Chapter 6

Tang Sanzang’s fingertip—roughened with calluses from years of turning prayer beads—brushed against Fu Zhenhong’s soft lips, and the boy’s teeth caught the tip in a gentle bite.

The cool, watery sweetness of the grape mingled with the warmth of the youth’s mouth, and Tang Sanzang’s body went rigid. He was about to pull his hand away when the boy suddenly bit down and broke the skin of his fingertip.

Fu Zhenhong gripped his wrist and licked the blood welling from the wound with a pink tongue, swallowing it down along with the seedless grape.

Tang Sanzang’s ears burned. The instant Fu Zhenhong released his wrist, he ignored the small cut on his finger entirely—his first instinct was to touch the prayer beads at his chest. Only after feeling the cool, familiar touch of agarwood could he recover his usual calm and composure from this bizarre predicament.

He knew the demon was toying with him on purpose, the way a child might suddenly find an amusing new plaything.

But a child’s mischief came from innocent ignorance. This youth’s mischief was a deliberate, malicious game.

“Why must you toy with this poor monk so?”

“Toy with you?” Fu Zhenhong shook his head in disagreement. “It’s because I like you.”

Tang Sanzang’s expression did not shift in the slightest.

“You don’t believe me?”

“What you like is this monk’s flesh and blood.” The demon’s mouth was full of lies—Tang Sanzang couldn’t tell how much of what he said was true and how much false.

Fu Zhenhong suddenly smiled. “That’s right. I like your body.”

Tang Sanzang’s brows knit together, and he instinctively wanted to correct him.

Fu Zhenhong saw it coming and spoke before the monk could open his mouth. “Monk, your flesh and blood are what make you you. Doesn’t that count as your body?”

Knowing he couldn’t out-argue this demon, Tang Sanzang simply shut his mouth.

Fu Zhenhong found this boring. He pulled over the plate of fruit in front of Tang Sanzang and began popping grapes into his mouth while fishing for a new topic. “Monk, guess what kind of demon I am?”

Tang Sanzang said nothing, his face serene—the very picture of a man who had no intention of engaging.

Fu Zhenhong especially liked this unworldly air about him. The more the monk ignored him, the more Fu Zhenhong wanted to provoke him. “Monk, a demon’s mood is as changeable as the weather. You should know what I mean by that.”

The demon was threatening him again.

Tang Sanzang felt a stir of anger—but the boy’s next words defused it instantly, turning his irritation into something closer to helpless resignation.

“Guess right and I’ll give you a grape.” The boy wagged his chin at him, elegant and sharp, his expression bright with interest. “Better guess fast. I’m not a patient sort.”

So Tang Sanzang fixed his dark eyes on Fu Zhenhong in a deep, steady stare, as though pondering what manner of demon could have taken this form.

Fu Zhenhong let him look, eating his grapes and waiting for the monk to speak.

These grapes had been picked by the Black Fox Demon from a vineyard in White Tiger Village—large and fleshy. Though Fu Zhenhong couldn’t understand why a fruit that should have ripened between August and October had ripened in June.

And they tasted wonderful—sweet and crisp, bursting with juice.

Fu Zhenhong ate happily, his beautiful eyes unconsciously narrowing to half-moons, a faint curve lifting the corner of his lips. He looked relaxed and languid.

Seeing him like that, a guess slipped out of Tang Sanzang’s mouth before he could stop it: “A cat?”

“?” Fu Zhenhong actually blanked for a moment.

[Ha ha, Little Hong, he actually guessed you’re a cat! Cats are so cute—Little Hong is way more vicious than a cat!]

[Get lost.]

Tang Sanzang realized he’d guessed wrong.

“Monk, do you like cats?” Fu Zhenhong asked.

Tang Sanzang thought about it seriously before answering, “Whether it’s a cat or any other animal, to this monk, they’re all the same.”

Fu Zhenhong ignored that. “What color cat do you like?”

Tang Sanzang fell silent at the demon’s presumptuousness and self-absorption.

“Answer me.” Fu Zhenhong was strangely insistent on this point.

Tang Sanzang replied, “White.”

“Oh? So you like white cats.” Fu Zhenhong nodded. “Like this?”

The words had barely left his mouth when—right in front of Tang Sanzang, under his very eyes—he transformed into a cat. The next second, he leaped and landed directly on Tang Sanzang’s lap.

Tang Sanzang startled. On the stone stool where the youth had been sitting, only an empty red robe remained. He looked down at the cat now perched on his thighs.

The cat was pure white, its fur soft and glossy. It was looking up at him now, its black eyes like polished obsidian, brimming with intelligence and mischief.

“You—”

Before Tang Sanzang could finish, the white cat on his lap gave a soft cry.

“Mew…” A warm, milky sound—gentle, delicate, sweet and docile.

Tang Sanzang’s gaze flickered. The air around him grew gentler than before. “You’re not a cat by nature. What do you mean by taking this form now?”

Fu Zhenhong didn’t answer. Instead, he climbed up along Tang Sanzang’s robes, from his lap to his collar, and stopped there. He sniffed lightly at the monk’s neck, then nuzzled his head into the folds of Tang Sanzang’s collar.

