the cover bore four words: "Accident Zero."

"The copy is here," Xuanzang said. "Back then, you dismantled the True Source and used it as a sample field. You used the Heavenly Court and the Buddhist sect to cover up the traces. You turned the Journey to the West into a tool for your counting. Today, everything is settled."

The man's gaze fell on the thin book, and for the first time, his expression changed. He reached out to take it, but before his fingertips could touch it, Sun Wukong's staff swept across and pressed down on his wrist.

"Don't take it." Sun Wukong grinned. "I hate it when people steal my things."

The person building the tent looked up at Sun Wukong: "You are the blemish that has been exposed. You should be erased."

"Try it." Sun Wukong flicked his wrist, and with a jolt, the sleeve of the tent-setter ripped open. There was no blood in the tear, only a string of tiny ink dots, like words that had sprung from the tent.

Chen Fan understood.

This person isn't a person, it's an account book.

They can calculate accounts, make up for them, and even lie. But even accounts fear evidence. They fear someone will expose their first offense to the entire world.

Chen Fan pressed the black stamp onto the booklet.

The heat suddenly exploded, and the lines on the black ink seeped into the thin book, like a key being inserted back into a lock. The cover of the account book on the wall then burst open with a roar, tearing in both directions to reveal a long line at the back.

The thread hung in the air, as thin as a hair, yet bound with countless knots. Each knot held a story: a life, a journey to the West, a divine investiture, or a calamity caused by a demon.

The person in charge of setting up the accounts finally turned pale: "You dare touch the master ledger?"

Chen Fan stared at the line, his voice steady: "You acted a long time ago. You used the True Source as your private treasury. You used all living beings as samples."

Xuanzang clasped his hands together, palms facing outwards: "Release the lock. Return the tent to its rightful place."

Sun Wukong didn't speak. He raised his staff and slammed it down next to the strand of hair.

It wasn't smashed.

He smashed the knots.

The knots loosened one by one, as if being pried open with fingernails. The thread slid forward smoothly. The ink spots on the person building the tent began to fall out, turning into blank sheets of paper on the ground, on which nothing could be written.

"You will throw the Three Realms into chaos," the person who built the tent gritted his teeth. "Even without me, leaks will still occur."

Chen Fan peeled the black stamp off the booklet, burning a red mark around his fingertip. He tossed the stamp at the man's feet: "Leaks will appear. People will mend them. But those who mend shouldn't use patches as knives."

The black mark landed, then stood up on its own, like a nail driven into the shadow of the person who built the tent.

The man swayed, as if dragged away by a curtain line. He tried to say something, but when he opened his mouth, he spat out ink. The ink dried as soon as it hit the ground, forming a line of words: "Concluded."

Sun Wukong sheathed his staff, exhaled as if releasing a long-suppressed anger. He turned to Chen Fan: "And you? Still going to be the rag?"

Chen Fan looked at the line; it was now stable. After the knots loosened, a very faint sound of wind came from afar, like someone opening a window. The ashes of the old site slowly died down, and a patch of green sprouted from the ground.

"I'm not going to fill in anymore," Chen Fan said. "I'll be the record keeper. I'll write down the first instance clearly, in a way that everyone can understand. Anyone who tries to keep secret accounts will be ashamed of themselves."

Xuanzang tucked the copy of the Zero Incident into his robes, his fingertips lingering on the cover: "I'll go to various places to tell the story. I'll tell it to humans, and to demons. Once is enough to walk that path to the West."

Sun Wukong scratched his head and laughed casually, "I'll go teach the monkeys too. I'll teach them not to believe in that heavenly stuff. And not to be as reckless as I was when I was young."

When they returned to the old warehouse through the crack, the green lamp was still there. The light was steady, as if it had never moved.

The sky outside was getting a little brighter. Chen Fan pushed open the warehouse door, and a gust of wind rushed in, carrying the familiar dampness of Flower Fruit Mountain. In the distance, monkeys were arguing, arguing about who had stolen peaches. It was really annoying, yet so lively.

Later, the Heavenly Court dismantled the secret ledger. The Buddhist sect also dismissed those who kept the records. Those who had profited from the offerings at the demonstration site were either demoted to mortals or sent to guard desolate mountains. No one mentioned the person who set up the ledger again; his name became a line of gray text in the general ledger, never to be turned again.

The white dragon horse returned to the sea. It no longer served as a mount, but transformed into a dragon and plunged into the abyss, guarding the old crack in the East Sea. Anyone who dared to reach out to grab something would have their wrist bitten off first.

The Bull Demon King and his son erected a boundary marker at the Flaming Mountain. The marker didn't say "Demon Forbidden," but only "Self-Defense." Princess Iron Fan hung her banana leaf fan in her cave, borrowing it only during droughts, recording each borrowing as a separate transaction, never owing or stealing.

Chen Fan stayed on Flower Fruit Mountain. He made three copies of the Zero Accident manuscript: one to the Human World Bookstore, one to Xuanzang, and one locked in the old vault. The lock wasn't for hiding; it was a reminder to himself: don't reach for the wrong place again.

Another ten years have passed.

On the day spring returned, the peach blossoms in the mountains bloomed early. Sun Wukong sat on a rock teaching the little monkey to write, writing "已结" (meaning "already concluded"). When the little monkey's strokes were crooked, he would tap them with the end of his stick and then curse at him.

Chen Fan sat to the side, basking in the sun, flipping through an old book in his hand. The corners of the pages were worn, but he was too lazy to replace them. Listening to the noise from the mountains, he suddenly felt that this was more like a book—chaotic as it was, it was alive.

The green lamp swayed slightly in the old warehouse, then stabilized.

Chapter 623 Shell Lock

Chen Fan stopped flipping through the old book halfway through.

A small corner of the page was curled up; he pressed it down with his fingernail, but couldn't flatten it. The dim light flickered in the old warehouse, like someone walking past the door, or like the wind sneaking in through a crack.

Sun Wukong tapped the end of his stick on a rock, teaching the little monkey to write "completed". If the little monkey wrote crookedly, he would tap it with the stick. After tapping, he would scold the monkey a couple of times, not too harshly, as if afraid of scattering the ink.

The white horse galloped up the mountain path, its hooves covered in mud. It stopped under the peach tree to catch its breath, and only after it had caught its breath did it bring its head close to Chen Fan's face.

"Look," the white dragon horse uttered a single word.

It held a thin piece of seashell in its mouth, glistening with moisture. When the moisture spread out, it was as if another Flower and Fruit Mountain had been laid out before everyone's eyes.

The mountain is still the same mountain, and the trees are still there. Only along the ridge of the mountain, there are several gleaming lines stretching outwards, like flesh being hooked with hooks. At the end of the lines, there is an unseen place, only a ball of grayish-white light twitching intermittently.

With each pull, a bit of the mountain crumbles. Not into rocks, but the entire mountain's energy leaks out. The monkeys can't see that energy; they only notice the peach blossoms suddenly wilting and the well water suddenly turning bitter.

Sun Wukong jumped off the rock and approached the shimmering water. He reached out to grab it, but grasped at empty air. His staff struck the ground with a dull thud.

"Who's smoking?" he asked.

The white dragon horse pushed the shell forward, and several words emerged from the shimmering water, resembling both accounts and prohibitions—"Main Account, Drainage."

Xuanzang walked out of the bookstore, holding a copy of the paper in his hand. He glanced at it, and the corner of the paper crumpled between his fingers.

"This world is not the real world," Xuanzang said softly. "It's just an outer shell."

The Bull Demon King had already patrolled the mountain pass. He returned with his demon soldiers, carrying a thick flag on his shoulder. The flag had no embroidered words, only a black line. He stuck the flag in a crack in the mountain gate stone; the flag didn't flutter, as if it were nailed to something.

"I hear the mountains rumbling," said the Bull Demon King, "like an empty pot being scraped. Don't give me any mystical talk. Just give me one word: will you defend it or not?"

Sun Wukong looked up at Chen Fan.

Chen Fan closed the old book and patted the cover. He didn't answer immediately; instead, he stood up and walked towards the old warehouse. The lamp was still burning, its light falling on the threshold like a line.

