Chapter 286 One Sword

These lightly spoken words fell like a thunderclap, and everyone in the Zhai Palace shuddered, lowering their heads, not daring to look again, while the massive Azure Dragon slowly lowered its body, its eyes filled with obedience. The gray-robed youth remained calm.

"S-self-sacrifice…"

The emperor muttered to himself, staggering to his feet, retreating step by step, before suddenly realizing something.

"You dare not kill me."

"You dare not kill me!"

Dressed in a magnificent Daoist robe, his hair held in place by a jade hairpin, the emperor had cultivated the Dao for nearly thirty years, and at least knew one of the iron rules of Daoism: cultivators outside the world could not interfere with the dynasty's fate, otherwise even a True Cultivator would be drawn into the calamity. Even Zhang Jiao of the Taiping Department and Zhuge Liang of the Shu Han dynasty met unhappy ends. His eyes lit up, as if he had found some reason, and he shouted loudly:

"If you kill me, you will not have a good death either!"

The Azure Dragon circled, seemingly intending to act in place of the Daoist.

The gray-robed youth gazed deeply at the emperor.

He reached out and gently pressed down on the Azure Dragon's head.

The Azure Dragon's pouncing posture was interrupted.

The gray-robed youth stepped down from the dragon's head.

Having known the future, and only changing the fate of certain people since two hundred years ago, the Daoist, who had never actively intervened, seemed to have figured something out. He walked forward, his sleeves fluttering. The people in the palace only saw a flash, and the Daoist was already in front of the emperor.

He raised his right hand and gripped the throat of the most esteemed person in the world.

Carrying him forward, the emperor, who proclaimed himself the Son of Heaven, was dragged by the throat, smashing through artificial hills, jade ornaments, and precious trees, until his back crashed through a screen made of white jade depicting a thousand miles of rivers and mountains. The Daoist casually tossed him aside, and the emperor was smashed onto a low table, blood flowing from all seven orifices, his meridians severed.

The air was deathly silent. The Daoist did not turn his head, but simply said:

“…How will you record this event?”

As the Jiajing Emperor participated in the Zhai Palace Grand Offering, the historians recording the grand event bowed and kowtowed, trembling:

"The emperor… the emperor trusted treacherous officials and believed in妖道 (yaodao, evil Daoists), bringing chaos to the court and the world."

"An immortal descended to earth and诛除 (zhuchu, executed) the evil ruler…"

The Daoist said nothing, and reached out to grasp a talisman sword.

No one knew which dynasty's True Cultivator had left this sword behind. It was hidden in a famous mountain, forcibly gathered, and its blade was inscribed with blood as a talisman. In the end, it seemed to have transformed into an entire talisman system. It should have been nurtured in a Daoist temple by successive generations of cultivators, serving as a treasure to guard the temple, but it had been brought here.

However, even such a treasure could not be drawn by the Jiajing Emperor, even after it was gathered.

He tapped the sword's body with his finger.

A clear sword chime rang out.

The talisman sword separated directly from its sheath.

He placed the sword into his sleeve, leaving only the sheath in the Zhai Palace. The sword sheath was filled with a biting chill. The Daoist waved his sleeve and turned to leave, saying, "Tell the descendants of the Zhu family."

"Next time, if there is another emperor who becomes obsessed with cultivation and brings chaos to the world, I will strike again with this sword."

A young palace maid tremulously raised her head and saw that the Daoist, who had appeared to be in his twenties, had only taken a few steps, but the hair at his temples had already turned pure white. He brushed past the kneeling officials, his voice calm: "As for the emperor, I have an old connection with the Zhu family, and I will show some consideration for appearances."

"This time, say that he saw through the mortal world and transformed into a Daoist."

"He followed me to cultivate immortality."

"Seeking benevolence and gaining benevolence, leaving a mark in history, I suppose that is enough to fulfill his remaining wishes, and he should have no other desires."

……………………

Later records often contained such stories: the emperor sought immortality and asked about the Dao, and his sincerity moved Heaven, which sent an immortal down. Therefore, the emperor of the time was able to follow the immortal to seek immortality and visit the Dao. At that time, from Jiangnan to the capital, countless people along the way saw the immortal riding a dragon and flying through the sky.

However, later generations often did not believe it, and treated the matter as a pretext for some kind of political change.

