12dz Chapter 189 Everyone Returns to Their Place
Chapter 189 Everyone Returns to Their Place
The stone table in the courtyard had been wiped three times, but a ring of old oil stains still remained. Chen Fan stopped wiping it, wiped his hands with his sleeve, and went to open the bookcase door.
The general ledger was still on the top shelf. The cover was stiff, and the edges were rounded. Next to it was the "termination seal," a small, dull black piece.
Wukong leaned against the doorframe, holding a bunch of wild pears in his hand. He saw the seal, but didn't laugh; he put the pears down first.
"Are you up to something again?" he asked.
Chen Fan pushed the termination seal to the middle of the table, paused for a moment with his fingertips, and then withdrew it.
"It's nothing." He picked up his teacup, took a sip—the tea was already cold—"I'm not taking that seat anymore."
Wukong narrowed his eyes: "Explain yourself clearly."
"The operator's position," Chen Fan put it bluntly. "I used to get involved because old scores needed to be settled. Once those old scores were settled, my presence there would just create new old scores."
Xuanzang came out of the house, his hands still stained with ink. He rolled up his sleeves to his wrists, sat down and listened without interrupting.
Chen Fan turned the seal over so they could see the crack underneath. The crack wasn't big, like a hair, but it pierced through the surface of the seal.
"It's only enough for one more use," Chen Fan said. "Use it for the final handover. After that, whether it's broken or buried, it's up to you. Just don't let anyone use it to stamp anyone's fate register, seal, or define their destiny."
Wukong reached out and pressed down on the End Seal, tapping his knuckles lightly twice with a muffled sound.
"To whom should it be given?" he asked.
"It's up to you." Chen Fan looked at him. "There can only be one master of Flower Fruit Mountain. From now on, True Origin Mountain will also be under your control. You can also keep things under control in the mortal world. If anyone comes looking for trouble, you hit them back with a stick. Don't let anyone put a roster around your neck again."
Wukong's lips twitched as if he wanted to retort, but in the end he only uttered two words: "Fine."
He tucked the seal into his sleeve and tightened the cuffs, as if afraid it would fall off.
Footsteps sounded outside the courtyard gate. Yang Jian arrived first, his cloak dusty. He brought no soldiers or dogs, only a long sword, its scabbard worn white.
He stepped into the courtyard, glanced at the bookshelf first, and then looked at Chen Fan.
"The old Heavenly Court has been completely destroyed," Yang Jian said. "No one can fill in my name in the judicial section anymore."
Chen Fan nodded: "You don't owe anyone anything."
Yang Jian leaned his longsword against the wall, raised his hand to remove his wrist guard, revealing an old scar. He spoke bluntly: "I'm not going back, nor will I sit in your chairs. I'm going to patrol the borders. Wherever cracks appear in the True Origin Chronicle, I'll go and mend them. Wherever someone scribbles lines haphazardly, I'll go and pull out the pen."
Wukong looked up: "Can you pull it over?"
Yang Jian chuckled, a faint smile: "If you can't pull it out, then chop it down. If you can't chop it down, then call you."
Wukong snorted, which was considered an agreement.
Si Mo was the third to arrive. He carried an old wooden box filled with slips of paper and a small abacus. Before he even sat down, he took out a pen and dipped it in ink on the corner of the table.
"I won't touch the general ledger," he set the rules from the outset. "I only manage the new accounts. I keep clear records of living expenses, harvests from the fields, and cargo exchanges at the port. Anyone who tries to use the old ways to pressure others with the accounts, I'll tear their page out first."
Baiya followed behind, his clothes damp, as if he had just come from the riverbank. He put down a bundle of hemp rope: "I've spoken to the tower keeper. The tower will no longer be a 'Tower of Life,' but only a 'Lighthouse.' It will light the way for boats at night. The old stewards who wanted to become officials have all left; those who want to work can join the Accounting Department."
Chen Fan breathed a sigh of relief upon hearing the words "Living Accounting Bureau." He had always been worried that these people might change their names but not their underlying problems.
Xuanzang pushed the inkstone in front of Si Mo: "It's the same in the scripture hall. Scriptures are for people to read, not for people to kneel on."
When the topic of the scripture hall came up, Xuanzang's eyes lit up a little. He took out a thick book from his pocket, the cover of which had the three characters "Zhenyuan Ji" written on it, the strokes steady and the ink deep.