There were two things in the old storeroom. One was a locked box, and the other was the copy they had personally stuffed in there ten years ago.

Chen Fan pushed the box aside, and without looking for anything else, pulled out the manuscript. The edges of the paper were stiff, as if they had been heated by fire. The cover bore four words: Accident Zero.

Sun Wukong stood at the door, his staff resting across his lap. Xuanzang followed him in, tucking the copy of the manuscript into his sleeve. The White Dragon Horse lowered its head and sniffed the copy, as if recognizing its scent. The Bull Demon King didn't enter; he stood guard outside, his hand resting on the flagpole.

Chen Fan flipped to the middle section, his fingertip stopping on a line of text.

"The casing should protect the power source and should not be used to draw power from the source in reverse."

He read very slowly. After he finished reading, he handed the copy to Sun Wukong.

Sun Wukong took it and squinted at it. It wasn't that he couldn't recognize the words; he just wanted to confirm that they hadn't made up the story themselves. After reading it, he slapped the copy on his lap.

"The head of the tent dares to change the rules," Sun Wukong said. "Then smash it."

"Before you smash it, you have to let it loosen on its own," Chen Fan said. "If it doesn't loosen, it will come back together even if you smash it. It relies on a lock."

Xuanzang raised his hand and pointed outside. A mountain breeze blew in, carrying a chilly scent mixed with the fragrance of peach blossoms, like iron that had been soaking in water for too long.

"It's locked in our eyes," Xuanzang said. "It keeps saying that the present world is everything. Once people believe it, they stop looking for the source within."

Chen Fan closed the copy and slung it behind his back.

"Go to the main table," he said. "Put this account book on the table."

The main platform is neither in the main hall of the Heavenly Palace nor under the Buddha's seat on Mount Ling. It is hidden in the gaps on both sides, like a table sandwiched in the wall. The tabletop is flat, with old seals engraved on the four corners, half in the seal script of the Heavenly Court and half in the Sanskrit script of Buddhism. Countless fine threads hang from the table, their ends inserted into various parts of the outer casing.

When they arrived, the table was brightly lit. It was so bright it was blinding, like someone was shining a lamp directly into their faces.

Behind the table sat a shadow, dressed in court robes and draped in a cassock. It didn't stand up, but merely raised a hand.

"You have found a way to survive," said the shadow. "Guarding Flower and Fruit Mountain, writing and planting peaches, that's enough."

Sun Wukong chuckled briefly.

"I've heard that saying before." He slung the stick over his shoulder. "Later, I counted stones at the foot of Five Fingers Mountain for a hundred years. Only after I finished counting did I understand that whether it's enough or not isn't up to you to decide."

Chen Fan stepped forward and spread out the copy of the zero accident in the center of the table.

The moment the paper hit the ground, the engravings on the table trembled. Shadow's eyes narrowed, as if pricked by needles.

Chen Fan didn't look up, but pointed at the line of words with his finger.

"Shell protects the source." He went over each word. "You're retaliating. You're not in charge of the accounts, you're stealing."

The shadow remained silent for a moment, then the thin line under the table suddenly tightened. The bright lines on the distant Flower and Fruit Mountain shell thickened, as if trying to suck out its last breath.

The Bull Demon King roared from behind. His demon soldiers raised their flag array, black-lined flags piercing the ground one by one. The flags didn't flutter, but the ground began to heat up. The surging force struck the flag array, producing a dull thud, like a hammer hitting a wooden barrel.

"Hold on for three breaths," the Bull Demon King said through gritted teeth. "I can't hold on any longer."

The white dragon horse stepped forward, spitting out a stream of water that coiled around the table leg. It wasn't attacking; it was searching for the knots in the thread. Its breath sprayed onto the water, revealing the positions of the knots within it.

Xuanzang placed his hand on the copy. He closed his eyes, his lips moved slightly, not reciting scriptures, but only reading the accounts—one old rule after another, one original signature after another. He also laid out the vows he had made over the years, without concealment.

"We owe each other," Xuanzang said. "Debts should be repaid. But what you stole doesn't count as a debt."

The shadow finally stood up. As it did, the wall behind the table cracked, revealing a darker shell inside. Within the shell was a source of light, like a trapped spring. With each flicker of the light, the mountains outside would light up briefly, then dim again.

Sun Wukong's eyelids twitched when he saw the ball of light. He didn't say anything, but swung his staff to smash the table.

Chen Fan reached out to stop him.

"Unlock it first," Chen Fan said.

He turned to the last page of the manuscript. There was a handprint on that page, a faint one, as if someone had pressed it there hastily years ago. Chen Fan placed his hand on the old handprint, and his palm warmed.

"The zeroth incident wasn't an incident," Chen Fan said. "It was evidence that they used the shell as a cage for the first time."

The engraving on the desktop began to fade, like ink being washed away by water. The shadow receded, and with each step it took, a piece of its robe tore. It tried to grab the copy back, but its hand froze halfway. The fine threads loosened, as if they had been cut or as if it had mistaken its master.

Over at Huaguo Mountain, the bright lines suddenly thinned. The pumping stopped for a moment.

In that brief moment, Chen Fan heard the leaves of the peach trees in the mountains rustling, as if someone had taken a deep breath.

"Now," Chen Fan said.

Sun Wukong's staff came down.

It didn't strike the shadow itself, but rather the old seals at the four corners of the table. The first blow cracked the Heavenly Court seal script. The second blow shattered the Sanskrit patterns into powder. The third blow caused the table to collapse, crumbling into a pile of ashes.

The shadow, as if its bones had been removed, knelt in the ashes. It looked up at Chen Fan, its eyes devoid of any toughness, only emptiness remained.

"You have destroyed the order," it said.

Xuanzang took the paper from his sleeve and pressed it onto the ashes.

"Order is about protecting people," Xuanzang said, "not about punishing them."

The shadow made no further attempt to explain. Its court robes scattered first, turning into old talismans. Its cassock followed, turning into fragments of old scriptures. The talismans burned to ashes in mid-air, and the scriptures turned into pulp upon landing. In the end, only a faint mark remained, like a signature, which vanished with a gust of wind.

The main tent's wiring was broken. The outer shell remained, but it no longer held the source. Flower Fruit Mountain gained temporary cover, like a lid covering itself. If Heaven and Spirit Mountain wanted to reach in again, they would have to get past this cover first.

On the day he returned to the mountain, the Bull Demon King pulled out the flag, and there was a crack on the flagpole. He touched the crack and grinned.

"It was worth it," he said. "From now on, I won't plant this flag at the mountain gate anymore; I'll plant it at my doorstep. That way, you won't have to come looking for me to guard it."

The white horse drank water by the stream, then shook its mane. It looked up at Chen Fan, its gaze steady, as if asking: "Are you still going to write the accounts?"

Chen Fan put the copy of the zero accident back into the old storage room. He didn't lock it again, but simply closed the lid gently.

"The lock isn't for hiding things anymore," he said to Qingdeng. "This is a real reminder."

Xuanzang returned to the bookstore and continued copying his books. He also put the copy of the paper meant for Chen Fan into the cabinet, and no longer sealed the cabinet door. Sun Wukong continued to teach the little monkey to write, and after writing "已结" (already concluded), he taught him to write "自护" (self-protection). The little monkey wrote slowly, so he waited, and stopped pointing randomly with the head of his stick.

Later, a new official came to Heaven. The new official came once, stood on a cloud for a long time, and then turned and left. Mount Ling also sent monks, who kowtowed three times at the foot of the mountain and said that the Buddha's seat was empty and no new one would be erected. They took the old scriptures back and burned them, scattering the ashes in the river. The river water was black for a day, but cleared up the next day.

Later, Chen Fan dismantled even the lingering echoes of the amoral system. He used the most rudimentary method: he meticulously wrote down every single thing he had done using it, clearly stating everything, and posted it behind the old warehouse door. Without an excuse, the system fell silent. In the end, it only left a single prompt, as faint as a cough—and then it completely shut down.

Many more years have passed.

