Chapter 4

The cave was damp and cold. Piles of white bones and skulls littered the ground, ghostly candles flickered with an eerie light, and the stench of blood hung thick and inescapable in the air.

The yokai on White Tiger Ridge devoured the flesh and blood of the living—vicious, merciless, cruel beyond measure. No one who climbed the mountain ever came back down.

Tang Sanzang could feel his heartbeat slowly quickening—that specific terror and tension of being caught peeping, about to be discovered. And with it came an inexplicable palpitation, a strange thrill he could not name.

His hand, resting at his side, clenched unconsciously into a fist. He was just about to step out from behind the rock that concealed him when the boy in red suddenly curved his lips into a smile.

In an instant, he was all soft allure and boneless grace—a beauty that struck deep, three parts devastating.

The boy was smiling at Zhang Sheng.

Realizing this, Tang Sanzang let out a slight breath of relief. The boy hadn’t seen him.

“I… am Zhang Sheng. I found you.” A feverish flush spread across Zhang Sheng’s face as he fixed Fu Zhenhong with a look of obsessive, clinging devotion.

“And?”

Zhang Sheng smiled faintly, his tone carrying a stubborn, twisted madness: “I’m willing to offer everything to you. I know you’re a yokai. Eat me—that way my flesh and blood will dissolve completely into your bones.”

Tang Sanzang’s heart chilled with alarm. Even though his back was to Zhang Sheng and he couldn’t see the man’s expression, those few words alone conveyed a love driven to the absolute extreme of insanity.

He remembered when he had first met Zhang Sheng—even in brief conversation, it was clear the man was well-read and cultured. Though merely the son of an ordinary village household, he spoke with eloquence and composure, rational and unhurried.

Nothing at all like this extremity.

For a moment, Tang Sanzang wondered if the boy had used some demonic art on him—how else could a rational, steady man suddenly become so frenzied and twisted, stripped of all composure, even willing to throw his life away as an offering?

But the boy’s eyes were calm and cold—a deep, still chill like a frozen pool. Apart from that first faint smile, his exquisite face held no other expression as he faced Zhang Sheng’s mad adoration.

It was a silent contempt, a quiet arrogance. Tang Sanzang had the sense that this proud, aloof boy disdained to use such seductive tricks at all.

Yokai excelled at beguiling the hearts of men, yet this boy’s demeanor made one thing unmistakably clear: in his eyes, Zhang Sheng was nothing more than an insect.

Perhaps even a single glance was already too generous.

As Tang Sanzang was thinking this, Zhang Sheng suddenly produced a knife and slashed it hard across his own wrist.

In an instant, bright red blood came surging out, splattering across Zhang Sheng’s face.

Tang Sanzang startled—forgetting all about being discovered, he rushed out and grabbed hold of Zhang Sheng. The wound on his wrist was far too deep; if it wasn’t stanched and bandaged immediately, Zhang Sheng would bleed to death in no time.

Zhang Sheng flung him off with one shove. His face was contorted as he tossed the knife aside and began walking slowly toward Fu Zhenhong on the soft couch: “Won’t you drink my blood?”

Tang Sanzang tried to pull him back, but the lesser demons that came swarming in seized him.

“Zhang Sheng!” Tang Sanzang called after him.

But a man who had completely lost his reason could not hear his warnings.

Zhang Sheng walked step by step toward Fu Zhenhong, murmuring in his obsession: “You need me, don’t you?”

“Get lost.”

Fu Zhenhong kicked him flying, then swept a glance over Zhang Sheng as though looking at something filthy: “Disgusting.”

That casual contempt was, in that moment, the final straw that broke the camel’s back.

Zhang Sheng clutched his head and began to laugh. The surging blood soaked him through and through; his deranged, twisted appearance was that of a madman. He lifted his eyes and gave Fu Zhenhong one deep, final look—then threw himself into the furnace that gaped like a funnel.

The roaring flames along the furnace walls swiftly consumed his flesh, scorching and melting it away until only segments of bone tumbled down.

The whole thing took barely a few minutes.

A living man had, before Tang Sanzang’s very eyes, been reduced to a pile of white bones—one utterly unremarkable among the countless skeletons in the cave.

And the boy who had caused it all had, from beginning to end, spared only a single indifferent glance when he kicked Zhang Sheng away.

The boy was a yokai.

A cold, ruthless yokai with not a shred of human feeling.

Only now did Tang Sanzang truly understand this.

He seemed to grasp the truth behind the legend. The yokai of White Tiger Ridge was beautiful and alluring, but perhaps the people who vanished from the villages—perhaps they weren’t eaten by this yokai at all. Perhaps they, like Zhang Sheng, had thrown themselves willingly into the abyss, offering up their flesh and blood as sacrifice.