"From now on, it won't be called the Journey to the West," Xuanzang said. "And it won't belong to the Buddhist sect. The scripture hall will be built at the foot of Flower and Fruit Mountain, a three-room stone house with a bamboo curtain hanging at the door. Anyone who wants to copy can come and copy. Anyone who wants to ask can come and ask. Once you've copied it, you can take it with you. You're not allowed to sell it for money."
Wukong glanced at him sideways: "You stand upside down properly."
Xuanzang lowered his head and smiled, just like when he was being scolded at Mount Ling: "If there are fewer rules, people will be more willing to speak the truth."
As the afternoon sun began to set, more and more people came into the courtyard.
The Bull Demon King stepped through a carpet of peach petals, carrying a wine jar on his shoulder, its mouth sealed with mud. He placed the jar on the ground with a thud, causing the stone table to rattle softly.
"I have taken control of all the demon mountains." He spoke roughly, but there was no fierceness in his eyes. "I will no longer rob people or carry out highway robberies. If the mountains are short of salt or iron, I will exchange them for new ones. Anyone who dares to secretly establish a 'Demon King's Register' will be the first to be dealt with."
Pigsy dragged over a shovel, its tip gleaming, freshly sharpened. He planted the shovel against the wall: "I'm in charge of the land's veins. Cultivation won't encroach on other people's fields; irrigation ditches must be built first, and dikes must be constructed first. Don't think I'm being long-winded; what I say is how to get things done."
The white dragon horse made no sound of hooves; a human figure entered, his clothes carrying the salty scent of the sea. He spread out a sea chart, with four tiny seashells pressed against the corner.
"The sea routes will be rebuilt." He pointed to the nautical chart. "All the old rules of the Dragon Palace will be abolished. The sea tax will be abolished and replaced with port escort. In the event of a storm, whoever rescues people first will have their merit recorded in the account, but will not be remembered in name."
The Six-Eared Macaque arrived last. He walked lightly and sat down lightly, as if afraid of crushing someone's words. He carried nothing with him, but simply tilted his ear to listen to the sounds outside the courtyard wall.
"I hear the voices that are not recorded." He spoke softly, "I know beforehand that someone is keeping secrets behind the scenes. Not to inform on them, but because I'm afraid that one day someone will write their names back into the register."
As Chen Fan listened to these assignments, his mind felt as if it were being slowly smoothed out by a hand. He looked around at everyone and suddenly realized that they weren't talking about "how to win," but rather "how to get through it."
This is enough.
What needs to be wrapped up still needs to be wrapped up.
Chen Fan got up and went to the bookshelf, taking out a small wooden box. Inside the box were several old seals, some engraved with "Port Owner," some with "Naming Officer," and others with "Accountant Monk" and "Accountant Builder." These words had once weighed heavily on the heads of countless people.
When Wukong saw those seals, his eyes turned cold.
"And them?" he asked.
Chen Fan placed the wooden box in the middle of the stone table: "They're all in Guiyuan."
Guiyuan was neither a prison nor a place of execution. It was like a well without water, sealed shut, where those inside could only hear their own heartbeats, unable to hear the cries of the world or the scent of incense. Chen Fan had no intention of giving them a quick death. He simply wanted them to never be able to stamp anything again.
Xuanzang turned to the last page of the *True Source Record*, picked up his pen and wrote a few lines of annotation-like words, the ink still wet:
Later, the port master's seal was sealed, the accountant monk's wooden fish cracked three times and could no longer make a sound. The naming official's pen broke at the entrance of Guiyuan, and the accountant's real name was written into the ashes, which no one could erase or call out to anymore.
After he finished writing, he closed the book and gently patted the cover.
Si Mo reached out and poured out the old seals one by one from the wooden box, throwing them into the empty stove in the corner of the courtyard. Bai Ya handed over a tinderbox; as soon as the fire touched the seal, the lacquer on it bubbled up first, and the characters collapsed, like paper soaked in water.
The Bull Demon King looked at the fire, his Adam's apple bobbed, but he didn't speak. He simply broke open the mud seal on the wine jar and poured out three bowls. The bowls weren't big, but the wine was strong.
He pushed the first bowl in front of Chen Fan: "You have no morals, but you're all talk about cleanliness."
Chen Fan didn't reply. He picked up the bowl and took a sip. The spiciness made him cough, and a few tears welled up in his eyes. He put the bowl down and wiped the edge of the table with his fingertips, as if wiping away the last bit of dust.
Everything that needed to be submitted has been submitted.
The seal of termination is in Wukong's sleeve. The new tent is in the ink box. The "True Source Record" is in Xuanzang's bosom. The patrolling sword is by Yang Jian's wall.