The peach trees on Flower Fruit Mountain have been replaced three times. The threshold of the old warehouse has been lowered by a finger's width of footsteps. The green lamp no longer flickers; it shines steadily, like a watchful eye.

One day in late spring, Sun Wukong sat on a rock, watching the little monkey write "already concluded" neatly. He didn't scold him, but simply placed his stick across his lap and nodded to Chen Fan.

Chen Fan flipped through the old book next to him, turned to a blank page, picked up a pen and wrote four words: "The casing has been opened."

The ink dried, so he closed the booklet and placed it on his lap. The noise from the mountains resumed; noisy as it may be, it was all coming from the mountains.

Sample column on page 4 of chapter 624

A sliver of gray light peeked through the crack in the old warehouse door.

Chen Fan adjusted the wick; the flame wasn't high, but it illuminated the paper clearly. The old book lay open on the table, the first three pages unchanged, the characters hardened as if salted. The fourth page was originally blank, even the paper grain was faint, as if deliberately left open waiting for someone.

He waited for many years.

That night, the paper suddenly began to ripple, as if someone had been supporting it from below. The ink lines crept up from the corner of the page to the center without a sound, only a fine "rustling" sound, like sharpening a knife in winter.

The sample column on page four is now visible.

It wasn't a sentence or a comment; it was a whole, neatly arranged grid. Each grid had space for "Real Name," "Testimony," "Return to Storage," and "Return to Account." At the very bottom, there was a line of small print, written very lightly: Batch entry is possible.

Chen Fan stared at the line of words, his fingers hovering over the edge of the paper, not immediately putting pen to paper. He went to open the window first; the wind outside carried dampness, and peach leaves rustled against the window frame. The night in Flower Fruit Mountain was noisy; monkeys frolicked in the distance, like hot mud plastered onto an old knife's edge.

Three soft knocks came from outside the door.

Sun Wukong didn't let anyone in. He first used his staff to pry open the door latch an inch, glanced at the door, and then stepped aside. The White Dragon Horse stood at the door, transformed into human form, his sleeves still speckled with white sea salt. Behind him followed the tower keeper, whose hair was cut very short, as if afraid of being caught by something. Finally came Bai Ya, carrying a wooden box on his back, the edges of which were worn and fuzzy, making a soft cracking sound as he walked.

"The first batch," the white dragon horse said, placing a stack of thin books on the table.

The tower keeper put down the box but didn't sit down. His eyes scanned the old warehouse wall before he whispered, "Over in the port area, another layer of ash has formed. We've retrieved everything we could touch. Two more days, and the name will sink."

Bai Ya opened the wooden box. Inside were not gold or silver, but rolls of tightly bound paper strips, each wrapped with old hemp rope. Chen Fan casually pulled out a roll, unfolded it, and found a name written inside, followed by a short testimonial: who saw him take his last breath, who collected a piece of his finger bone, and who held an umbrella for him in the rain at the harbor.

These things weren't fancy; in fact, the handwriting was shaky in several places. Looking at them, Chen Fan felt a heat rise in his throat. He placed the slip of paper next to the sample section on the fourth page and looked up to ask, "What about Xuanzang's?"

White Dragon Horse took out the second stack of booklets from his sleeve, the covers stained with incense ash: "He was at the bookstore, doing as you said. He dug out all the 'failure samples' from the old scriptures and copied the testimonies page by page. After he finished copying, he went to the port area. He's lost a lot of weight, but he's still stubborn, saying he's fine."

Sun Wukong leaned against the doorframe and snorted when he heard the words "port area": ​​"His ass is hard. Last time his foot was cracked, he said it didn't hurt."

Chen Fan didn't respond to that. He pulled the old book closer to himself and picked up his pen.

When the first stroke landed, the ink didn't spread; it seemed to be absorbed by the paper. A tiny glimmer of light appeared in each square, then settled. As soon as that square was finished, the adjacent squares lit up, like tiny lamps returning from afar.

"Real name: Zhao Sanhe." Chen Fan wrote slowly, "Witness: Wang Jiuniang, on a rainy night at the harbor, covered him with a cloak."

After he finished writing, a thin line appeared at the bottom of the fourth page, as if stringing the accounts together. The tower keeper's throat bobbed, and his fingers pinched the hem of his clothes, creating a long crease.

"Can it work?" he asked.

"Whether it works or not depends on the person." Chen Fan put down his pen, and Chong Simo nodded.

Si Mo was already waiting on the side. He was still wearing that old black robe, the cuffs worn shiny. He didn't say anything fancy, but directly spread out a stack of "failed samples". The edges of those pages were black as if charred, and many places were marked "archived" or "void", each word like a nail.

The old deacon also arrived, leaning on a thin cane and walking slowly. After sitting down, he took out a small copper seal from his pocket, with four characters engraved on the seal: "Pending Return of Accounts".

"According to the rules, invalid items cannot be changed," the former deacon said.

Sun Wukong sneered: "Who wrote the rules? Those old fogies in Heaven."

The old deacon didn't argue. He raised the bronze seal and pressed it onto the first "failed sample." The ink wasn't red, but a dark gray. The moment the gray ink touched the paper, it seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and the charred edges receded slightly.

Si Mo dipped the tip of his pen in ink and corrected the words. He didn't erase the original words, but only added a line next to "void": "Pending return of the work account - witness to complete, approved for inclusion in the sample column."

One sheet after another, his movements swift. He didn't look up while writing, only his wrist moved, as if copying a belated confession. The old deacon was in charge of stamping, stamping steadily, the veins on the back of his hand bulging, as if he himself were nailed to this pile of papers.

Chen Fan wasn't idle. He divided the roster sent by the white dragon horse into three piles: "Witness Complete," "Witness Gap," and "Only True Names Remaining." The sample column on the fourth page was like a new opening, swallowing a lot of things and spitting them out quickly. Every time ten names were entered, the edge of the column would light up, and the gloom in the old warehouse would thin out by a layer.

At midnight, rumors from the port area began to circulate in the sample column.

It wasn't a sound, but a pungent, musty smell, like a damp cloth covering his face. Chen Fan's vision blurred, and at the bottom of the fourth page, a line of thin, dancing text appeared: "Return to the Granary, Guidance Activated."

The tower keeper immediately stood up straight. He took out a black tower plaque from his pocket, the plaque had a crack. He stuck the plaque onto the sample tray, and the crack clicked shut, as if it had been patched up.

"It's open." His voice was strained. "The lock on the Ninth Original Field side is loose too."

Chen Fan paused when he heard "Ninth Original Site." That place was a lock they had been circling for decades but had never dared to touch. Inside that lock lay the deepest layer of the port: those who had been returned to the warehouse, their husks incomplete, just hard lumps, like dried clams on the beach.

Sun Wukong placed his staff across his lap: "Go take a look."

Needless to say, the four of them stepped into the light of the sample area. The floor of the old warehouse did not move, but it felt like stepping into cold water. The next step took them into the port area.

The port area remained the same. Damp, dark, and heavy with the smell of salt. Gray shells hung from the stacked wooden beams, in strings, like dead things being dried out. Those shells used to creak, squealing cries in the night. Now, all was quiet, except for the hollow "whoosh" of the sea breeze.

The gate to the Ninth Original Field is at the end.

There were nine lock patterns on the door, like nine dried-up rivers. The tower keeper raised his hand and pressed it; the lock patterns neither backfired nor swallowed him, but simply faded slowly. When they faded to the seventh pattern, sweat beaded on his forehead, and his knees buckled. The white dragon horse reached out to support him; its palm was very cold.

"Hold on," said the white dragon horse. "If you hold on this long, many people can survive."

The lock pattern receded to the last lock, and the door opened slightly.

Inside wasn't a vault, but a grayish-white beach. The beach was covered with countless gray shells, each one tightly wrapped, as if afraid of letting in air. Chen Fan approached, squatted down, and tapped the outermost shell.

The shell didn't break, only made a muffled thud. After the thud, a thin crack appeared on the shell. First, a finger emerged from the crack, with black mud under the fingernail. Then came the palm, then the wrist. The person struggled to push their way out, as if crawling ashore from the mud.

