Chapter 7

In the span of a few seconds, the white cat had become a human, sitting stark naked on Tang Sanzang’s lap—a turn of events none of the four pilgrims could have anticipated.

Tang Sanzang was stricken. His entire handsome face went crimson. He tried to push the youth off, but the moment his hand touched the youth’s bare skin, he recoiled as though shocked.

Sun Wukong stood frozen. Zhu Bajie clapped a hand over his nose to keep from bleeding. It was Sha Wujing, arriving last, who recovered first. “Demon! Release my master at once!”

“No.” Fu Zhenhong didn’t even turn his head, only tightened his hold on Tang Sanzang.

Through the thin layer of clothing came the soft, warm press of the youth’s body. Tang Sanzang went completely rigid.

On this journey, he had encountered demons who tried to seduce him with beauty—but none so brazen, so utterly shameless as this youth. He could face those temptations with perfect composure, yet before this boy, he could not maintain his usual bearing.

Perhaps it was because of these past few days together—his subconscious view of the youth had shifted. He could not treat him with the same indifference he showed other demons. Or perhaps it was simply that this youth’s beauty surpassed anything else in the world.

Even facing death had never disturbed Tang Sanzang’s calm, steady composure. Yet this boy’s actions now made the white-robed monk feel both flustered and ashamed. In the end, he simply shut his eyes—see no evil.

After the initial shock, Sun Wukong came to his senses. “Demon, you’re asking for death,” he said coldly. In a flash he was there, raising his Golden-Banded Staff and bringing it down hard on Fu Zhenhong’s back.

The blow landed squarely. Blood burst from Fu Zhenhong’s mouth, spattering across Tang Sanzang’s snow-white robes. Even though Fu Zhenhong had been prepared, Sun Wukong’s strike had cost him some of his vital energy.

He’d remember that blow. Once his plan succeeded, he was definitely settling accounts with this little mischievous monkey. Fu Zhenhong’s eyes flashed—and the instant Tang Sanzang opened his eyes at the commotion, he transformed back into a white cat on the monk’s lap.

“Mew…” He looked up and gave Tang Sanzang another soft cry—sweet, milky, but now noticeably weakened by injury.

Sun Wukong paid it no mind. He raised his staff again, ready to knock the demon off his master’s lap and finish it with one blow.

“Wait, Wukong.”

Sun Wukong froze mid-swing, confused. “Master?”

Tang Sanzang lowered his eyes to the blood on his chest, then lifted the injured white cat from his lap. “He hasn’t harmed me these past days.”

“Master, demons are full of tricks. You can’t go soft.” Sun Wukong remembered well what this demon had said while on his back.

Tang Sanzang only shook his head slightly, unwilling to explain further. He stood. “Let’s go. We’re leaving the mountain.” There were things he needed to verify.

“Monk, you’re just going to leave me here?” The white cat on the ground spoke up. “There are other demons on White Tiger Ridge. Your eldest disciple has injured me—my dharmic power is greatly diminished. I’ll be nothing but food for the other demons.”

Tang Sanzang pressed his lips together, lowering his gaze in thought. Sun Wukong’s brows knit sharply. “You demon, trying to bewitch my master with sweet talk?”

Fu Zhenhong ignored Sun Wukong and continued speaking to Tang Sanzang. “You made the monkey stop just now because you didn’t want me dead. But I’m badly hurt now—I can’t even hold human form. If you leave me, I’ll die anyway.”

This world operated on the law of the jungle. The savagery between demons was even more brutal and direct than among humans. Submit temporarily to the strong; crush the weak at will.

Tang Sanzang understood the meaning behind Fu Zhenhong’s words. Something in his expression softened.

“Your Buddhist teachings say all beings are equal. Humans who sin can be forgiven—why not demons? If you take me with you, if you guide me, you’re also guiding your own Buddhist heart.” Fu Zhenhong paused, then continued. “Your journey west to obtain the true scriptures will be a merit. Successfully guiding me to enlightenment will also be a merit. Monk, take me with you. Please?”

He softened his tone on those last words—light and quiet, tinged with a fragile softness from his injury, like a star fallen from the heavens to the mortal world, stirring pity in the heart.

“Master, this demon is full of tricks. You can’t trust him,” Sun Wukong said, watching Fu Zhenhong warily.

Zhu Bajie disagreed. “Eldest Brother, one more person to help protect Master on the journey—isn’t that safer?”

Sun Wukong shot him a glare, thinking: This lecherous fool’s been bewitched by a pretty face. Having a demon this scheming traveling with us is the least safe thing possible.

Tang Sanzang looked at the white cat on the ground—its snowy fur stained with bright red blood from its injury, its black eyes like radiant obsidian beneath starlight. But Tang Sanzang knew that behind those eyes might lie the demon’s hidden coldness and depth—or yet another deliberate disguise.

He thought of these past few days together. He thought of how easily Wukong’s staff had struck the demon’s back. He thought of what the demon had said.

The same words, spoken to him three times. The first time, disguised as a white-robed young master with an unfortunate past. The second time, in his true form, deliberately teasing him. And now—the third time.

Tang Sanzang couldn’t tell how much sincerity lay in the demon’s words. He stood quietly now, eyes lowered, his fingers—pale and clean as ancient jade—slowly tracing over the agarwood prayer beads. Breathing in the familiar faint scent, his long lashes swept down over his lower lids, and in the flickering candlelight, a shadow of contemplation fell across his face.

