The Divine Emperor stood imposing and magnificent, his figure noble and upright. Threads of primordial chaos coiled around him, ethereal and mysterious, like a living peerless sovereign looking down upon all living beings with supreme contempt.

He stood at the summit of Mount Sumeru. The aura of death had diminished greatly. The Primordial Emperor’s Pressure Aura radiated outward, yet the two awakened imperial weapons could withstand and contain it, protecting the Grand Thunder Sound Monastery.

The world grew still.

From within the Nine-Colored Immortal Robe came a soft sigh, filled with boundless grief. It summoned the Nine-Layer Coffin, and in sorrow, buried the Divine Emperor once more.

The Silkworm Emperor’s body slowly fell, enveloped in primordial chaos, sinking into the coffin. One by one, the stone outer caskets closed, sealing him within.

How many remarkable figures had been buried beneath the passage of time — no matter what divine abilities you possessed, reversing it was near impossible. A lifetime of brilliance, and in the end, only sorrow remained.

The Divine Emperor had been peerless across the ages, stunning past and present alike. But even he could not resist the erosion of time. The curtain was destined to fall — a brilliant moment, followed by endless darkness, and then silence.

Boom!

The Nine-Layer Coffin closed completely, seamless and airtight, looking like an ordinary slab of stone — unadorned and without luster, plain as could be, the kind of thing that might lie unnoticed in a mound of yellow earth without anyone giving it a second glance.

Such was the life of a Great Emperor — in the end, dust returns to dust, earth returns to earth.

“Father!” the Silkworm Emperor’s Daoist cried out, hot tears streaming down his face. He clenched his fists and rushed forward.

From the battle armor of the Silkworm Clan, a beam of immortal light shot forth, transforming into a resplendent river of stars stretching directly beyond the mountain — like a bridge reaching up to the heavens, turning this place into an open path.

It was summoning the members of the Silkworm Emperor’s lineage. The ancient emperor’s own flesh and blood, the Silkworm Princess, and the others all set foot upon it and climbed up to Mount Sumeru.

Above Ye Fan’s head, the copper cauldron glowed with a vibrant green radiance. He held the three-foot immortal sword in hand and followed after them — setting foot atop Mount Sumeru for the very first time in his life.

The Silkworm Emperor’s Daoist let tears roll down his face. He pressed his hand against the stone coffin, his voice hoarse. Others could not make out what he was saying.

With a thunderous boom, the stone coffin expanded. Nine colors surged into the sky, and then a tenth color erupted — the coffin expanded in an instant to a length of a thousand to several hundred zhang, and it continued to grow.

Strands of rosy radiance burst forth and sank into the brow of the Silkworm Emperor’s Daoist. Dimly, it seemed as though waves of scripture resonated — along with a profound understanding born from the shattering of the Great Dao.

The Silkworm Emperor’s Daoist staggered back, his soul seemingly adrift, murmuring to himself: “It was missed in the end — now it is time to set out on the road…”

A flash of light —

Another burst of immortal radiance erupted, catching everyone completely off guard. It flew toward the shoulder of the Silkworm Princess, aimed directly at the little golden monkey shining with golden light.

The tiny monkey, not much taller than a palm, immediately bared its teeth and looked frightened. It nervously grabbed a lock of the Silkworm Princess’s hair and shrank back.

Everyone was stunned. This little divine silkworm — which had undergone several transformations and now bore the appearance of a Battle-Saint Ape — what was its origin? To think the Divine Emperor had noticed it and bestowed immortal light upon it!

Even the Silkworm Princess was taken aback. She turned her head to look at the little divine ape blinking its large eyes on her shoulder and making an innocent face — and fell into deep thought, as though something had occurred to her.

A sound erupted that shook every soul present. In the instant before anyone could react, the great stone coffin rose up into the air, carving a brilliant arc of immortal light, tearing through the heavens, and plunging directly into the depths of the cosmos.

It chose a solitary journey — to drift through the universe without pause, endlessly — this was the ancient emperor’s destination. In the end, he would be alone, chewing on that loneliness.

The Nine-Layer Coffin disappeared. The entirety of Mount Sumeru grew peaceful and still. Whether it was the Demon-Subduing Pestle or the Nine-Colored Divine Robe, both gradually dimmed and slowly returned to silence.

“In dreams one glimpses the immortal realm opening…” The Silkworm Emperor’s Daoist gazed into the starry sky from afar.

The people could not tell whether he had dreamed of the path to immortality himself, or whether he was expressing the wish that his father might slumber thus — and upon death, behold the immortal realm.

“Master!”

A shout rang out, startling a whole group of people atop Mount Sumeru back to their senses.