Tang Sanzang frowned in discomfort. He raised a hand to push the white cat’s head away from his collar—but the moment his fingers touched the cat’s snowy forehead, the boy swiped at him with his claws.

Instantly, several stark red scratches appeared on the back of Tang Sanzang’s hand—that hand as fine as carved white jade.

Tang Sanzang lowered his eyes to the scratches on his hand.

He had forgotten, just for a moment—this cat was the boy, and the boy was a demon.

Even if he looked like a ball of white fluff now, it didn’t mean he truly had a cat’s soft, obedient, harmless nature.

At his core, he was still that willful, malicious demon.

Tang Sanzang couldn’t name what he felt. He lowered his hand, dropped his gaze, and let the boy do as he pleased.

[Little Hong, why did you scratch him? His favorability finally went up.]

Fu Zhenhong didn’t answer the Weakling System, San’er. That’s right—ever since he’d transmigrated into his first world to begin his conquest, the Space-Time Administration Bureau had assigned him this pathetic excuse for a system. The Weakling System’s full name was Zhang A-san; its nickname was San’er.

Since both the full name and the nickname were unbearably ugly in Fu Zhenhong’s opinion, he’d simply ignored its name entirely and called it the Weakling System.

As for why he’d scratched Tang Sanzang?

First, because his current identity was not that of a sweet, harmless demon.

Second, because he’d just transformed into a cat at a single word from Tang Sanzang. Though it had been his own choice, from another angle it could be seen as a subtle form of submission. If he’d let Tang Sanzang push him around after that, it would give the monk the sense that he could be controlled.

He could become a cat to indulge Tang Sanzang’s preferences—but he needed the other party to understand that all of this was predicated on his own willingness.

…

Tang Sanzang carried a faint scent of white sandalwood—calming and centering. Fu Zhenhong nuzzled against the monk’s collar a few more times, then climbed higher, finally settling on Tang Sanzang’s shoulder. He lay there, breathing in the monk’s scent, and closed his eyes, comfortably dozing off.

He wasn’t worried Tang Sanzang would try to escape. He’d set up a barrier, and lesser spirits guarded the cave entrance.

The shoulder remained still for a long while, and Tang Sanzang knew the demon was using him as a cushion to rest. He let out an imperceptible sigh, then pressed his palms together and closed his eyes in meditation.

In the flickering candlelight, the warm yellow glow fell on the white-robed monk’s elegant face. His eyes were closed, his long lashes dark as ink, tracing fine, delicate arcs that cast slender shadows beneath his eyes.

His whole being radiated a quiet, peaceful air—something removed from the dust and noise of the mortal world, lofty and untouchable. On his shoulder sprawled a snow-white cat, its head turned toward the monk’s neck, expression languid, its long tail swaying gently, occasionally brushing against the snowy white robe at the monk’s chest.

The cold, damp White Bone Cave, with its piles of broken bones and remains on the floor—it should have been a chilling, horrifying place. Yet because of the harmonious picture of the monk and the white cat, it somehow took on an unexpected tranquility.

The man and the cat passed over an hour like this, until the lesser spirits came in. Only then did Fu Zhenhong jump down from Tang Sanzang’s shoulder and return to the stone stool.

The lesser spirits quickly led Tang Sanzang away. Once Fu Zhenhong was alone in the cave, he transformed back into human form and dressed.

That night, as usual, Fu Zhenhong left the White Bone Cave to absorb the spiritual energy of heaven and earth under the cover of darkness.

The next morning, Fu Zhenhong had the lesser spirits bring Tang Sanzang up.

“Monk, did you sleep well last night?” Fu Zhenhong asked with a smile, reclining on a soft couch.

Tang Sanzang didn’t answer. Fu Zhenhong wasn’t bothered. He gestured for the monk to sit on the stone stool, then tossed a book in front of him.

The book’s cover was a plain wood-yellow. The title consisted of just two characters—Brocade Zither.

“This is a storybook I brought back from down the mountain. Read it to me.”

Tang Sanzang gave Fu Zhenhong a flat look, opened the book, and began to read.

“Beyond the long street, where the locust trees grow thick, there lurks a demon. A man carries a lantern up the mountain and encounters a woman with a lotus face. Her jade finger touches her lips, her eyes brim with seduction; she raises a slender hand to loosen her robes, half-baring her creamy bosom…” Tang Sanzang’s face went scarlet. He slammed the book shut and flung it aside.

Fu Zhenhong watched the monk’s face burn red and couldn’t help bursting into laughter.

“You—” Tang Sanzang was genuinely furious now, his earlier calm and composure completely gone. He pointed at Fu Zhenhong. “You demon, have you no shame!”

This book was nothing but erotica!

Fu Zhenhong found the monk’s changing expressions absolutely delightful. “Monk, this is a book written by your own kind. If you want to talk about shame, you should be pointing at the person who wrote it.”

Tang Sanzang couldn’t win the argument, so he could only glare at Fu Zhenhong with indignant eyes.