The tower keeper let out a short, sharp sound. He wanted to call out a name, but dared not shout it out.

Chen Fan opened the old book, and the corresponding column had automatically popped up on the fourth page. He read it aloud: "Zhao Sanhe."

The man looked up abruptly, his eyes momentarily clouded, then slowly cleared. The next instant, as if recognizing someone, his lips trembled: "Wang Jiuniang…is she still there?"

"Yes," the tower guard answered quickly. "She runs a small shop at the harbor, selling rain gear. She said you owe her a cloak."

Zhao Sanhe's shoulders slumped, as if he had finally dared to breathe. He propped himself up and sat up, the gray shell sliding off his back and shattering into powder on the ground.

The first batch of warehouse dwellers emerged from their gray shells.

It wasn't a miraculous roar, but rather a few people on the damp beach, relying on their names and testimonies, slowly pulling themselves back from the brink of death. Chen Fan watched as the second gray shell cracked open, and the third cracked open as well, when suddenly he heard a rapid "tick-tock" sound.

The countdown was like a knife. With each drop, a step less of the journey was lost.

He looked up, and the countdown on the sample display screen had stopped. The numbers had turned gray, as if extinguished by a hand.

Sun Wukong kicked away the dust at his feet: "This stuff is afraid of real money too."

Chen Fan didn't laugh. He turned the old book back to the first page. The first page still had a blank space, like an unpatched patch of paint. That was the earliest pit. Buried in that pit was the system, the dirty deeds they had done along the way, and the fate of the opposing group.

Si Mo followed him and stood behind him: "Write now?"

"Write now," Chen Fan said.

He sat on the beach, knees against the old book, and began to fill in the blank space on the first page.

He didn't use grand words; he simply wrote down each point clearly.

In Heaven: The Jade Emperor was forced to hand over the "Journey to the West Book," which was jointly sealed by all the celestial officials. The old accounts were revoked, and the divine positions were rearranged. Those star officials who relied on "arrangements" to devour people were stripped of their posts and sent back to their original positions to do menial tasks. No one could now casually cross out a life anymore.

Written about Buddhism: Mount Ling no longer sends down "calamities." The golden statues are dismantled, and the incense offerings cease. Guanyin returns to the South Sea, leaving behind the words, "What I owe, I will repay myself," and from then on, she only saves those who are willing to be saved. Those Arhats who use compassion as a pretext for business are expelled from the mountain gates and forced to beg in the human world, making up for their debts with a bowl of rice and a meal.

The villain's leader, the "Return Envoy" who once managed the port's warehouses, suffered a backlash from his shell the moment the Ninth Original Field was unlocked. He tried to stuff himself back into the gray shell, but the shell tightened, crushing him into a withered gray line. The tower keeper personally placed that gray line into the tower plaque and sealed it at the bottom of the tower, never to see the light of day again.

The inscription on Xuanzang, the Tang Monk: He no longer became a holy monk. After the Hong Kong authorities overturned the verdict, he stayed at the bookstore, disassembling and rebinding the old scriptures. On the title page of each volume, he wrote "the person's name first." He took on several disciples, teaching them to read and write, and to keep accounts. Later, he died of old age and was buried in the backyard of the bookstore. His tombstone was not inscribed with a Buddhist name, but only with the two characters "Xuanzang."

The White Dragon Horse: He burned the old contract from the Dragon Palace and returned to the East Sea to suppress the tides for the fishermen for thirty years. After the tides calmed, he returned to Flower Fruit Mountain and became a real horse. Whoever wanted to travel far away, he would carry them for a while, and his reward was a handful of salted beans.

Writing about Si Mo and the old butler: Si Mo finished revising all the "failed samples," and by the time he reached the last page, his knuckles were so swollen he could barely hold the pen. The old butler placed the "Pending Return Account" copper stamp into a box in the corner of the old warehouse, while he stayed in the port area to guard the tower. The tower no longer imprisoned people, only stored accounts. Later, one morning, he closed his eyes, still clutching the tower plaque in his hand.

The description of Sun Wukong: He never caused trouble in Heaven again. He taught the monkeys to write on Flower Fruit Mountain and also taught them to distinguish lies. If someone came to cause trouble, he would strike them back with his staff. If someone came to demand justice, he would let them into the old treasury and personally look at the accounts.

Finally, I'll write about Chen Fan himself.

He wrote down the words "unethical system" and added a sentence after it: The system has now self-destructed, is relegated to the old register, and will no longer be prompted.

The pen tip stopped.

He heard that familiar cough from his chest, a soft sound, then it stopped. Like a long-time follower finally letting go.

The first page of text is now complete.

The countdown stopped. The smog in the port area had mostly dissipated, revealing damp black soil on the beach, where tiny grass sprouts were emerging, their tips covered in salt frost.

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

There was no wind in the old book. The sample section on page four had also been emptied, becoming just an ordinary sheet of paper. Chen Fan closed the old book, put it back in its original place, and lingered his fingertip on the cover for a moment. The cover was warm, no longer cold.

Sun Wukong closed the door, the latch clicked shut with a crisp sound.

Many years later, Huaguo Mountain had a new batch of peach trees.

In late spring, peach blossoms covered the ground. Chen Fan sat in the sun at the entrance of the old warehouse, still holding the same old book in his hand. He turned to the fourth page, which was densely covered with names, the ink varying in shades, like a city finally filled to capacity.

A little monkey in the mountains was practicing calligraphy on a rock, writing "已结" (meaning "completed"). After finishing, he looked up and called out, "Strategist, did I write it correctly?"

Chen Fan closed the booklet and nodded: "Yes."

Sun Wukong walked over with a bowl of hot tea and casually handed it to him. The tea was a bit bitter, but it tasted reassuring. The two didn't say anything more, only that the sounds of noise from the mountains rolled by in waves, like the tide, no longer frightening.

The lights in the old warehouse were on steadily.

Chapter 625 Before the True Source Lock

The true source lock is located at the deepest part of the old warehouse.

The door was open, but the wind couldn't get in. It was as if someone had slammed the door shut. There was dust in the warehouse, and the dust settled very slowly. It settled on the lampshade, on the stone edge, and on that narrow path.

A green lamp was placed on the main tent platform.

The light was dim, and the moment it shone on the True Source Lock, the shadow was elongated. The shadow didn't fall on the ground; it was stuck to the lock's surface, like a thin layer of paper that, if flipped over, would reveal what lay beneath.

Sun Wukong stood at the very front. He wasn't carrying his golden cudgel; his hands were empty. There were several old scratches on the back of his hands, as if they hadn't faded over many years.

Yang Jian leaned against a stone pillar, his three-pointed, double-edged sword resting across his lap. He glanced at Chen Fan, his expression indifferent: "Have we arrived?"

"We've arrived." Chen Fan closed the old booklet and put it back in his pocket. The edges of the booklet were worn and prickly to the touch. He hadn't replaced it.

Xuanzang knelt beside the stone platform. A cloth lay spread on the ground, with rows of columns drawn on it. The ink was fresh, as if newly written, yet also as if written long ago. He looked up and asked, "The True Origin Chronology column, shall we truly open it now?"

"Anytime," Chen Fan said. "Once the lock is opened, the account creator can be added to the access control system."

The words were spoken very plainly. Curry and the others understood them.

The one who sets the rules isn't the kind who hides in the sky shouting slogans. They are the ones who write the accounts. With a single stroke of their pen, a change of a line, and mountains can change, seas can be renamed. Before, they attacked its shadow, the rules it established. Today, it must be brought to the ground.

Si Mo stood behind, holding a pen in his hand. The pen was short, like an old bamboo that had been trimmed. He looked down at the tip of the pen, gently breathed on it, as if testing the sharpness of a knife.

"Division of labor." Chen Fan spoke quickly. "Yang Jian breaks the seal. You keep an eye on the dark lines around the edge of the seal, don't try to force it. Sun Wukong charges at the main lock. Ignore the fake buttons around the edges, go straight for that vertical line. Si Mo snatches the pen. As long as you take that 'master pen' from him, the ledger won't be able to be written. Xuanzang guards the year column. Be steady, don't rush to fill in the words. Wait for him to show his hand first."