Chen Fan suddenly didn't know what to do. He stood in the yard and heard someone stirring porridge in the kitchen, scraping the bottom of the pot with a wooden ladle—the sound was very solid.
Wukong looked up at him: "And you?"
"Me?" Chen Fan thought for a moment, then smiled. "I grow vegetables. I occasionally teach children to write. If anyone asks about the past, I'll stop here. If they ask again, I'll go get the bowl."
Yang Jian fastened his wristbands again: "This is just like you."
The days went by both quickly and slowly.
In the forty-first year of the Zhenyuan era, the scripture hall at the foot of the mountain was completed. A bamboo curtain hung there, rustling in the wind. Xuanzang copied a page each day and left a lamp lit for those who came. When someone asked about the old days of Buddhism, he would only say one thing: "That road is blocked; don't walk it anymore."
In the forty-third year of the True Origin Era, the first long voyage across the four seas was completed. The White Dragon Horse stood at the harbor, watching the waves disperse at the stern of the ship. Si Mo kept accounts on the shore, his fingers red from the cold, yet his handwriting remained neat and orderly.
In the forty-fifth year of the True Origin Era, Pigsy dug the first irrigation canal to the village entrance. Children took off their shoes and waded into the water, their laughter echoing up the hillside. The Bull Demon King arrived with his men from several demon mountains to help, some carrying soil, others lifting stones, but none of them called him "Demon King."
Liu Er would occasionally disappear for three to five days, returning to place a piece of paper under the ink box. The paper stated that someone somewhere was planning to establish a secret register. Yang Jian read it, took his sword, and went there. When he returned, there were two new scratches on the scabbard. He didn't elaborate, only saying, "The thread was pulled."
Wukong was still the same monkey. He sat on the highest tree on Flower Fruit Mountain, gazing at the mountains on either side of the True Source and the Present World. No one used the golden headband to scare him anymore. His staff leaned against a tree branch, scorching hot in the sun.
Another late spring has arrived, and the peach blossoms are blooming as usual.
Chen Fan was turning over the soil in the yard, his hands covered in mud. He straightened a row of sweet potato vines and looked up to see Xuanzang carrying out the *True Source Record*, its spine bearing several new wear marks. Si Mo was doing accounts at the stone table, the abacus beads clicking. Wukong jumped down from a tree and placed a basket of wild vegetables at the kitchen doorway. Yang Jian sat by the wall sharpening his knife, while the White Dragon Horse led a small donkey carrying books outside the yard, preparing to deliver them to the scripture hall. Zhu Bajie clamored for more salt, while the Bull Demon King laughed and scolded him for being greedy.
The porridge in the kitchen boiled, and the aroma of rice filled the air, seemingly filling the entire courtyard.
Chen Fan washed his hands, water trickling through his fingers and dripping onto the bluestone. He picked up the pot; it was very hot. He called out, "Dinner's ready!" in a low voice, and everyone in the courtyard responded.
The bookcase door was closed, the general ledger was covered in dust, and no one ever looked at it again. The cemetery was buried under the peach tree, and when it sprouted in spring, its roots circled around it, as if circling around an old stone.
They sat down to eat. The bowls were hot, and the food was fresh. The conversation ranged from the irrigation canal to the boat, from the children's writing to tomorrow's rain. No one mentioned the Heavenly Laws, nor did anyone mention Mount Ling.
Chapter 650 The First Year of the True Origin Era
As spring draws to a close, the rains on Flower Fruit Mountain have become more frequent. The raindrops are fine, pattering on the newly paved stone steps like gentle taps from fingers.
Chen Fan stood at the courtyard gate, watching the fog dissipate at the other end of the mountain road. First, a section of bamboo basket appeared in the fog, then the person carrying it. It was Xiao Hou, whose shoulders were not broad enough, and he carried the basket crookedly. The basket contained account books and papers delivered from the port ferry terminal, with pebbles weighing down the edges of the papers to prevent them from being blown away by the wind.
Wukong got up from under the tree, shook the water droplets off his sleeves, and went over to take the water. The child breathed a sigh of relief, wiped his forehead, and called out, "Master, someone else has come from the ferry crossing. They say they want to put their name on the first page of the general ledger."
Chen Fan hummed in agreement, wiped the mud off the threshold with his toes, and gestured, "Let them sit on the porch and have a hot drink. It's chilly from the rain."
That year, Huaguo Mountain and the Ninth Plain were finally united. Before, the mountain felt like two layers of skin; as you walked, your feet would feel hollow, like stepping on a thin piece of paper. Now, the hollowness is gone; the stones are still the same stones, the trees are still the same trees. The first thing Chen Fan noticed was the stove. The fire was no longer unstable; the rice porridge would bloom steadily, and the aroma would linger in the house.
