Chapter Eighteen: The Great Demon

A voice rang out, and the faces of all the monks changed. Miqing immediately brushed aside the branches above her head and saw a figure floating in midair, not swayed by the wind or carried by the mist, his appearance elegant and handsome—surpassing even Yibo in beauty. Yet his eyes were cold and gloomy, exuding a chilling aura that kept others at a thousand miles’ distance.

“What an audacious fiend! Even with disciples of the Great Vehicle present, you still dare behave so arrogantly!” Faced with such a scene, even Master Ku Yu, though unwilling, had no choice but to confront the monster directly. A disciple promptly fetched a begging bowl from the branches and handed it over. Gripping the bowl, Ku Yu shouted, “Since you seek death, I shall grant it to you!”

With those words, he raised the bowl into the air, chanting. The bowl soared swiftly toward the stranger’s head.

The floating figure’s expression turned peculiarly amused, as if witnessing something utterly absurd. Suddenly, he burst into laughter, pointing repeatedly at the bowl, his words nearly incoherent through his mirth:

“This—this is the so-called magical artifact you boast of…ah, truly you’ll make us laugh ourselves to death, laugh ourselves to death…”

The bowl reached him in the blink of an eye. The man’s laughter did not cease; he merely flicked his sleeve outward. Instantly, the bowl was struck as if by a tremendous force, transforming into a streak of light and shooting back. The monks saw a flash before their eyes, the ground trembled, and countless drops began to fall from the sky.

These drops, however, were deep red, thick with the scent of blood—fragments of flesh and gore raining down. In front, Ku Yu’s body inexplicably shortened by half, streams of crimson gushing from his chest cavity!

The bowl had shattered Ku Yu then buried itself deep in the muddy pit below.

Thud!

Ku Yu’s head, attached to torn skin and neck, finally fell from midair, rolled once, and lay still.

The monks were terrified to their core, their legs shaking, Mi Tui and Mi Zhi unable even to stand, collapsing into a heap.

Yet the stranger continued to laugh, his laughter echoing into the heavens: “A pack of fools! Do you not understand yet? This so-called treasure is a fake; you’ve all been deceived by that coward Duobao…”

Suddenly, he paused, then laughed louder: “Almost forgot—he abandoned his ancestors and worshipped another, changed his name to some useless Tathagata. Is it him? Is it? Hahaha…”

With a twist of his hand, he killed Ku Yu and then openly insulted the Buddha, causing the monks to lose their wits. All that remained in their muddled minds was the vague phrase, “The Buddha deceives me,” repeating endlessly. They could do nothing but stand there, trembling.

The laughter gradually ceased. The man glanced mockingly at the monks in the pit, snorted, and with a casual wave of his hand, there was a series of dull pops—the heads of six monks burst like melons, brains and blood splattering, mingling with Ku Yu’s scattered flesh.

With a flick of his wrist, he killed these men as if it were the most ordinary of acts, like crushing an ant beneath one’s foot. These were merely the claws of the Buddhist kingdom, and even emissaries from the Western Spirit Platform behind it would be slain without hesitation—what need for words?

Under the towering heavens, all beings are but ants. Those foreign monks regarded monsters as filth, treading upon them at will, never realizing they themselves were but silt, incapable of stirring even the faintest ripple.

Surveying the carnage, the beautiful stranger’s lips curled slightly. Finally, he raised his eyes, gazing far to the west, and murmured coldly, “They dare come seeking me. Seems that thief has comprehended the Way and brought his disciples. Not easy to deal with…very well, since that’s so, I’ll steer clear for now, wander among mortals for a few decades, and see how things unfold!”

“But this insult—I won’t swallow it so easily!”

As he finished speaking, his figure faded like mist until it vanished completely…

Days later, a swarm of insects appeared in Xiniu Hezhou, passing through three cities. Tens of thousands—humans, beasts, plants, bricks, earth—were wiped out, leaving only a desolate wasteland, the wind howling mournfully through the yellow sand at night.

※

In the far south of Jambudvipa lies a mountain called Putuo. At its base stands a temple, Putuo Temple.