When Fu Zhenhong had laughed his fill, he finally stopped teasing. He pulled out another book from beside him and tossed it onto the table in front of Tang Sanzang.

“Read this one.”

Having been tricked once, Tang Sanzang was far more cautious this time. Only after he saw the title—Sutra of the Wheel-Turning Sage King—and confirmed it was a scripture did he reopen the cover.

“From before this time, all six Wheel-Turning Kings succeeded one another in turn…”

Tang Sanzang’s voice was deep and pleasant, smooth and unhurried, carrying a kind of magic that could quiet the soul.

Tang Sanzang sat on the stone stool. Fu Zhenhong lay on the soft couch.

One read. One listened.

By the end, Fu Zhenhong’s eyes had drifted closed, drowsy and half-asleep.

Tang Sanzang stopped. He looked at Fu Zhenhong, a thoughtful gleam surfacing in his eyes.

Over the following days, Fu Zhenhong had Tang Sanzang read scriptures to him every day. He would lie on the couch listening until he grew sleepy, then close his eyes for a nap—sometimes transforming into a white cat to sleep on Tang Sanzang’s lap, sometimes on his shoulder.

During these days, Tang Sanzang witnessed another person arrive in a state similar to Zhang Sheng’s—face twisted and crazed, wearing the same pathological obsession, leaping into the furnace and being burned to bones by the flames.

Tang Sanzang was not a man who looked only at the surface. The same scene, two different people, both taking their own lives in the same frenzied sacrificial manner. There had to be something more going on.

Having spent this time with the youth, something in Tang Sanzang’s heart had quietly begun to loosen. He’d discovered that this demon was not entirely bad. After that first time drinking his blood, though the demon’s temperament remained unpredictable—arrogant and malicious—he hadn’t done anything to truly harm him since.

[Little Hong, you two have been so harmonious these past few days. You’re barely acting up at all.]

[The barrier is about to be broken.]

Sun Wukong would find this place soon. Fu Zhenhong had never intended to keep Tang Sanzang trapped here indefinitely—that would collapse the worldline, and he’d lose any reasonable opportunity to interact with the others.

And a few short days were nowhere near enough to successfully conquer Tang Sanzang. He needed to follow the four pilgrims on their journey to retrieve the scriptures.

These past few days, he’d deliberately cultivated a peaceful atmosphere, letting Tang Sanzang grow accustomed to his presence. Only then, when Sun Wukong found them, could he make Tang Sanzang feel pity for him—setting up the next stage of his conquest.

In the height of June summer, the sun hung in the sky like a giant furnace. Yet no matter how scorching it was outside, the White Bone Cave remained cold and grim.

This day marked Tang Sanzang’s fifth day trapped in the White Bone Cave.

After listening to Tang Sanzang read from the scriptures, Fu Zhenhong transformed into a white cat and settled on the monk’s lap.

Tang Sanzang lowered his eyes to glance at the white cat on his lap—eyes closed, expression languid—then picked up the scripture and continued reading.

Meanwhile, Sun Wukong, having shattered the barrier the demon had set, led Zhu Bajie and Sha Wujing up White Tiger Ridge. The three of them cut down the lesser spirits blocking their path and quickly found the White Bone Cave.

But when the famous Great Sage Equal to Heaven burst in, ready for a fight, he found no blood, no rotting flesh, and no great demon in the grim White Bone Cave.

He saw only his master, seated upright on a stone stool, head bowed with gentle eyes, quietly reading a Buddhist scripture—with a lazy white cat sprawled on his lap.

The scene was unexpectedly harmonious—even rather pleasing to the eye.

The Great Sage was, for once, dumbfounded. “Master?”

He called out tentatively. Tang Sanzang set down the scripture and was about to speak when Zhu Bajie came charging in with his Nine-Toothed Spike Rake, bellowing at the top of his lungs: “Eldest Brother, where’s the demon?”

Zhu Bajie’s eyes swept the cave and landed on Tang Sanzang. Then, just like Sun Wukong, he was struck dumb. “The… the demon?”

That was when the white cat on Tang Sanzang’s lap spoke.

“The demon? You mean me?” A clear, lingering voice—cool and detached in tone, yet tinged with amusement that lent it an inexplicably alluring softness.

Sun Wukong knew that voice. He’d heard it just days ago—the white-robed youth who’d turned into a skeleton on his back, the one who’d used this very voice to bewitch him.

He remembered the words the youth had left behind.

So they were meeting again soon, just as promised.

Everything had been part of this demon’s plan, Sun Wukong thought.

The next second, the white cat on Tang Sanzang’s lap transformed into a youth.

Glossy black hair cascaded like silk down the youth’s smooth, bare back, only a few strands slipping over those fair, rounded shoulders. His entire body pressed against the white-robed monk, jade-pale arms winding around the monk’s neck.

The stone table concealed the youth’s lower half, hiding the provocative sight below his waist. From Sun Wukong’s angle, he could only see the tips of small, delicate toes peeking out from either side of the table.

This demon—who had just transformed into human form—was now sitting naked on his master’s lap!