The emperors that followed mostly strived to govern well, and no longer sought immortality or visited the Dao. The government affairs were also cleared up, so they did not pay much attention to this matter. However, some unofficial histories linked the three great fires in the palace that year with this matter, writing in the annals: ‘The emperor entered the palace, suddenly a fire broke out, the sounds of weapons and armor rang out, and a Daoist offered him a change of Daoist robes and escaped.’

Successive emperors bestowed titles upon the legendary immortal, and as for the original ruler, when the officials debated his posthumous title, in order to leave a good impression on the immortal, after much dispute, they settled on the title of Ling (灵) because of the last words he had spoken.

Fond of sacrificing to ghosts and monsters is called Ling, insulting ghosts and gods without going far.

In the hidden corners of history, the true cause of this emperor's death was left behind.

……………………

Years passed, and Wu Ruzhong heard the news from the capital. In fact, no one around him was not talking about the absurd matter of an immortal riding a dragon into the capital and the emperor ascending to heaven. Everyone dared not believe it, but afterwards, a smooth transition to a new emperor occurred.

Originally, he was still worried that the new emperor would also want to learn from his father and hold Daoist ceremonies and fasts in order to ascend, but it was very clear that such concerns were unnecessary. Not only did the crown prince not learn the Dao after ascending the throne, but he also expelled those influential figures from the palace, and there were even rumors that the Embroidered Uniform Guard was chasing after them.

The Dragon Tiger Mountain of the Daoist sect was sealed off for a hundred years to show self-punishment.

The entire Divine Continent seemed to have returned to the development trajectory of the previous two hundred years. After being shocked by the emperor's ascension, everyone slowly accepted it. In any case, life had to go on. Those distant, high-ranking matters were far less important to the common people than the abolition of unnecessary taxes.

And the removal of the twenty or thirty corvée labor services each year to build the Zhai Palace was even better.

The rice jars in their homes always had some surplus, and they no longer had to end up with empty homes. Only those families who had taken advantage of the emperor's love for cultivation and developed by catering to his preferences were now gradually declining, lamenting every day, saying that these days were not as good as they had been ten years ago, during the Jiajing Emperor's reign.

Of course, when the common people occasionally talked about the former emperor, there were also tones of dissatisfaction in their hidden conversations, whispering to each other: "The late emperor wasted money and resources, and I don't know how many families were emptied because of it. Such a person was actually guided to ascend by an immortal. Alas, do you think this immortal is also greedy for power?"

"That's right, that's right. Such an emperor can ascend, what kind of immortal is that?"

"Blind and ignorant."

"Hey, I think that immortal probably has some dirty business dealings, like collusion between officials and merchants."

The white-haired Wu Ruzhong frowned, but said nothing. He carried a pot of wine and staggered back to his home. More than ten years had passed since the events of that year, and he had never seen the gray-robed youth again. Sometimes he wondered if it was all just his illusion.

However, the old man, who had seen a lot in his life, could still vaguely smell the iron-blooded flavor in the swift and decisive manner of the imperial succession that year, recalling it now. He had also asked his friend, the successful candidate in the highest imperial examination, Shen Kun, but the latter avoided the topic, only saying that almost all of the palace guards were injured that day.

There was a dismantled white jade screen, covered in bloodstains that could not be washed away.

For Wu Ruzhong, this was enough.

When he returned home, he saw the courtyard door open. The elderly Wu Ruzhong frowned and muttered as he pushed the door open, but he saw a figure in gray robes, hair held in place by a jade hairpin, facing away from him. However, his once black hair had turned half-white, giving him a sense of vicissitude.

"Ah… You, it's you…"

Wu Ruzhong's voice trembled slightly: "Is it you?"

The gray-robed person turned around, sighed, and smiled: "It's been a long time."

"Brother Wu."

"It really is you?"

Wu Ruzhong stammered as he looked at the youth in front of him, who only seemed slightly older than he had been back then. He still couldn't quite believe his eyes. Then he invited the youth into the house, and unusually went out to buy some snacks to go with the wine. Afterwards, the two drank together, asking about the events of that year.

Wu Ruzhong's heart trembled as he listened, feeling somewhat afraid, yet also longing for it.

The gray-robed youth drank a cup of turbid wine and asked, "Brother Wu, are you still writing your stories?"

Wu Ruzhong laughed heartily and replied, "Writing, of course I'm writing."

