Tang Sanzang's consciousness sank into his own Dao of Burial.
He remembered his earlier failure.
That burial.
The being he should have laid to rest.
He had failed.
Failed utterly.
If Sun Wukong had not burst in and broken the rules,
he would have lost.
Lost completely.
Lost without a shred of dignity.
Lost so badly he had disgraced the very Dao of Burial.
It had haunted him.
From that moment on, it had haunted him.
Not because he had lost.
But because he felt he was not strong enough.
His Dao of Burial was not strong enough.
His burial was not fast enough.
Not thorough enough.
Not unstoppable enough.
He could not be like Sun Wukong.
Sun Wukong was born to break deadlocks.
One sweep of the Golden-Hooped Staff, and heaven and earth collapsed.
Rules?
What rules?
Old Sun would smash them with one swing of his staff.
Tang Sanzang could not do that.
He was not Sun Wukong.
He was Tang Sanzang.
His path was not to break.
It was to send them on.
To bury the dead.
To see the departed off.
To grant the dead peace.
To bring every lingering obsession to an end.
He could not break the rules.
But within those rules, he could take his art to its limit.
Make it stronger than the rules.
Make it so the rules could not stop him.
And so, from that moment on, he had wondered.
How could he make Burial stronger?
How could he make it faster?
How could he make it unstoppable?
Then he understood.
What was the essence of Burial?
An ending.
The end of every lingering obsession.
The end of every delusion.
The end of every struggle to the death.
And what was the ultimate form of an ending?
A coffin.
A