Sun Wukong tilted his head: "And you?"

"I'll keep an eye on the green lamp," Chen Fan said, focusing his gaze on the flickering flame. "And also on the operator selection screen. Once it's launched, someone will have to be chosen."

"That sounds like an insult." Sun Wukong grinned, but didn't laugh out loud.

Chen Fan didn't take it. He reached out to touch the lamp base, and the light flickered as soon as his fingertip touched it, like someone blinking on the other end.

The True Source Lock made a sound.

It wasn't the sound of metal striking metal. It was like turning the pages of a thick book. Then, a thin line emerged from the edge of the main table. With a push of the line, the entire page of the book turned up.

Page 5.

Chen Fan had already seen the sample section on page four. It was densely packed with names. He had stared at it for a long time, and it chilled him to the bone. Page five was different.

Page 5 is empty.

It was glaringly empty. Only the topmost column had four words written on it: Operator.

The four characters looked as if they had just been painted, not yet dry. The ink was shimmering with light.

The shadow of the green lamp fell on the "Operator" column. An outline appeared in the shadow. It wasn't human-shaped, but rather like an arm draped in a garment, the sleeves hanging down, ink still dripping from the fingertips.

"Here it comes." Yang Jian picked up his sword, touched the ground with his toes, and darted to the edge of the True Source Lock. Without touching the lock with the tip of his sword, he used the back of the blade to follow the dark patterns along the edge of the seal. When he reached the third circle, his wrist suddenly sank, and with a "crack," the seal cracked open.

Cold air seeped out of the crack, like the mouth of a well in winter.

Sun Wukong moved. He stepped into the shadowy enclosure and placed his palm on the vertical line. The line was hard, like bone. Sun Wukong tightened his knuckles, and the bone made a soft cracking sound. He gritted his teeth and pressed down.

The True Source Lock made its first real sound.

Like a mountain panting.

Si Mo didn't wait. He rushed up to the main tent from the side. Suddenly, a pen appeared in the blank space on the fifth page. The pen handle was so black and shiny, as if it had grown out of the lamplight. As soon as the pen landed on the blank space in the "Operator" column, Si Mo reached out and grabbed it.

In that instant, a layer of inky scab rose from the back of Si Mo's hand. The scab seemed alive, as if it wanted to burrow into his palm.

Si Mo didn't let go. He pulled the pen into his robes, then with his other hand, he pulled out his old bamboo pen and plunged it directly into the ink crust. Like driving a wooden wedge. The ink crust stopped, crumbling into a cloud of ash.

"I got it." Si Mo let out a breath, his voice hoarse.

The shadowy figure lifted its sleeve slightly. It didn't speak. But then, a cacophony of voices rose from within, like shouts directed down into a well. They were all shouting the same thing: "Return to your post!"

Xuanzang's pen trembled. He didn't look up, his hand pressing down on the corner of the cloth, forcing it flat. The year column was still empty. His Adam's apple bobbed, and he murmured, "New year, continuing the old order, no more service."

As soon as he finished speaking, a thin line lit up on the screen. It was as if someone had lit an incense stick for him.

Chen Fan stared at the blue lamp.

The lamplight suddenly shrank to a single point. That point of light sank downwards, as if trying to disappear into the lamp base. A line of small characters emerged from the edge of the lamp base, in a handwriting he had never seen before: "Tent Builder, Demoted in Entrance."

Chen Fan felt a chill run down his spine. He understood.

The person setting up the accounts doesn't choose the "operator." They need the "green lamp." The green lamp is the eye of the old storehouse, and also the latch of the general ledger. Once the latch is fastened, no one can open it.

He raised his hand and picked up the green lamps.

The lamp was scalding hot, burning to the bone. He endured it and pushed the lamp into the crack of the True Source Lock.

Hearing the commotion, Sun Wukong's eyes twitched: "Are you crazy?"

"Let it fall," Chen Fan said. "It'll be easier to kill it once it falls."

He stuffed the lamp into the crack.

The cold air from the crack suddenly turned hot, like someone had turned a pot upside down on it. The shadowy figure recoiled sharply, as if burned. It finally spoke, its voice dry: "Who are you?"

"They feed the fruit," Chen Fan replied, "and they keep track of the expenses too."

The image on the sleeve seemed to be smiling, or perhaps gritting its teeth. It stretched out its fingertip to tap the "Operator" column on the fifth page. Si Mo took a step back with the pen, twirled the tip, and deliberately drew a messy line in the blank space.

As soon as the tangled lines appeared, the fifth page started shaking. It felt like the paper was about to tear.

Yang Jian seized the opportunity, pressing down with the back of his blade to completely break off the last ring of dark patterns on the seal. The outer shell of the True Source Lock cracked open, revealing a small clasp inside.

Sun Wukong flipped his hand, grabbed the clasp, and yanked it sharply.

The buckle broke.

In that instant, all of Curry's voices ceased. Even the sound of dust falling stopped.

The shadowy figure, having lost its anchor, seemed to be torn from the wall. It tried to burrow into the lamp. But the lamp was stuck in a crack, unable to go in or out. Chen Fan pressed his hands against the lamp base, veins bulging on his forehead, stubbornly refusing to let go.

"Xuanzang!" Chen Fan shouted.

Xuanzang looked up, his eyes bloodshot. He didn't ask a question, but his pen landed on the first column of the year section and wrote two words: Self-reliance.

As soon as the words were written, the fine threads on the cloth suddenly lit up, like the glint of a knife. The light shot out from the year column and cut directly into the fifth page. It cut to the "Operator" column and forcefully tore off a corner of it.

The sleeve emitted a short, sharp sound, like a snapped string.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Si Mo snapped the stolen writing brush in two. As it broke, black ink gushed from the handle, splashing onto his face. Si Mo didn't dodge; he simply wiped it with his sleeve, which was immediately soaked through. He coughed twice, forcing out through gritted teeth, "I can't write anymore."

The sleeve lost its pen, and then its railing. It longed to return to the True Source Lock. Sun Wukong slammed his fist into the lock's core. As his fist fell, the small clasp inside the True Source Lock shattered into dust. The dust rose, like a swarm of gray mosquitoes.

The sleeve was covered in powder, struggled twice, and then dispersed.

The flame of the lamp rose again. The flame was small, but steady. The small characters on the lamp base faded, and finally fell away like ash.

Curry was eerily quiet.

Yang Jian sheathed his sword and rubbed his wrist. "Where's the person who built the tent?"

"It's gone." Chen Fan placed the green lamp back on the main tent table. His fingers were scalded, forming blisters. He ignored them, simply hiding his hands in his sleeves. "It fell, it couldn't fall steadily. The railing was torn, the pen was broken, the lock was ripped. It could only scatter."

Sun Wukong looked down at the remnants of the True Source Lock, and after a long while, he exhaled, "So it's really sealed?"

Chen Fan nodded: "The general ledger can't be turned to the next page."

Xuanzang rolled up the cloth and held it to his chest. His hands were still trembling violently, but he smiled and said, "I can protect it."

Si Mo carefully collected the broken pen fragments one by one and stuffed them into his sleeve pocket: "I owe you guys a drink. I've owed you for many years."

Chen Fan glanced at them, then at the narrow path leading to the old warehouse entrance. At the end of the path was light—the sunlight of Huaguo Mountain. He suddenly remembered a long time ago, feeding fruit at the foot of Wuzhi Mountain. Back then, he thought he would never see this light in his life.

Later, no one from Heaven came to collect the debts anymore. The Buddhist sects also stopped sending people to persuade them. Those titles that once hung above everyone's heads faded away one by one. The demon kings who had once followed them in their rebellion either returned to their mountains or opened their own schools. The Bull Demon King, with Red Boy, planted a patch of chili peppers outside the Fire Cloud Cave; he still had a fiery temper, but his heart was steady. The White Dragon Horse grew old and finally lay down by the stream, refusing to get up. Xuanzang recited the first line of the new era three times for it as a farewell. Yang Jian returned to Guanjiang Estuary, no longer serving as anyone's vanguard; he opened a small temple, specifically to repair bridges for the people. Si Mo stayed at the bookstore, writing and selling calligraphy; anyone who came could buy a page to paste on their door for peace of mind.