Across the vast expanse of the Divine Land, stretching millions of miles, there are only three to five monasteries, and Putuo is the largest among them. Yet it occupies barely a dozen acres, with just over a hundred disciples. The monks farm and weave, utterly unlike later times when offerings and incense from Buddhist fields ensured a life free from want.

During the peak of the three teachings, foreign Buddhism received neither incense nor offerings. Even buying salt, vegetables, or candles brought scorn, commanding three or four times the usual price, along with endless gratitude and entreaties—a testament to their misery.

Bleak, desolate, and pitiful—such was the constant state of foreign Buddhism.

---

Rear Hall.

The entire monastery was silent and empty. Even so, the doors of this hall were tightly shut. Before the Buddha statue stood a giant bronze vessel filled with clear water, its surface rippling with countless lotus blossoms—some flourishing, some withered, all drifting aimlessly.

On the meditation cushions before the vessel, three elderly monks sat cross-legged, eyes closed, murmuring sutras.

Suddenly, with a hissing sound, a lotus surged with green smoke, then quickly blackened and shriveled into a ball.

The chanting ceased. The monk on the right opened his eyes, glanced around, then closed them again, saying calmly, “It was Abbot’s disciple.”

The old monk in the center, draped in robes, betrayed no emotion, did not open his eyes, but sighed lightly and asked, “Who?”

“Ku Yu,” the right monk shook his head. “Counting his disciples, half of those sent have died. Our search yields not a single clue. Alas—”

The left monk suddenly spoke, “Brother Gui Cong sighs—is it sorrow for our disciples’ deaths, or worry that the imperial edict remains unfulfilled, leaving your heart restless?”

“It is both,” replied Gui Cong. “Why do you ask, Brother Gui Yong? Does your heart rest easy?”

Gui Yong laughed twice. “Brother Gui Cong, you jest. Of the three of us, you should be the most at peace. Do you know why?”

Gui Cong snorted, his tone sharp. “What do you mean by that?”

“My meaning is simple. We act by the edict from the West; all is predetermined, beyond our concern. What is there to be uneasy about? As for the disciples’ deaths, you personally took the bowl, declared it a Western artifact, urged them into danger—each was dispatched by your own hand and word. Surely you foresaw this outcome, so why feel troubled now?”

“You!” Gui Cong was provoked by these words, unable to resist opening his eyes, turning to argue, “By your account, it sounds as if it was solely my idea. Don’t forget, all three of us are involved…”

“Enough!” The abbot, seated at the center, intervened, halting their quarrel. “Gui Yong, are you still troubled by this matter?”

“Brother Gui Qu, I merely find the disciples’ fate tragic and feel indignant…”

“You are still attached. Life and death are but shells; why make so much of them?” Abbot Gui Qu spoke calmly. “True liberation is found in the Western Pure Land. If our disciples were not so wise and courageous, risking themselves, how could they gain admittance to that land of bliss? Though we used a false bowl, it was to bolster their courage. The method may be harsh, but the result is for their own good. This is true kindness!”

“You are right, Brother,” Gui Yong replied, not daring to argue further.

“As for you, Gui Cong, you are too obsessed. Let others say what they will; as long as your heart is firm, Buddha-nature arises. What concern are others’ words to you?”

Gui Cong brought his hands together in prayer, bowing. “Brother, your teaching is wise.”

All three were elderly, yet Gui Qu, as their senior, still admonished as he had in youth, and the others dared not contradict him.

“This matter ends here. Neither of you are to mention it again,” the abbot continued, then asked, “Who is to go next?”

The two monks considered, then said, “It is Brother Gui Xuan’s turn to investigate.”

“Gui Xuan?” The abbot mused. “Where did Ku Yu go?”

“Mei Mountain—a distant place. It will take at least two months to reach Land-Penetrating Godlight’s domain.”

“Let him take the Cloud Boat—go swiftly and return quickly. Do not delay.” With that, Abbot Gui Qu closed his eyes once more, the sound of the wooden fish echoing through the hall.

