Chapter 5

But the pain he anticipated never came. Instead, a soft weight suddenly settled across his thighs. Tang Sanzang opened his eyes to find the boy seated in his lap, smiling brightly.

His nostrils were filled with the boy’s fragrance—rich, suffocating. Having already suffered at the hands of this scent once, Tang Sanzang now breathed it in with perfect calm, no longer dazed by it.

He simply regarded the boy with a look of puzzlement, as though baffled by this yokai’s bizarre behavior of suddenly sitting on his lap.

Fu Zhenhong covered Tang Sanzang’s eyes with one hand. His cold body pressed against the monk’s immaculate moon-white robes. With his other hand, he lifted the string of dark brown prayer beads, then buried his head against the side of Tang Sanzang’s neck. His soft lips settled over the faintly visible vein, and he extended his fangs, piercing through Tang Sanzang’s skin.

Tang Sanzang’s body gave a violent shudder. At the instant those sharp teeth sank into the skin of his neck, along with the faint sting came an inexplicable, electric numbness.

His eyes were covered by the yokai’s hand, and his other senses were thus magnified infinitely. He could feel the volume of blood in his body slowly draining away under the boy’s suction. Perhaps because of the blood loss, Tang Sanzang’s once-lucid mind was gradually growing scattered.

In his daze, his thoughts drifted involuntarily. He felt the soft pressure of the boy’s rear against his thighs, felt the cold of the boy’s body pressed against his chest.

[Little Hong, if you keep sucking, this monk can go straight to reincarnation.]

Fu Zhenhong’s identity in this world was the White Bone Demon. The White Bone Demon was a yokai, and yokai held a natural fondness for blood. Though he was human at his core, he couldn’t help being drawn in by the sweetness of the blood in Tang Sanzang’s veins.

He was meant to conquer Tang Sanzang, but Fu Zhenhong was hardly about to deny himself his own desires.

Only after Tang Sanzang’s lips had gone pale from blood loss did Fu Zhenhong finally stop. He glanced at the two fang marks on the monk’s neck and lightly ran the tip of his tongue over them.

The boy’s body was cold, but his tongue was warm.

At this, Tang Sanzang’s body gave an involuntary, physiological shudder.

Fu Zhenhong lifted his head from Tang Sanzang’s neck until they were face to face. “I’ve changed my mind. Rather than eating you all at once, I’ll drink your blood first. I’ll drain every drop from your body, little by little—and then I’ll boil your flesh and eat it.”

After speaking, Fu Zhenhong lightly wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with a finger. It was the simplest of gestures, yet performed by him, it exuded an inexplicable, bewitching charm. He curved his lips slightly and asked slowly, “Monk, do you know what your blood tastes like?”

Tang Sanzang didn’t understand why the boy would suddenly ask such a thing, but his gentle nature still led him to answer: “Blood is always foul—the taste of iron and rust. Mine is no different.”

“Not so.” Fu Zhenhong shook his head. “Monk, your blood is sweet.”

Tang Sanzang frowned. He couldn’t see through this boy—the other was constantly overturning the perceptions in his mind. If any other yokai had said such subtly suggestive words to him, he might have taken it as deliberate seduction. But right now, the boy’s gaze was too cold. Even the natural allure that clung to the corners of his eyes and brows could not conceal the depth of that chill.

Perhaps only when this boy gazed at someone from the bottom of his heart would the light in his eyes become the most breathtaking beauty in all the mortal realm.

But this boy was a yokai—and yokai had no heart.

“Monk, what are you thinking about?”

The clear, pleasant voice interrupted Tang Sanzang’s emotionless contemplation.

The next second, the boy’s fingertip touched his lips.

Fu Zhenhong used the index finger that had just wiped the corner of his own mouth to trace from Tang Sanzang’s lip’s peak downward, pressing over the seam of his lips and sliding to the lower lip.

And so a faint taste of blood was forced into Tang Sanzang’s mouth. He tasted the flavor of his own blood.

With the finger the boy had just used to touch his own lips.

Realizing this, a flush of red suddenly spread across the tips of Tang Sanzang’s ears.

“Isn’t it sweet?” Fu Zhenhong leaned close, a faint smile surfacing in those beautiful eyes. “Monk, I really do like your blood.”

When he said these last words, the boy’s tone carried unmistakable delight. Tang Sanzang saw the laughter in his eyes—nothing like the glacial cold of when he’d first denied his words. Those deep black eyes clearly reflected Tang Sanzang’s own face, and in that faint, pale smile, it was as though there flowed a gentle stream, starlight pouring into a vast abyss.

The most breathtaking beauty he had imagined in all the mortal realm—in the instant it fell into this boy’s eyes, he saw it.

Tang Sanzang was abruptly startled. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out across his forehead.

He told himself the boy was a yokai! Yokai excelled at beguilement! So even without a heart, when gazing at a person, they could feign it flawlessly.

Fu Zhenhong let out a derisive laugh. He stood, looking down at Tang Sanzang from above: “Monk, this face you’re making—like you’re facing a great enemy—is far more interesting than when we first met.”

With that, Fu Zhenhong called the lesser demons to take Tang Sanzang away.