The general ledger cabinet has also been moved. It used to be placed on the top shelf, like a sacred tablet to be kept hidden. Now it's by the window, where the sunlight shines. The cabinet door is still closed, but the lock isn't tight; it opens with a simple push.
More footsteps sounded outside the courtyard. Not soldiers, not divine generals. Those who came carried their real names, carried old papers and seals. The old port site had been converted into a temporary ferry crossing; the wooden boardwalk had been re-nailed, the nails still gleaming. Beside the boardwalk stood a sign, clearly engraved: "Write your real name when you come and go."
The boxes for "returning to the granary" were dismantled. That granary had been empty for a long time. Last winter, Yang Jian led his men to chop down the last row of wooden frames for firewood. The fire burned brightly, but the smoke wasn't choking. Someone stood by the fire, lost in thought, clutching an old plaque with a former number engraved on it. Si Mo reached out, took the plaque, folded it in half, and stuffed it into the fire. The flames swirled, the number first turning black, then crumbling.
Later, those people learned to sign their names. If they couldn't write it well, they would leave their fingerprints. A basin of water was specially prepared at the ferry crossing for washing hands. After washing, they could leave their fingerprints without the mud getting smudged, and the imprint would be clear.
This year, Xuanzang no longer placed the scriptures on a high place. He packed all the scriptures he had copied into a wooden box, locked it, and handed it to the tower keeper. The tower keeper's tower, which used to imprison the shadow of the tenth cycle, now had its doors open, and only the sound of wind and ashes remained inside. When Xuanzang handed over the key, he only said one sentence: "From now on, store grain in the tower, not people."
The tower keeper nodded, took the key, and asked no further questions. He was now in charge of the new grain granary. The base of the tower was covered with bamboo mats, preventing dampness and keeping the rice from getting infested with insects.
Baiya guarded the irrigation ditch at the mountain pass. His legs weren't quite nimble yet, and he walked with a slight limp. But he knew the water's flow; he could spot where it was about to overflow at a glance. He led a group of lesser demons to dig shallow ditches, slowing the water's flow and preventing the fields from being flooded overnight. The Bull Demon King no longer held banquets to declare himself king; he moved to a vacant lot at the foot of the mountain, with a low roof and a low door. He liked the low ceiling, so he didn't have to bow to enter. His son worked at the ferry crossing; his temper had mellowed, and when troublemakers came, he would first invite them to sit down, then offer them a bowl of ginger soup.
Pigsy was most impatient with managing people. But Monkey King made him stand at the school gate and watch the children. At first, Pigsy cursed and swore, but later his cursing lessened, and he acquired a bamboo ruler. He didn't hit people with the ruler, but only tapped the corners of the tables. If a child's attention wandered, he would tap it once. After a while, he even managed to sit still and listen to Xuanzang teach.
The white horse was no longer tethered outside the mountain. It lived in a stable by the ferry, lined with dry hay. When passing boats needed to be towed, it would go into the water. It didn't speak, it just did the work. The boatmen would give it salt, and it would lick it twice, flicking its tail lightly.
Liu Er traveled the farthest. He went to the South Sea and the Northern Sea, and when he returned, he brought back a bag of seeds. The seeds were black, like small pebbles. He placed the bag in Chen Fan's hand and said, "These things can grow in the sand. If you ever want to plant anything else in the future, give them a try."
Chen Fan didn't ask him how he got it. Liu Er didn't say either. He tied the bag tightly, turned around and went to the kitchen to ask for some porridge. After drinking it, he sat on the doorstep basking in the sun, as if he had never left.
As for Heaven and Mount Ling, the old plaques had all fallen to the ground. The Jade Emperor was neither beheaded nor forced into service. He was taken to the mortal realm by Yang Jian to tend an orchard for an old farmer. The old farmer had a fiery temper and would scold him if he was slow. The Jade Emperor didn't retaliate, but instead carried a basket to collect fallen fruit. He carried the basket steadily, and after carrying it for a long time, calluses formed on his shoulders. When someone recognized him and wanted to kneel, he waved his hand, his voice hoarse: "Don't kneel. I'm only in charge of these few trees now."
