Chu Yang shook his head.
"I couldn't bear to lose Master's trust."
"And..." He paused. "I couldn't bear to let go of what I said."
Sun Wukong raised a brow.
"Which words?"
Chu Yang repeated softly:
"'Keep pretending until even you can't tell what's real and what's fake. Pretend until... you can't bear to leave.'"
Sun Wukong fell silent.
After a long while, he finally cursed.
"You brat... you're fucking devious."
The old monk brought over a pot of thin porridge and several pieces of pickled vegetables.
The porridge was made from old rice and carried a faint musty smell, but it steamed piping hot and warmed the stomach as it went down. Tang Monk ate slowly, spoonful by spoonful, as though savoring something.
Halfway through, he suddenly looked up and asked:
"Miss Cui'er... is she well?"
Chu Yang set down his bowl.
"Rest assured, Master. She said it wasn't convenient for a woman to enter the temple because of her monthly matter, so she was resting outside. When we leave tomorrow morning, she should still be there."
Tang Monk nodded and did not ask further.
Yet a faint trace of worry appeared in his eyes.
The wind rose that night.
Mountain wind slipped through the cracks in the broken windows, carrying the mournful roar of distant pines. The oil lamp flickered wildly, stretching and twisting the shadows on the walls like countless hands dancing soundlessly.
Chu Yang did not sleep.
He sat cross-legged beside the couch, eyes closed as he regulated his breathing.
Yet his spiritual sense spread silently three li beyond the temple like an exceedingly fine net.
That layer of earthy-yellow light was still there, thin as an overturned glass bowl, sealing the entire mountain hollow tightly within.
Cui'er had not gone far.
She was hiding in