But even if the boy hadn’t eaten them, one could not deny that he had indirectly caused Zhang Sheng’s death.

As though guessing his thoughts, the boy walked unhurriedly to Tang Sanzang. “I’m a yokai,” he said. “Yokai have no hearts. How could we know human compassion?”

Tang Sanzang was bound with rope by the lesser demons, unable to move, and could only regard him with a look of disapproval.

Fu Zhenhong found that expression fascinating—far more vivid than the first time they’d met.

He waved a hand to dismiss the lesser demons, then—just as he had hours ago—squatted down before Tang Sanzang, bringing his eyes level with the white-robed monk’s.

The same scene as before. But this time, the monk’s gaze was no longer calm and tranquil as it had been. Yet that transcendent gentleness, as though carved into his very bones, remained unchanged. Even now, bound hand and foot, his refined face betrayed not the slightest panic.

Fu Zhenhong caught again that faint scent of white sandalwood. That serene fragrance drifted into his nostrils, as though capable of soothing all restlessness. He lightly hooked a finger around the prayer beads at Tang Sanzang’s neck, his pale, rounded fingertip slowly tracing over the agarwood beads.

Tang Sanzang frowned slightly, his gaze falling on the boy’s hand as it toyed with the prayer beads. The hand was slender and well-proportioned, soft and deft—lovelier than a woman’s. Yet he knew that these same beautiful hands could, with a mere wave, turn countless people into corpses.

He should have felt fear—fear of this hand’s cold pallor and its danger. Yet in that moment, watching the boy’s fingers slowly stroke the prayer beads, Tang Sanzang felt an absurd sense of being profaned.

He hastily recited the Purifying Heart Mantra in his mind, gathering his six senses until pure thought followed pure thought, and his scattered mind was wrenched back into focus.

It was the boy’s fragrance—working its mischief!

The moment the boy had drawn near, he’d caught the scent emanating from him—a cold fragrance that seemed to seep from the very marrow of his bones. Rich, suffocating—it set the mind adrift, stirring up desire and wayward thoughts.

Beauty in the bones gives rise to fragrance—that was likely what this was.

He, too, was but a mortal man. So the instant that fragrance filled his nostrils, he had fallen into the trap as well.

With this in mind, Tang Sanzang’s gaze toward Fu Zhenhong gained a measure of wariness.

Fu Zhenhong pursed his red lips, regarding Tang Sanzang with a smile that was not quite a smile: “Elder Tang. We meet again.”

“You’re that boy in white.” Though phrased as a question, Tang Sanzang’s tone was certain. Perhaps because he had already suspected it, hearing the boy confirm it now brought him no surprise at all.

Yokai excelled at disguise, wearing a thousand faces. This boy, naturally, was no exception.

“Elder Tang, I didn’t show you my true face then, but I genuinely wished to accompany you on your journey west.”

Tang Sanzang shook his head. “Your intentions were impure.”

Fu Zhenhong let out a derisive laugh. “Don’t you monks preach that all beings are equal? Your words just now carried prejudice. As for ‘impure intentions’…” He paused, then continued: “I’d wager your eldest disciple wasn’t genuinely willing to protect you on the journey west at first either. And your second disciple—well, no need to even mention him. Perhaps right now, while you’re missing, he’s busy dividing up the luggage and preparing to go his separate way.”

Tang Sanzang pressed his lips together and said nothing.

Fu Zhenhong went on: “If even they can accompany you with such attitudes, why is it that when it comes to me, you refuse?”

Tang Sanzang’s eyes flickered. He was actually beginning to consider Fu Zhenhong’s words.

Fu Zhenhong stared intently at Tang Sanzang. In those beautiful eyes now gleamed a radiant, shifting light—no longer the cold indifference and chill he’d shown Zhang Sheng.

His ink-black lashes fluttered gently as he spoke with utmost seriousness: “Your Buddhist teachings say all dharmas are equal, that all beings transmigrate through the three times and six realms. All beings possess Buddha-nature—flowers possess Buddha-nature, grass and trees possess Buddha-nature. And yet flowers and grass and trees have no hearts.”

“Since flowers and grass and trees have no hearts and still possess Buddha-nature, then even heartless yokai should possess Buddha-nature as well. So then…” Fu Zhenhong’s voice gradually softened, his lingering, provocative tone carrying a certain beguilement: “Monk, though I am a yokai without a heart, I too can possess Buddha-nature. Why don’t you come and ferry me across?”

At these words, Tang Sanzang’s expression showed a trace of wavering.

Then he lowered his eyes and brooded for a long while.

Time slipped by, second by second.