The youth picked up his cup and asked, "Are you still writing about demons and monsters?"

The old man laughed loudly: "What gods, demons, mountain spirits, and monsters? I'm just writing about people."

"Come, come, help me take a look. Tell me, where am I still writing incorrectly?"

He borrowed the strength of the wine to retrieve his manuscript and handed it to the gray-robed man in front of him. With a sigh, as the latter flipped through it, he suddenly asked, "Mister Yuan, the first time we met decades ago, you asked Wu if I had ever seen you before. I said I hadn't, but during this time, every time I dream, I feel something."

"Please enlighten me, sir. Have we… really met before?"

"Met…"

"Do you really want to know?"

The gray-robed man looked at the old man in front of him, who was already white-haired, and seeing the latter nod, he sighed and pointed his fingers at the old man's brow. Breaking through the memories of past and present lives was not a simple matter, and it would have all kinds of consequences, but now this old man had reached the end of his life, and he already vaguely remembered it.

Therefore, he went along with it.

The old man's pupils widened, and one by one, the illusory experiences in his dreams emerged. The old man's face fluctuated violently, and then he fell into a deep sleep—

He had a dream.

Long…

It was really too long.

In this dream, he experienced long years, a ridiculous youth, a youth who relied on swords to compete for strength, and a lonely old age. But in these long years, he liked the middle part of the journey the most.

Yellow sand filled the air, a vast wilderness, with endless snow mountains and countless dangers.

But as long as he looked up, he could see that steadfast back.

The Buddha said to deliver all living beings.

But his delivery was to personally accompany you on this path.

When the white-haired old man woke up,

Under the candlelight, Yuan was flipping through that book.

This was a book that he had wanted to write since he was young, but he only finished writing it in his old age. In the final few revisions, he added countless details and stories. The white-haired old man wrote about the past, because there was once an Yinglong, so there was a dragon slaying in a dream, and a vast desert, which was the Eight Hundred Flowing Sands River.

Before his memories were fully restored, he must have hated that monk.

He thought.

So he had to write the tall, steadfast, and always calm monk as weak and timid in the book, constantly putting him in all kinds of dangers. But why, every time that monk was about to die, he always couldn't help but let a monkey-like character with yellow hair save him.

When the monk hesitated, it was the yellow-haired monkey who pointed him in the right direction.

When he fell into danger, it was the monkey who risked everything to take the risk.

Once was like this, and every time was like this. Even in the story, he couldn't let the monk fall into danger. In the end, when the story was completed, the monk became a Buddha, and the golden-haired monkey was also a Buddha.

It was as if this way he could always stay by his master's side.

The master would not die, and he would not leave.

In the previous life, I was delivered and protected. Even in the story, I want to protect you.

Let me protect you.

Let me guide you.

Originally, I wanted to leave you, but now, even if you drive me away, I want to come back.

But, where is Master…

The old man staggered, tears streaming down his face without realizing it. He looked at the youth in front of him, his eyes red, unable to speak.

Buddhist monks do not cultivate for the afterlife.

But the gray-robed youth looked at the sobbing old man and reached out to press down on the top of his head.

He lowered his head and smiled, like that monk back then:

"Śīlabhadra."

The past monk smiled: "You must live happily…"

The old man couldn't hold back any longer, and staggered and knelt on the ground, tears streaming down his face as he wailed.

"Master, Master…"

"Where are you? I miss you so much, I miss you so much…"

The gray-robed youth closed his eyes and looked up slightly.

Where are you, Xuanzang…

Yes.

I miss you so much.

But between us, there is a gap of a thousand years.

Tang Xuanzang.

Is dead.

This day was the last time Wu Ruzhong saw this gray-robed youth.

Wu Ruzhong, for sixty years, was devoted to officialdom, with ups and downs.

In the last ten years, he wrote Journey to the West.

With drunkenness and poetry.

He ended his life in poverty and old age.

ps: Today's first update... three thousand eight hundred words~~

As for the next three updates, it depends on my schedule... smoking hand slightly trembling emoji, if there is no update at one o'clock, then there will only be two updates. It's more important to preserve my life, I didn't want to write anything when I got up today, sigh, I'm really exhausted.

Originally, I only intended to write the origin story of Journey to the West, but I found that I could also fill in some plotholes along the way, but I found that I'm not very good at filling in plotholes, lying down...