Chen Fan hadn't gone far.

He continued to live next to the old warehouse. He basked in the sun in spring and warmed himself by the fire in winter. When he turned to the last page of the old book, there were many blank pages, but he wasn't in a hurry to fill them in. He would occasionally jot down a few notes, recording which family's monkey in the mountains had caused trouble, or who had buried the wine jar in the wrong place.

Sun Wukong continued to sit on that rock and teach characters.

It still says "finished".

One year, the peach blossoms bloomed late. The little monkey wrote the last stroke crookedly, and Sun Wukong pointed at it with his staff, not scolding him, but simply saying, "Rewrite it."

Chen Fan held the teacup; it was bitter. He took a sip and placed the cup on the edge of the stone. The dim light from the old warehouse lamp shone through the threshold, thin but sufficient.

For many years afterward, life in the mountains remained noisy and normal. The broken shell of the Zhenyuan Lock was buried under the peach tree. No one mentioned the person who built the account book again, and no one turned to that fifth page. The wind blew past the old warehouse door, dust fell and rose again, as if something had been completely and utterly forgotten.

Chapter 626 The Old Seal of the Tathagata

The patch of land in front of the True Source Lock hasn't been tamped down for many years. Peach tree roots are arching through the soil, with broken shells buried underneath, feeling like a cold bone to the touch.

The wind was light that day, and the dim light from the old warehouse entrance cast a thin sliver of glow. Chen Fan held his teacup, the rim of which tapped against the stone with a soft sound. He had only intended to sit for a while and listen to the little monkey recite his lessons.

Sun Wukong looked up at the sky, then suddenly stood his staff upright at his feet: "Here it comes."

There were no clouds in the sky, yet the light seemed to have been pressed down by a hand. A palm print landed in the empty space where the True Source Lock was located. It wasn't a fleshy palm, but a whole area of ​​pressed-out Buddhist patterns, like a branding iron, with edges that were still charred yellow.

There are words engraved on the palm, neatly carved—the old nature of the Tathagata.

Chen Fan glanced at it and felt a chill run down his spine. He remembered the hundred years under Five Finger Mountain, and the phrase "sinful monkey." That wasn't an insult; it was a stamp of approval.

The moment the palm print landed, all sounds in the mountains fell silent. The little monkey's pen tip stopped on the paper, the ink droplet falling into a black blob. Xuanzang emerged from the old storeroom, carrying a stack of new sutra pages, the corners of the pages weighed down with pebbles to prevent them from being swept away by the wind.

A chant, neither loud nor soft, emanated from the palm print, as if coming from a distant hall, each word clear: "Sun Wukong, the demon monkey of Flower Fruit Mountain. Imprisoned for five hundred years. His sins are not yet exhausted, his nature is not yet changed. Today he returns to his place, and shall be punished according to the old laws."

Sun Wukong didn't move. There was no anger in his eyes; instead, it was as if he were weighing a stone.

The palm print suddenly sank, and the air seemed to drop. Chen Fan's shoulder tightened, and the tea spilled, scalding the back of his hand, but he didn't bother to wipe it off. He saw Sun Wukong's knees bend slightly, and the stone beneath his feet cracked with a loud thud.

In that instant, Chen Fan wanted to step forward. But his legs felt like they were nailed to the ground. It wasn't that he was afraid of dying, but that he was afraid that if he rushed forward, he would become that mortal who handed out fruit back then.

Xuanzang went out first.

He didn't raise his cane, nor did he recite old scriptures. He unfolded the new scripture pages, pressed his fingers against the paper, and stained a patch of ink on his fingertips. He looked up, his voice low: "Definition is the writing style. The facts are in the present."

The chanting within the palm print paused for a moment.

Xuanzang turned the first page, revealing his own handwriting. It lacked Buddhist formatting, resembling a human account book, line by line, so clean it was almost blinding.

"The first one," Xuanzang pointed to the paper, "is the story of the monkeys being suppressed under Five Finger Mountain, a joint agreement between the Heavenly Court and Buddhism. On the day it was signed, Flower Fruit Mountain was raided, and 30% of the monkeys died. The crime wasn't clearly stated. It only said 'disturbing the Heavenly Palace.'"

"Article Two." He turned another page. "Five hundred years later, the monkey emerges from the mountain. According to the old article, he should protect the scriptures and receive merit. The monkey no longer protects them. The monkey saves people. He saves those whose homes you have confiscated and those whose mouths you have silenced."

He looked up at the palm print: "If you want to follow the old rules, then bring out all of them. Don't use half to pressure people."

The palm print trembled, and golden light emanated from the Buddhist patterns, as if it would burn through the paper. Xuanzang did not retreat. He pushed the sutra pages forward, letting the light shine on them.

Chen Fan could see clearly that Xuanzang's hands were trembling. It wasn't fear, but suppressed anger. He had said the day he left the Buddhist order that he would no longer cover up lies for anyone.

The palm print deepened, and Sun Wukong's shoulder bone cracked softly. Chen Fan finally moved. He put down his teacup and reached for the hidden groove under the threshold of the old storeroom. There lay the old books he hadn't touched in years.

The booklet was cold. The cover was worn, and dark stains, like bloody fingerprints from years ago, remained on the corners.

He didn't flip through it; he just placed the booklet on the ground, like setting up a mirror.

"Whether it's the old seal or the new scripture," Chen Fan looked up, "you want to intimidate people with words. Then let's see whose words can withstand the test."

The chanting from within the palm print resumed, this time tinged with anger: "Worldly desires lead to false arguments."

Xuanzang turned to the last page. There was only one sentence on that page, written crookedly, but with a fierce tone.

— Qualitative analysis is not the same as factual analysis.

The palm print suddenly lit up, as if stopped by the words. A crack appeared in the Buddhist pattern, and the smell of paper ash wafted from it. The next moment, the entire palm print shattered with a crack, the fragments not falling to the ground, but scattered like a thin layer of powder by the wind.

A scroll of documents fell out from the thin powder.

The document landed on the stone with a soft thud. The paper was yellowed and the edges were brittle, as if it had been unearthed from an old warehouse. Several seals were stamped on it, the last one in red, bearing the words: "Execute the order for the sealing of the monkey."

Even more jarring were the annotations beside it. The handwriting was fine, like it had been carved with a knife—"Cut off the source of rebellion, archive it, and forever forbid its resurgence."

Chen Fan stared at the words, his throat tightening. He finally understood why the True Source Lock resembled a shell. It wasn't locking a door, but locking a person. It was locking away Sun Wukong's defiant spirit.

Sun Wukong walked over, bent down, and picked up the document. He didn't tear it up immediately; he shook the paper first. A little bit of paper dust fell and landed on the back of his fingers.

He chuckled softly: "So that's what you're afraid of."

He held the document up to his eyes, as if looking at an old bill. Then he tore it apart with both hands.

stab-

The paper tore with a crisp sound. Sun Wukong didn't tear it quickly, ripping it piece by piece, as if pulling out five-hundred-year-old strips one by one. When the last piece landed, he stepped on it and crushed it.

A crisp cracking sound suddenly rang out from the empty space where the True Source Lock was located. It wasn't an explosion, but a slow opening, like the first crack appearing on ice in winter.

As one layer of shell peeled away, a ring of even brighter patterns was revealed inside. Those patterns no longer resembled Buddhist markings, but rather the natural texture of rocks. Chen Fan could tell that it was Sun Wukong's own bone structure.

Sun Wukong straightened up, the pressure on his shoulders dissipating. He raised his hand and touched the back of his neck, as if pulling out an invisible nail. He let out a long breath, the white mist he exhaled quickly dissipating.

Chen Fan heard the system's faint echo reverberate in his mind one last time. It wasn't a notification, nor a reward, just a simple, ordinary sentence.

"The accounts are settled."