And just as Tang Sanzang was about to give his assent, the boy suddenly leaned his lips close to his ear and whispered, “I was lying to you.”

With that, the boy flashed a wicked smile—playful, perverse, wantonly toying with a person’s heart.

The breath that passed the boy’s lips was so warm, yet when it sprayed against Tang Sanzang’s earlobe, it felt only icy and chilling. “Everything you just said—was it all lies?”

“What else?” Fu Zhenhong patted Tang Sanzang’s cheek lightly, his tone carrying a faint contempt and pity. “How could going west with you to seek the scriptures compare to the freedom I have now? Here on White Tiger Ridge I answer to no one—why would I need you to ferry me across? I simply wanted to tease you a little.”

Tang Sanzang’s face rarely darkened as it did now.

“They say you’re an enlightened monk of great attainment, and that if I eat your flesh, I’ll gain immortality.” Fu Zhenhong laughed softly. “Now you’ve delivered yourself right to my door—how amusing. I’m going to eat you in just a bit, you know.”

The last syllable rose slightly at the end, Fu Zhenhong’s tone carrying unmistakable delight.

[Wow! Little Hong, how are you going to eat him? I’m blushing!]

[Braised.]

[???]

“Wukong and the others will find me soon enough.”

Even now, Tang Sanzang showed little alarm.

[Are all monks this naive?]

[Little Hong, let me tell you—Tang Sanzang has backing. A big mountain at his back, nothing to fear.]

Fu Zhenhong ignored the Weakling System and continued speaking to Tang Sanzang: “You think you made it all the way here without encountering a single obstacle? Have you considered why? This White Tiger Ridge doesn’t have just one yokai, you know.”

Tang Sanzang furrowed his brow. “You used Zhang Sheng to lure me here?”

Fu Zhenhong raised an eyebrow, disagreeing: “You could have gone to call your disciples the moment you spotted Zhang Sheng, instead of charging up the mountain alone. So when it comes down to it, what really led you here was your own heart.”

Tang Sanzang’s lips moved slightly. He wanted to say that if he had gone back to call Wukong and the others, then by the time the whole group arrived, Zhang Sheng would certainly have been gone from that spot. But the fact remained that even after catching up to Zhang Sheng, he hadn’t changed the outcome of Zhang Sheng’s death—and had even landed himself in mortal danger.

Thinking this through, Tang Sanzang ultimately said nothing. He merely looked at the smirking Fu Zhenhong and thought to himself that this boy was just like all the other yokai—cunning, vicious, full of tricks.

“There’s no point dwelling on it now. I’m going to eat you, and by the time your disciples find you—” Fu Zhenhong gestured toward the pile of remains to Tang Sanzang’s right, “—you’ll have become white bones just like these. Then, as time passes, you’ll be forgotten, buried under dust and sand, erased from among all living beings.”

But Tang Sanzang was not frightened by Fu Zhenhong’s words. He lifted his eyes and regarded him calmly. “If I am truly eaten by you, then that is simply my fate in this life.”

“Monk, you certainly see things clearly.” Fu Zhenhong’s eye corner lifted slightly. “Since you’re not afraid of death, then I’ll begin to savor you slowly.”

In that moment, he should have felt terror—yet Tang Sanzang’s heart stirred with no such emotion. He looked at the boy’s finely drawn features and noticed that the yokai’s eyes were of an exceptionally beautiful shape, the outer corners tinged with a pale, faint red, like a peony blooming in all its splendor.

In this atmosphere of horror and cold dread, the word “savor” emerging from this yokai’s mouth gave Tang Sanzang an inexplicable sense of strangeness.

[If only I could display the Favorability Rating—then you’d know your Conquest Progress, Little Hong. I wonder if this is making Tang Sanzang’s favorability toward you drop lower and lower.]

[Conquering Tang Sanzang is genuinely difficult without breaking character.]

[Since we can’t break character, we can only tease him with different kinds of words. Boohoo, Little Hong, you have it so hard.]

[Yeah. Because the Weakling System is useless.]

[…Hello Little Hong. Goodbye Little Hong.]

Fu Zhenhong leaned his face close to Tang Sanzang once more. His ice-cold fingers began at the monk’s smooth forehead and slid slowly downward—the pad of his finger tracing along the straight bridge of that nose to its tip, then to the soft, warm lips, and further to the finely shaped chin.

His fingers were too cold, utterly without warmth—cold as the most distant glacier. As they slowly traced their way down Tang Sanzang’s face, the monk’s body gave an involuntary, faint shudder.

Not a tremble born of inner fear, but of pure bodily instinct.

The monk whose dharma name was Sanzang simply closed his eyes and waited for the fate that awaited him—to be devoured by this yokai.