Whether it was the members of the Silkworm lineage or the Bodhisattvas of the myriad heavens, the Ancient Buddhas, and the rest — all of them turned and looked. It was a young monk. At a glance, he appeared every inch the part — compassionate eyes, kindly features, large ears that hung down to his shoulders, and the precept-scars upon his shaved head.

There was no doubt — this was Hua Hua. After all these years, he had long since grown to adulthood. He looked simple and unassuming — a straightforward, honest-looking young man with a distinct Buddhist presence about him.

Yet the moment he opened his mouth, he shattered the image of plainness he projected, creating a jarring incongruity.

“Master, you’re back! I’ve missed you to death, your precious little disciple!”

Though his ears hung low and his Buddha-like features were plain, the moment he spoke, a profound sense of wrongness descended. His temperament and his appearance were worlds apart.

“You — weren’t you supposed to have been converted to Buddhism?!” Beside him, the two Golden Body Arhats who had escorted him were dumbfounded, their jaws nearly dropping.

“Ahhh, Master, you ruined my grand ambitions. If you’d come even a few dozen years later, I would have lured away every single female Bodhisattva on this mountain and left the monks behind to weep! What a waste!”

The crowd was left speechless. The change of pace was far too abrupt — moments ago everyone had been fighting for their lives, and now this reckless young man had come out and completely changed the atmosphere.

Even Ye Fan was struck momentarily speechless. This young man’s face was practically identical to the ancient Buddha’s from years past — if he stood off to one side in silence, he would carry the bearing of a high Buddhist monk.

But the moment he spoke, it was all ruined. Especially when he smiled — no matter how you looked at it, it was the expression of someone utterly shameless.

“What are you on about?!” Ye Fan gave him a sharp smack to the back of his head with a crack.

“Hey, Little Bald Head — weren’t you supposed to have been converted?” Xiao Que’er and the others had also climbed up Mount Sumeru along the golden path of radiance. At this point, no one from the Buddhist order stood to stop them.

Seeing that Ye Fan was also looking his way, Hua Hua immediately composed himself, adopting an expression of solemn dignity, and said: “Amitabha and the Tathagata, Hua Hua is a great Buddha. With Master seated in my heart — meat and wine may pass through my bowels, yet my nature remains unsullied. As if something like them could ever convert me.”

The result: he immediately received another smack to the back of his head.

Everyone had worried themselves half to death trying to rescue him, only to find that this little rascal hadn’t had a single hair harmed — and now he was standing there with a face full of smug grinning. They had all worried for nothing.

The Arhats, Bodhisattvas, and the rest were unsettled as well. They had witnessed Hua Hua’s conversion to Buddhism with their own eyes — how had he emerged completely unscathed?

Under Ye Fan’s stern gaze, Hua Hua did not dare cause further trouble, and he recounted the truth in full from beginning to end.

A flash of light appeared at his forehead, and a Buddha’s crown-top fell — plain and unadorned, bearing a few cracks and holes, yet radiating a Buddhist Dao-resonance.

The people of the Western Wasteland were all shocked. This was unmistakably a divine artifact — not left behind by a Saint, but bearing the aura of an Emperor held within.

Ye Fan naturally understood what was going on. This was Shakyamuni’s skull cap — a piece of the skull that had been shed into the world when he was tempering his sixteen-foot golden body in the mortal realm.

Back in those days, it had been this very piece of Buddhist bone that had bequeathed to Hua Hua an entire belly-full of scriptures.

The crown of a quasi-emperor was housed within the immortal platform, fused and condensed into one with it. Outsiders could not perceive it. Naturally, it could not be converted — it had simply deceived them with ease, and passed through without issue.

Ye Fan had even prepared the Scripture of Saving People, having assumed it would take considerable effort. He had never imagined it would turn out like this. He gave Hua Hua another smack to the back of his head on the spot, looking at that shameless grinning face of his — no matter how he looked at him, the kid was a complete liability.

A large group of Buddhist monks, Bodhisattvas, and temple guardians stood with stony expressions, wishing they would all hurry up and leave the mountain. That this day had ended in this manner left them with nothing to say.

But Hua Hua was having none of it. To have been suppressed like that for no good reason — no matter what, there was a deep resentment in his heart that needed to be vented.

“Amitabha. It was this old monk who gave in to worldly desires and harbored too deep an attachment. I offer my apologies here.” Mo Ke said this with an expressionless face.

Hua Hua smiled and grabbed the elderly monk’s hand without letting go, insisting that there had to be concrete action — that he couldn’t just be suppressed for this many years and have it dismissed with words alone.

“You have successfully reincarnated and reappeared in this world — this is a miracle of our Buddhist order, a verification of the Great Emperor Amitabha’s Dao-fruit. Do you truly not recognize this poor monk even now? Have you forgotten the scene of us debating the Dao beside Lake Ashoka five thousand years ago?!” Mo Ke thundered.