Then all was quiet. The fire that had burned in his heart for hundreds of chapters was extinguished completely. He felt no loss, but rather as if a heavy burden had been lifted, and his shoulders felt lighter.

The sounds from the mountains returned. The little monkey cried out first, as if it had been holding it in for too long, then laughed, wiped its face with its sleeve, and called out to Sun Wukong, "Mountain Lord, are you alright?"

Sun Wukong turned around and cursed, "Write your own words."

After he finished cursing, he looked at Xuanzang and said, "That sentence you wrote was ugly."

Xuanzang gathered the sutra pages together and stuffed them back into his robes: "Even if they're ugly, they're still useful."

Chen Fan squatted down, gathered the scraps of paper on the ground into a small pile, and threw it into the ceramic basin by the old warehouse entrance. There were embers in the basin, which he had just lit to boil water. The scraps of paper curled up at the touch, emitting a wisp of black smoke, which quickly disappeared.

That should have been the end of it. But Chen Fan knew he had to explain everything else clearly.

He dusted off his hands and asked, "What about Heaven?"

Sun Wukong slung his staff over his shoulder: "They've all dispersed. The Jade Emperor's seals were once used as doorstops by the Bull Demon King. They were returned to him later, and he never dared to display them again. As for the remaining star officials, some went down to earth to farm, and some went to the East Sea to beg for food. Nobody mentions their old titles anymore."

Chen Fan nodded, then asked, "What about Buddhism?"

Xuanzang looked at the lamp in the old storehouse: "All that's left of the old authority is this seal. Once the seal is broken, it's gone. The monks who guarded the seal on Mount Ling later sealed the temple gates themselves. They no longer come to the mountain, nor do they descend to the mortal realm to deliver orders. Some stayed down the mountain to repair bridges and roads, while others returned to their hometowns to farm. No more temples were built."

Chen Fan thought for a moment longer: "What about Bai Long?"

Sun Wukong gestured with his chin towards the sea: "Little White is in the East Sea. The Dragon Palace gave him his place. He doesn't like to fight, he manages the waters meticulously, and even sends rain to the human world during droughts. He said he owed you a debt, but he paid it back long ago."

"Old Niu and his son?" Chen Fan asked again.

Sun Wukong snorted: "Old Ox went back to Flaming Mountain to recuperate. Red Boy followed Xuanzang to learn to read, and after he finished, he went to treat people's illnesses. He has a sharp tongue, but his hands aren't bad. Iron Fan's fan, later she stopped using it to fan fires and started using it to fan wheat, saving effort."

Chen Fan smiled, but the smile was brief. He turned to look at the old warehouse: "Where's the line for the person who set up the accounts?"

Xuanzang didn't dodge: "You're talking about those who wrote annotations for Buddhism back then. They've all been found. One died on the run. Another ran a shop in Jambudvipa, was recognized, and chopped off his own finger as an apology. The last one lived the longest, and later wrote a letter of apology, which he left at the entrance of his bookstore. He didn't dare sign it. I took that letter and burned it. That's all I have to say."

After hearing this, Chen Fan felt a tension ease. He looked at Sun Wukong: "What about you? Do you want to fight again?"

Sun Wukong kicked the shell that had been peeled off from the True Source Lock: "What are you fighting about? The old seals are all broken. What's left are all living people."

He turned and walked back to the stone, picking up the piece of paper with the little monkey on it. The word "finished" was only half written on the paper, with the last stroke crooked.

Sun Wukong pressed the paper down and tapped it with the tip of his stick: "Rewrite this. Write it straight."

The little monkey rubbed its eyes and nodded vigorously: "Mmm!"

Chen Fan picked up the old books and went into the old storage room. He put the books back in their original place and didn't lock them again. The green lamp was on the shelf, its flame as steady as a bean.

He suddenly remembered a promise he had made to himself years ago: "Don't reach out to the wrong place again."

No need to remind me now.

Many more years have passed.

The peach trees on Flower Fruit Mountain have been replaced twice. The old warehouse has become a school, and the threshold has been worn even lower by footsteps. Xuanzang lives in the mountains, teaching both characters and arithmetic. He is no longer called Sanzang; the little monkeys in the mountains all call him Teacher.

The White Dragon would go up the mountain once a year at the end of spring, bringing a bucket of sea salt. Red Boy would also come occasionally, carrying a medicine chest, cursing as he bandaged the monkey's wounds. The Bull Demon King came less often, and when he did, he would sit for a quarter of an hour, drink his tea, and leave, as if afraid of bringing his past troubles with him.

Chen Fan's hair turned white quickly. He still loved sitting in the doorway basking in the sun, the old book in his hand growing thinner with each turn. On the last page, he wrote four words: Accounts settled.

Sun Wukong continued to sit on that rock and teach characters.

It still says "closed".

The peach blossoms were in full bloom that year. The little monkey straightened the last stroke, looked up, and asked, "Strategist, does this count?"

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

Sun Wukong placed his staff across his lap and grunted. Xuanzang, standing beside him, put the scriptures into the box and closed the lid. The dim light from the lamp illuminated the corner of the box, enough to keep it afloat.

A breeze blew in from the mountain pass, carrying the scent of peach blossoms. The ink on the paper had dried and hadn't spread further.

Chapter 627 Jade Emperor's Register

Text content

The stone at the entrance to the old warehouse had been washed clean by the spring rain. The dim light of the lamp illuminated a small circle of dust outside the threshold.

Chen Fan closed the old book and tapped his knuckles on the cover. The words "Accounts Cleared" written in ink were still there, neither new nor old.

Sun Wukong was teaching characters nearby. The little monkey looked up, the tip of his pen dipped in ink, waiting for him to speak.

Just as Chen Fan was about to say "rewrite," the lamp in the old warehouse suddenly shrank, as if someone had twisted the wick. The light didn't go out, but the shadow changed first; a thin line appeared on the shadow against the wall, like a lock.

Something fell from the other side of the True Source Lock.

It was not a weapon. It was not a magic weapon. It was a booklet, as thick as a brick, with rounded edges. There were no words on the page, only a gold thread that wound around and around, finally tying a knot.

Once the knot is loosened, the booklet turns its pages by itself.

With each page turned, the library grew colder. The cold wasn't from the wind, but from the weight of a strict rule. Sun Wukong's staff trembled slightly, and the inkstone on the table made a "ding" sound.

Chen Fan saw two lines of text on the booklet, the characters were very small, like the detailed accounts written by an accountant.

"Chen Fan, an intruder who has bypassed his rank to join the camp."

"Sun Wukong, template can be replaced."

Sun Wukong placed his staff across his lap, chuckled—a chuckle devoid of anger, only tinged with a hint of harshness—and said, "The old scores are still up."

Chen Fan didn't reply. He stared at the two words, "template," which felt like needles pricking the corners of his eyes.

Footsteps sounded outside the door. Steady, unhurried. Muddy soles followed the smell of mud into the room.

Yang Jian stood at the doorway, water dripping from the edge of his cloak. Without looking up, he raised his hand, pressing an old seal in mid-air from his palm. The seal wasn't made of jade, but of iron, its black surface gleaming, like the hilt of a long-held knife.

"The old judicial seal," Yang Jian said. "I borrowed it a long time ago, and I'm returning it today."

As soon as the print was applied, the sound of the booklet turning pages paused for a moment. The scroll titled "The Jade Emperor's Old Mandate of Authority" seemed to have its spine gripped; the corner of the page trembled, but it stubbornly continued to turn.

Yang Jian walked to the book, but instead of touching the paper, he pushed the seal forward an inch: "Look carefully. This isn't about people, it's about samples."

Chen Fan looked in the direction he was pointing. The Book of Fates contained more than just their two names. Xuanzang, Bailong, the Bull Demon King and his son, and even some of the young demons from Flower Fruit Mountain who had died young were also listed. Each name had a short note following it.

"Can fill in."

"Replaceable".

"Recyclable".

Sun Wukong tapped the staff twice with his knuckles, very lightly: "I kept this as a backup when I imprisoned him under the mountain back then."

Yang Jian didn't laugh. He looked up at Chen Fan: "There's something even dirtier."