For a long, long moment, he said nothing.

He thought for so long that Fu Zhenhong began to think the plan had failed and was about to switch to his backup approach—when the white-robed monk finally spoke. His thin lips parted, and he gave a single word: “Alright.”

That meant he agreed to bring him along.

The white cat walked to Tang Sanzang’s feet, leaned lightly against his ankle, and said, entirely matter-of-fact: “I can’t turn back into human form right now. Carry me.”

Before Tang Sanzang could respond, Sun Wukong strode over and scooped up the white cat. “I’ll carry you.”

He held on too tight—his grip squeezed the breath out of Fu Zhenhong. Fu Zhenhong swiped at him with a claw, and only then did Sun Wukong loosen his hold slightly.

Glancing at the scratches on the back of his hand, Sun Wukong lowered his head and warned, “You’d better behave. No tricks.”

Fu Zhenhong shot back, “I’m already beaten half to death by your staff. What tricks could I possibly pull?”

Sun Wukong only sneered and said nothing.

On the way down the mountain, Sun Wukong carried Fu Zhenhong at the rear. He glanced at Tang Sanzang up ahead, then said quietly, “I didn’t mention it earlier—don’t think I don’t know you took that blow on purpose.”

Fu Zhenhong lazily raised his eyes to meet Sun Wukong’s steady stare. The monkey’s face was sharply, fiercely handsome—his eyes bright, black, and keen as a blade. When that gaze cut toward you, the mere look was enough to make ordinary lesser demons tremble.

But Fu Zhenhong was no ordinary lesser demon. That kind of warning glare did nothing to him.

“You pretended to be weak on purpose, just so my master would bring you along.” Sun Wukong’s jaw lifted slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he spoke. “I’ll be watching you.”

“You think your master couldn’t tell?”

Sun Wukong paused, his thin lips pressing tight, as though mulling over Fu Zhenhong’s words. If his master knew the demon was faking, why would he agree to bring him along?

Fu Zhenhong glanced at the sword-straight brows that had knit unconsciously in confusion, then let his gaze drift lower. From this angle, he could clearly see the hard, clean line of Sun Wukong’s jaw running down to his neck.

Compared to Tang Sanzang’s immaculate robes, Sun Wukong’s clothing was casual and unrestrained, his collar hanging loose and slightly open, revealing a fine collarbone and wheat-colored skin.

“Don’t bother thinking. With a simple little monkey brain like yours, you think you can figure out your master’s mind?” Fu Zhenhong teased.

Sun Wukong bristled. “Who’re you calling simple-minded?”

“I said little mischievous monkey. Are you one?”

Sun Wukong opened his mouth, then closed it—whatever he said, this demon would twist it around on him. He settled for a disdainful snort.

Fu Zhenhong’s eyes crinkled with amusement. He leaped from Sun Wukong’s wrist onto his head, his little white paws stepping across the monkey’s coarse hair.

“What’re you doing!” Sun Wukong’s brows shot up. He reached to grab Fu Zhenhong off his head.

“You grab me and I’ll pull your head bald.”

Sun Wukong’s hand froze—just as Tang Sanzang, walking ahead, turned to look back.

“Little monkey, your hair’s so stiff,” Fu Zhenhong said from atop his head, sounding faintly disgusted.

Now he was criticizing him too?

Sun Wukong was annoyed. “What’s it to you?” So what if his hair was stiff?

“Might work as a cushion. Barely.”

Sun Wukong was ready to explode—but Tang Sanzang was looking at him, and Zhu Bajie and Sha Wujing had turned around too. Under three pairs of eyes, the Great Sage couldn’t act out.

Only after the three up ahead turned back around did Sun Wukong growl, “You little demon—behave yourself.”

Fu Zhenhong asked casually, “Little mischievous monkey, how old are you?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because you keep calling me a little demon. It’s starting to bother me.”

Sun Wukong raised an eyebrow. “If you weren’t a little demon, would my staff have been able to beat you into this state?”

“Didn’t you say I took the blow on purpose?”

Sun Wukong: “…” He didn’t want to argue anymore.

So Fu Zhenhong fell quiet too, lounging comfortably on Sun Wukong’s head, his long little tail occasionally brushing against the monkey’s right cheek.

The fur of Fu Zhenhong’s tail tickled Sun Wukong’s face. He suddenly asked, “You turn into a skeleton one minute and a cat the next—what the hell is your true form?”

“Guess.”

“Forget it.”

“You first tell me how old you are, and I’ll tell you my true form.”

Sun Wukong thought about it seriously, then said, “When I caused havoc in the Hall of the Underworld, I was three hundred and forty-two. After that, I held office in the Celestial Realm for fifteen years, then served as the Great Sage Equal to Heaven for another hundred and eighty. Add the five hundred years pinned under Five Elements Mountain—altogether, about a thousand years.”

“What position did you hold in the Celestial Realm?” Fu Zhenhong asked, deliberately leading him.

Sun Wukong’s eyes flickered. “Why so curious?”

“I heard the Celestial Realm once had a Protector of the Horses who only lasted fifteen years. Could that have been you?” A teasing note had crept into Fu Zhenhong’s voice.

Sun Wukong: “…”

You already know—why ask? This little demon was picking a fight on purpose!