The Buddha appeared for the last time before the True Source Stele. The wind was strong that day, and the incense before the stele burned only ashes. Wukong stood beside the stele, his golden cudgel upright, unmoved. Chen Fan didn't move either. They were all waiting for the Buddha to speak. But the Buddha only glanced at the inscription "The Tenth Cycle Ends" on the stele, closed his eyes, clasped his hands in prayer, and turned to walk into the crack behind the stele. The crack was narrow, like a tear in paper. He went in, and the crack closed by itself, without even a sound. The bell of Mount Ling never rang again from that day on. The monks on the mountain dispersed; those who wished to stay went to the ferry to do copying, those who didn't went down the mountain to farm. No one read from the "Book of Merit" anymore.
The amoral system didn't jump out to argue again. Its last appearance was on the night the seal was laid down. Its voice was soft as it asked, "Will you settle the score?" Chen Fan, his hands covered in mud, was tamping the soil. He said, "We'll settle it. If we don't, we don't owe anyone anything." The system was silent for a moment, a silence that sounded like a sigh, yet also like a laugh, before finally leaving only the words, "Then I don't owe you anything either." The next day, he woke up with his mind as clear as if it had been washed. Chen Fan walked around the yard twice, feeling a little uneasy, then suddenly finding it light.
The rain stopped in the afternoon, and the people at the ferry dock arrived. The one leading them was an old man, hunched over, but with steady hands. He pulled a thick sheet of paper from his pocket, its edges rounded. He said, "This is the first page of our ferry dock's ledger. We'd like to ask the person who started the ledger to sign their name. We don't recognize numbers, only names."
Chen Fan took the paper, felt its texture, his heart tightened, then relaxed. He placed the paper on the stone table and ground the ink. The ink was sent by Si Mo; its color wasn't a glossy black, but rather like sun-dried mud. Wukong stood beside him, arms crossed, saying nothing.
Chen Fan picked up his pen and wrote two characters: Chen Fan.
After finishing writing, he put down his pen; his fingertips were a little sore. He pushed the paper towards Wukong.
Wukong scoffed, "You want me to sign again?"
Chen Fan looked at him and said, "If you don't sign, this page doesn't count."
Wukong picked up the pen, twirled the handle between his fingers, and stopped. He wrote: Sun Wukong. The characters were more horizontal and harder than Chen Fan's. The last stroke was heavy, almost denting the paper.
The old man's eyes reddened as he looked at the two signatures. He didn't cry; he simply folded the paper, crossed his arms over his chest as if holding a hot coal. As he turned, he bowed deeply to the people in the courtyard: "From now on, no one will pack our things anymore. We'll walk by our names."
After everyone left, the courtyard fell silent. The wind blew the peach leaves over, their undersides turning white. Chen Fan took the general ledger out of the cabinet. There was dust on the cover; he wiped it twice with his sleeve, but the dust didn't come off completely, leaving two faint streaks. He tucked the first page back in and closed the book.
There were nine old files in the book. The details of the previous nine failed attempts were as fine as a spider web. Chen Fan didn't look at them. He sealed them one by one into the stone box beneath the True Origin Stele. When the stone box was closed, Wukong gently tapped it with the end of his staff, and the seal was tight. A small sign stood beside the stele, with words written by Xuanzang: "Old files sealed, do not open."
At dusk, the sound of a pot lid slamming came from the kitchen. Xuanzang came out carrying a bowl of porridge, his hands red from the heat, but he still wouldn't put it down. Zhu Bajie followed behind, scolding him, "Old monk, don't let your hands shake."
The children crowded around, vying to set the table. Bai Ya had brought a bunch of greens with him when he entered, the leaves still glistening with dew. The Bull Demon King placed the vegetables on the table and casually sharpened his knife. Yang Jian arrived late, his feet muddy, and went to wash them at the well as soon as he entered. Si Mo put the inkstone back in its box, as if putting away a tool. The tower keeper sat at the very edge, his back ramrod straight, as if afraid of breaking the chair.
Wukong leaned his staff against the door and patted it, like he was patting an old friend. He glanced at Chen Fan as he sat down: "First year of the True Origin Era, shall we eat?"
Chen Fan pushed the bowl forward: "Let's eat."
The porridge was piping hot, the aroma of rice clinging to one's skin. Someone passed by outside the courtyard, their steps light, calling out the other's name. Names fell to the ground one after another, never to return to heaven.
Many years passed. The wooden planks of the ferry crossing were replaced several times, but the stone box beneath the True Origin Stele remained unopened. The peach trees of Flower Fruit Mountain aged and sprouted new branches, and the children grew into adults, returning with their children for a bowl of porridge. Chen Fan remained, never returning to his original world, nor becoming anyone's vessel again. He and Wukong guarded the main tent, the lights of the ferry crossing, and this true mountain and sea.