He turned the old seal face down and pressed it down heavily. The register of fates was jolted open to the last few pages. Those pages were yellowed, like paper that had been dried in the sun for too long. There was a blank space at the end of each page, and next to that space was a line of text—

"Tenth operator: Empty seat."

Below the empty seat was a long list of backup names. The list was messy, as if hastily filled in. Chen Fan glanced at it and his heart sank.

One name on the list was written most neatly: Chen Fan.

Next to it were four more characters, so faint they were almost invisible: "Chen Fan under the lamp".

The old warehouse lamp suddenly shrank again, and a figure seemed to be hidden in its flame, sitting motionless. Chen Fan remembered the "shell" he had seen in the lock many years ago; it wasn't an illusion, but a spare part.

He reached out to grab that page.

The register of fate was heavier than stone, yet slippery as paper. The moment Chen Fan's fingertips touched it, his palm felt as if it had been branded. The words "Entering the register above one's rank" flashed for a moment, as if reminding him of his identity.

Sun Wukong was a step ahead. He tapped the ground with his golden cudgel, causing the wooden floor of the warehouse to thud and a corner of the paper to be shaken off. Taking advantage of that brief opening, Chen Fan pulled the list down and tore it in half.

The sound of tearing paper was crisp, like breaking a dry bone.

The register of fate emitted a muffled thud, like someone beating a drum in the clouds. The gold thread along the edge of the page suddenly taut, as if trying to pull the two halves of the paper back together.

Yang Jian pressed down with his old judicial seal, the iron seal striking the gold thread with a low clang. Sweat beaded on Yang Jian's forehead as he gritted his teeth and said, "Don't let it go back. If it does, someone else will take its place when you die."

Chen Fan stuffed the two halves of the paper into his sleeve, his palms sweating. He looked up at the lamplight, where the figure was still there, quiet as if waiting for the door to open.

"If I die," Chen Fan said, his throat a little dry, "he'll fill in for me."

Sun Wukong glanced at him, his eyes unwavering: "Then I won't die. And I won't let it remember me."

He raised the stick, not to smash the register of fate, but to strike the invisible line outside the threshold. That line represented rules, obligations. He couldn't break it, but he could loosen it a little.

Taking advantage of the moment of relaxation, Yang Jian flipped the old seal over, seal face up, and pressed it against the spine of the register of fate: "Chen Fan, your old register says 'accounts have been settled,' but that doesn't count here. If you want it to count, you have to burn this old register clean."

Chen Fan pulled the paper out of his sleeve; the edges were still hot. Without further hesitation, he placed it directly onto the lamp.

The lamp had no flame; it was like a tiny well. The paper that came near was swallowed by the light. In that instant, the figure within the lamplight raised its head, as if to speak.

Chen Fan stared at him, his voice low: "You don't need to come out."

The lamplight flickered. The image of the Taoist sighed, sat back down, and its outline slowly faded. In the end, only a ball of light remained, completely still.

The golden threads in the register of fate began to glow red, like hot iron wire. It tried to break free, but couldn't. Sun Wukong struck the corner of the register with his staff, hitting it precisely: "You wrote that we are templates, then I'll show you our true forms."

He didn't use brute force. He used the tip of the stick to pry open the pages, pulling out a thin thread. The thread wasn't silk, but a piece of "power." The moment it was pulled out, the book of fate seemed to lose its bones, the thick roll limp and went limp.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Yang Jian stamped the old judicial seal, covering the section on "power," and whispered two lines of old legal text. The text was very short, like the incantation used when striking a wooden fish in a government office.

"The old system of official registration is hereby terminated."

As the last word fell, the register of fate suddenly felt lighter. The words "replaceable" and "recyclable" on the page seemed to dissolve in water, the ink spreading into wisps of black mist that fell to the ground and turned to ash.

The wind blew in from outside the old warehouse, and the dust rolled around twice before dispersing.

Chen Fan felt the weight that had been pressing on his chest for so long loosen. He turned to look at the True Source Lock. The lock shell had long since shattered and was buried under the peach tree, but the lock core remained. At that moment, the lock core emitted a soft click, like a button fastened to its last hole.

The True Source Lock is fully activated.

There was no dazzling light. Only Curry's dim lamp shone more steadily. The sound of spring rain outside the threshold had also become clearer. Chen Fan suddenly heard the monkeys making noise in the mountains, which sounded more like human voices than in previous years, no longer like someone was suppressing their voices.

Yang Jian put away the old judicial seal, pressing his palm against the seal as if to confirm it was still warm: "The old scores with the Jade Emperor end here. Those officials still alive in Heaven will remember this day. Anyone who tries to interfere again, I will cut off their hand."

Sun Wukong snorted: "Don't take the blame for others again."

Yang Jian glanced at him, didn't refute, but simply pulled his cloak tighter, turned and went out. Rain fell on his shoulders, and he walked quickly, as if afraid he would turn back.

Chen Fan picked up the tattered scroll of the Book of Fate. The paper was brittle and would crumble at the slightest touch. He didn't keep it and threw it directly into the green lamp. The green lamp absorbed the last piece of paper, its light dimmed slightly, and it returned to its original state.

Xuanzang emerged from under the eaves, carrying a scripture box in his arms. He glanced at the ashes on the ground and asked, "Is it over?"

Chen Fan nodded: "It's over."

Xuanzang closed the lid of the sutra box, then paused for a moment: "Where are the old seals from the Buddhist side?"

Chen Fan pointed to the green lamp: "The old seal of the Tathagata has dispersed along with the Book of Fate. It can no longer suppress people. From now on, whoever wants to cultivate will have to walk their own path. No one will hold a book to determine your life and death anymore."

Xuanzang exhaled, as if pulling a thorn out of his chest. He slung his scripture box over his shoulder: "I'm going to open a small shop in the human world. I'll sell scriptures and paper. If you need to do accounting, come to my shop and pick out some paper."

Sun Wukong chuckled: "You monk, you've finally learned how to do business."

Xuanzang didn't reply and continued down the mountain path. The rain had stopped halfway up the mountain, and the path glistened with a layer of water. He walked slowly, his back straight.

Chen Fan returned to the rock. The little monkey, still holding the pen, stared wide-eyed: "Strategist, are you still going to write?"

Chen Fan flattened the paper and pointed to the two words: "Write it. Write 'Completed'."

The little monkey bit the pen handle and carefully began to write. After writing the last stroke straight, it even raised its hand to wipe the ink from the tip of its nose.

Sun Wukong placed his staff across his lap, raised his chin, and asked, "Does it count?"

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

Many years later, the peach trees on Flower Fruit Mountain were replaced twice more. The threshold of the old warehouse was worn even lower by footsteps. The green lamp was still there, but its flame no longer hid shadows; it was just like an ordinary lamp, guiding people through the night.

Xuanzang's little shop, hidden among the people, had been open for forty years. The shop wasn't large, and paper banners hung at the entrance. Later, when he grew too old to walk, he cleaned his scripture box himself, placed it under the counter, and passed away on a day when the rain had just stopped and the sun was shining. The neighbors closed the shop for him and distributed the paper from the shop to their children.

Yang Jian returned to Heaven. He didn't become a saint, but merely an official in charge of the law. Anyone who tried to use past grievances to oppress others, he would burn those grievances. Those in Heaven who were used to arrogance slowly learned to speak with their heads down. No one mentioned the "tenth operator" anymore, and that empty position remained forever.

Chen Fan was still on Flower Fruit Mountain. He didn't look at the old book again. That book was kept in the innermost layer of the old storeroom, its cover frayed. Sun Wukong would occasionally take it out as a paperweight to hold down the corners of the paper that the mountain wind had blown up.

One late spring day, peach blossoms fell on the stones. Chen Fan held a cup of tea; it was still bitter. He took a sip and placed the cup on the edge of the stone. Sun Wukong taught the little monkey to write; when he finished, he tapped the paper with his stick: "Don't write crookedly."

The little monkey rewrote it, looked up and shouted, "Strategist, did I write it correctly?"

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

The dim lamp burned steadily in the old warehouse, illuminating the clean road outside the threshold.