After the Blackwater River, the road grew long.
So long that its end was nowhere in sight. Day piled upon day, month upon month, and before they knew it, they had been traveling for ages.
Spring brought birth, summer growth, autumn harvest, and winter storage.
Master and disciples braved wind and snow, cloaked in moonlight and crowned with stars. They traveled countless dirt roads and crossed countless barren mountains.
Truly:
Westward they journeyed, seeking scriptures, shedding trials; countless famed mountains offered no rest.
The rabbit raced, the crow flew, urging day and night onward; birds sang and flowers fell through spring and autumn.
In the dust before their eyes lay three thousand worlds; in a single thought within their hearts, four hundred lands.
Sleeping by water, dining on wind, they climbed the purple paths; who knew what day would bring their return?
Since leaving the Blackwater River, they had seen fewer and fewer people.
Ten days or half a month might pass without a single village where they could seek lodging.
Demons, by contrast, had grown more numerous.
Those reeking of blood who charged straight at them, shouting about eating Tang Sanzang's flesh, received one blow apiece from Wukong's staff, delivering them from their earthly troubles.
For some reason, though, there were far fewer demons blocking the road and clamoring for blood.
Instead, more and more lesser demons came after hearing of the Holy Monk's reputation, asking him to expound the scriptures and preach the Dharma.
Xuanzang naturally turned no one away. He explained the scriptures to them and told a few stories along the way.
The difference was that now, Xuanzang was no longer the only one preaching.
Wukong and his fellow disciples could all take turns, too.
Xuanzang added a few words from the sidelines, then gave