“Old Monk, you’re being unreasonably overbearing!” Beside them, Dongfang Ye and the others were having none of it.

Only Ye Fan understood the full situation. He had originally assumed the ancient Buddha had kept a low profile and wasn’t necessarily known to the world at large — yet it turned out he and Mo Ke were old acquaintances. The cause-and-effect entanglements involved in the Buddhist order’s detainment of Hua Hua this time ran far too deep.

In Mo Ke and the others’ eyes, Hua Hua was a miracle of the Buddhist order — living proof of the Great Emperor Amitabha’s focus on the next life. This was a living, breathing example.

“What a load of nonsense. Don’t say useless things. All I know is that you people suppressed me for many years. Buddhism speaks of cause and effect — you owe me a century of my life. How about this: I intend to establish a great order within Buddhism and open a branch of the Heavenly Court. You can go and become my dharma protector.”

A little bald young man gripped an elderly monk’s hand, haggling with him endlessly — it was equal parts exasperating and hilarious.

The wise and venerable figures of the Buddhist order all turned their eyes downward, noses toward the ground, mouths toward their hearts, bowing their heads in silence — none of them wanted to get dragged into anything by this green-scalped monk.

Just then, a large figure burst out from a nearby temple — an enormous shaved head gleaming like a mirror. He called out: “Oh God! Oh angels! I’ve finally found a familiar face! Ye Fan, Brother Ye — do you still remember me? Take me off this mountain too!”

Not only did the Bodhisattvas, Dharma-protecting Heavenly Kings, Ancient Buddhas, and the rest of the Buddhist order furrow their brows — even the outsiders were rather taken aback. How could there be such a peculiar monk in the pure land of Buddhism?

Ye Fan was startled. This was none other than Kai De — Li Xiaoman’s American classmate. All these years had passed, and he had developed profound Buddhist abilities.

“You are a Dharma-protecting Vajra — look at what you’ve become now!” Mo Ke scolded sternly.

Kai De paid no attention. Like a drowning man seizing a plank, he pleaded with Ye Fan for rescue: “Get me out of this godforsaken place! Eating nothing but vegetables every day — even God himself would go crazy.”

“Weren’t you supposed to be doing wall-facing penance? How did you get out?” A Bodhisattva asked.

Kai De poured out his grievances to Ye Fan: “I haven’t eaten meat in a hundred and fifty years. A while back, I finally managed to braise a pot of dog meat in secret. I’d taken just one bite when I was caught. They sentenced me to five hundred years of wall-facing. God almighty — after five hundred years of that, by the time I get out, all my teeth will have fallen out and I won’t even be able to chew dog meat anymore.”

The crowd stared, all of them rather stupefied.

Outside Mount Sumeru, the assembled powerful figures from beyond the domain were equally wide-eyed and slack-jawed. The onlookers all wanted to laugh, but a group of Bodhisattvas, Ancient Buddhas, and Dharma-protecting Heavenly Kings stood with iron-dark faces — each expression more terrible than the last.

Ye Fan didn’t know what to say. He patted Kai De’s shoulder — whether in comfort, or simply out of the courtesy of old friends meeting again, it was hard to say.

Privately, Ye Fan muttered to himself: this one was also a complete liability.

After a brief moment of thought, Ye Fan spoke to the assembled monks of the Western Wasteland, requesting that Kai De be allowed to descend the mountain — to escape from what was, in Kai De’s eyes, a “hell.”

“As a disciple of the Buddhist order whose six roots of perception are impure — cast him down the mountain!” The Great Peacock Wisdom King declared in a dark, grim tone, issuing this Buddhist decree. She could not bear to look upon such a disciple a moment longer.

Atop Mount Sumeru, a group of Bodhisattvas and Arhats sent them off down the mountain — as though shooing away plagues of pestilence.

Hua Hua kept talking like a chatterbox, clutching the elderly monk Mo Ke’s hand and going on without pause, his mouth spraying spit in all directions — as though he hadn’t spoken in ten lifetimes and had an inexhaustible supply of things to say. He was asking Mo Ke to leave the mountain and become his dharma protector, to compensate him for the suffering he’d endured through all those years of suppression.

At first, the Great Sage Mo Ke managed to endure. But as time went on, his snow-white brows twitched uncontrollably, and he was seized with the urge to flatten this chatterbox with a single palm. He truly couldn’t take it any longer — this motor-mouth’s lips had not stopped moving for even an instant.

“Master, your beard has gone completely white.”

“Master, your shoes are about to have holes worn through the toes.”

“Master, did someone hack at you with a blade when you were young? You’ve got a scar on your nose the size of a bowl.”

……

Listening to this completely boundless, stream-of-consciousness babbling — with its god-like leaps of logic — the elderly monk Mo Ke wanted to wring Hua Hua’s neck right then and there.