Sun Wukong curled his lip. "Here it comes. First pitying Master, then sighing over how inconsiderate we are."
Chu Yang nodded. "It's an old routine, but it works best on softhearted people like Master."
Tang Monk merely gave a bitter smile and did not argue.
Su Wanwan looked at Chu Yang. "What do you think? Pretend we haven't noticed, or just expose them?"
"Expose them?" Sun Wukong perked up. "We could haul that abbot over right now and ask who taught him this."
"And what would we gain by asking?" Chu Yang said unhurriedly. "He's probably just doing the work. If we tear off the mask now, we'd only be playing into someone else's hands."
"Then what? Let them keep babbling?"
Chu Yang did not answer at once. Instead, he slowly raised his eyes toward the old plum tree outside the window.
The night outside was growing deeper. Lamps lit up one after another throughout the temple, and occasional footsteps came and went. It sounded peaceful at first, yet every step seemed to tread upon an invisible web of threads.
After a while, he suddenly smiled.
"Since they want to put on a show," he said, "we'll act along with them."
Sun Wukong blinked. "What mischief are you cooking up now?"
Chu Yang turned his head, and the lazy amusement in his eyes slowly brightened.
"They're trying to divide us," he said. "So why can't we turn around and divide them?"
The room fell silent for a moment.
Su Wanwan was the first to understand. "You mean—"
"Since they're a bunch of mortal actors," Chu Yang said, casually picking up a green plum from the table and tossing it in the air, "that means they aren't one solid block. Mortals, after all—some crave money, some crave food, some crave beauty,