---

This task originally fell to Elder Gui Cong. As he was about to rise, Elder Gui Yong stood up, pressed his palms together in greeting, then took the Six-Treasure Demon-Subduing Scepter from the altar without a word, heading toward the rear chamber, leaving Gui Cong puzzled.

Soon, he appeared in Gui Qu’s chamber. Compared to the abbot and the two elders, Gui Qu was noticeably younger.

Hearing the door, Gui Qu, seated cross-legged, paused his chanting and glanced up, seeing Gui Yong with the scepter, immediately understood. “Who?”

“Abbot’s disciple, Ku Yu.”

Gui Qu nodded, his expression tinged with mockery. “So he is dead too. He deserved it…”

Gui Yong, close to Gui Qu since childhood, had guided him into monastic life. Their bond was deep. Hearing this, he grew displeased but refrained from sarcasm as with Elder Gui Cong, instead replying gravely, “I just heard Gui Cong in the rear hall, his words unsettled me. I came to share them with you, hoping to ease my mind, but you too provoke me with nonsense.”

Seeing Gui Yong’s annoyance, Gui Qu laughed, countering, “Why, did Brother Gui Cong say Ku Yu deserved death today, and it angered you?”

“Nonsense! Before the abbot, how could he say such a thing?” Gui Yong placed the scepter down. “I merely dislike his hypocrisy after the fact—it irritates me.”

“Brother Gui Cong has always been this way—you know it well. Yet even so, he is better than Ku Yu, who killed without restraint, is he not?” Gui Qu laughed, counting on his fingers, “Last year, January, three villagers from the Yu family. February, the Li woman. March, thirteen from the Lu clan…”

“Enough, brother! If you reason so, you truly blur the lines between good and evil, confuse black and white!” Gui Yong interrupted, face resolute. “All who are not of our faith are demons. Ku Yu merely purged evil and defended the Way—can that be called murder? Among disciples and believers, have you ever seen him kill?”

“Brother, are you the one arguing, or am I? Why is it I cannot tell?” Gui Qu knew his brother’s nature—compassionate, but only toward those within their faith; outsiders were deemed subhuman. Seeing he wished to continue, Gui Qu decided not to argue, but changed the subject:

“Enough. We’ll discuss this when I return. Now, since I must depart, please tell me what I need to know, lest delay stirs up Gui Cong’s agitation. Not only you, even I cannot withstand it.”

“…Very well, I’ll explain first.”

Two hours later, Gui Qu and several disciples appeared in the temple’s rear pagoda grove.

Putuo’s pagoda grove held only a single tower, rising dozens of yards, with nothing else nearby. At its summit, a cloud boat was tethered by iron cables—three to five yards long, a yard wide, three cloud sails hanging, floating in midair, waiting silently.

The boat was slender and long, its surface like polished jade, the sails gleaming. The central sail bore a large seal character “Lu,” indicating its origin. Inside, cabins, masts, railings, steps, armor, celestial bows—each was exquisitely crafted, seamlessly fitted, making this small vessel swift and comfortable in flight, and formidable against airborne monsters.

Gui Xuan paused, his figure drifting upward without wind, slowly entering the boat. The other disciples, less skilled, climbed the spiral stairs inside the tower, reaching the top and boarding after a plank was laid from within.

Moments after boarding, white smoke billowed from the boat’s chimney, followed by vibrations and a rush of wind from the stern. The vessel shuddered, spun to align its direction, then shot off in a flash.

Across all of East Victory’s realm, if the Mo family were the pioneers of mechanical beasts, then the Lu family were the ancestors of wooden flying boats. Each family had its strengths, cherished as treasures of the Divine Land, honored by all nations. They had grown into vast clans over centuries, spreading far and wide.

Like mechanical beasts, the flying cloud boat relied on a demon core in its talisman furnace for power. Compared to mechanical beasts, cloud boats were far more expensive, usually reserved for large warships. Small vessels like this were rare, meant for royalty and nobility. Putuo Temple had acquired one only for this journey—were it not for Mei Mountain’s distance, unreachable even by Land-Penetrating Godlight, they would never have entrusted it to Gui Xuan.

A journey of ten thousand miles for the cloud boat was a matter of mere days—an incomparable feat.