He had set up a barrier at the mountain pass of White Tiger Ridge. Even with Sun Wukong’s Fiery Golden Eyes, it would be some time before he found the White Bone Cave.

Fu Zhenhong had originally assumed that the claim “eating Tang Sanzang’s flesh grants immortality” was simply a pretext invented by the gods above to ensure Tang Sanzang would face tribulations in this life. But the truth was otherwise. He had just drunk Tang Sanzang’s blood, and the power within his body had noticeably strengthened.

He was formed from white bones; the way to increase his Dharmic Power was by absorbing the essence of the sun and moon and gathering the spiritual energy of heaven and earth.

Tang Sanzang’s blood had augmented his power, but this power was ultimately not his own source. So now Fu Zhenhong had no choice but to sit on the soft couch, close his eyes, and concentrate, slowly channeling and converting this surge of energy within him.

In the original Journey to the West World, the White Bone Demon’s Dharmic Power wasn’t exactly weak, but compared to the other yokai along the four pilgrims’ westward road, her strength was nothing impressive.

Fu Zhenhong was different. He was a veteran Conqueror of the Space-Time Administration Bureau, having passed through countless worlds—his soul’s power was already formidable. The advantage of such potent spiritual strength was that, after transmigrating into any world, though he could no longer use the powers of his previous worlds, he could maximize the physical capabilities of his new body.

Which meant that when absorbing the essence of sun and moon and the spiritual energy of heaven and earth, he was several times faster than the original White Bone Demon.

Though he had only been in this world for a year, according to the established background of the scenario, he had already existed in this world for over a thousand years. Before his arrival, the White Bone Demon had been a yokai excluded by the World Consciousness. After his transmigration, the World Consciousness began repairing itself, using his spiritual power as a baseline to rationalize everything—including the background of White Tiger Ridge and the near-thousand-year gap in the White Bone Demon’s Dharmic Power.

If one really calculated it, his current strength was even a few degrees higher than Sun Wukong’s.

After converting the power from Tang Sanzang’s blood, Fu Zhenhong left the White Bone Cave. Night was the best time for him to absorb the spiritual energy of heaven and earth.

No one ever complained about getting stronger.

He needed to conquer this world’s Chosen—which meant he needed sufficient strength and confidence. The White Bone Demon had no backing. He had no intention of dying in the power struggle between the Buddhist and Daoist Schools.

By the time he returned to the White Bone Cave, it was already noon the following day.

After ordering the lesser demons to bring Tang Sanzang up, Fu Zhenhong used a spell to conjure a chain, binding one end to Tang Sanzang’s right ankle and the other to his own wrist.

After a day’s rest, color had returned to Tang Sanzang’s face.

Pulling Tang Sanzang over to sit on a stone stool, Fu Zhenhong pushed the plate of fruit on the table toward him.

The fruit plate held various fruits the lesser demons had prepared for Fu Zhenhong. He pointed at the plump, round grapes and said to Tang Sanzang, “You peel these.” Then he pushed another empty plate over as well.

Tang Sanzang lifted his eyes and gave Fu Zhenhong a faint glance. He didn’t move.

Fu Zhenhong raised an eyebrow and said unhurriedly, “If you don’t peel them, I’ll go down the mountain and grab someone, then drain their blood right in front of you.”

Tang Sanzang frowned. Seeing that Fu Zhenhong’s expression was not joking, he pressed his lips tightly together and finally picked up the bunch of grapes and began peeling them one by one.

Tang Sanzang’s hands were beautiful—evenly jointed, slender and fair. Compared to Fu Zhenhong’s unhealthy pallor, his hands were more like white jade—fine and smooth. The purple grape skins were peeled away at his fingertips, revealing the lustrous, translucent flesh beneath.

His pace was not fast. With half-lowered eyes, he worked quietly and intently at the task before him. Combined with the calm, tranquil air about him, it was a pleasure simply to watch.

Fu Zhenhong didn’t speak either. He propped his head on his hand and turned his face to quietly watch Tang Sanzang’s movements.

One watched in silence; the other peeled in silence.

Time slipped by, and before anyone noticed, the bunch of grapes had been fully peeled. Each plump, round fruit lay arranged on the plate, looking thoroughly appetizing.

Tang Sanzang pushed the plate of fruit toward Fu Zhenhong.

But the next second, the plate was pushed right back.

Tang Sanzang looked at him, perplexed.

“You feed me,” Fu Zhenhong said matter-of-factly.

At this, Tang Sanzang’s lips pressed into a hard, cold line, and a rare flicker of resistance surfaced in his dark eyes.

“What? Unwilling?” Fu Zhenhong sneered, rising to his feet. “Then I’ll go down the mountain and grab—”

Before he could finish, his wrist was seized by Tang Sanzang. When Fu Zhenhong’s gaze fell on him, the monk seemed to find it difficult to speak. After several seconds, he finally moved his lips slightly and slowly forced out a few words: “I’ll feed you.”

Fu Zhenhong was satisfied. He sat back down.

Then he parted his lips slightly toward Tang Sanzang.

Tang Sanzang, body taut, picked up a grape and brought it to Fu Zhenhong’s mouth.

But Fu Zhenhong, along with the grape, took Tang Sanzang’s fingers into his mouth as well.