Volume 3: A Long Journey, Chapter 315: The Monk in Gray Robes

It was the season after snowfall. Ru Shou wore sharp golden-white robes and held a double-headed axe, standing in the road with an aura of authority that seemed like that of a celestial being descending to earth. Wu Ping was well aware of Ru Shou’s prowess and dared not approach; he quickly protected Tang Seng behind him, refusing to move forward.

Wukong gradually eased his strength and shouted, “Do you two still plan to overwhelm us in numbers?”
Jumang smiled and said, “Who wants to overwhelm you? Just me alone can prevent you from moving westward even by an inch.”
Just as Wukong was about to speak, he saw several people flying in from the west and whispered, “Your opponents have arrived.”

Five people arrived, and Wukong recognized two of them—Anuo and Jaya, disciples of the Buddha. The other three wore dull gray monk robes, appearing unremarkable. Yet, judging from Anuo and Jaya’s respectful expressions, these three must hold high status.

Jumang turned to face them and asked, “Who comes to my Qi Tian Ling?”
Anuo replied, “Who are you to dare block the holy monk from going west?”
Jumang said, “I won’t interfere with your westward journey. Just don’t ask to use my path.”
Anuo retorted, “All under heaven belongs to the king—how can it be your Qi Tian Ling?”
Jumang slightly raised his head, ignoring Anuo.

Anuo bowed slightly to one of the monks and said, “Please ask the Buddha to stop this madman.”
The monk in gray robes said nothing. He stepped forward, joined his hands in prayer, and bowed to Jumang. Jumang glanced at him and raised his soft whip, ready for battle. The monk moved slowly, taking out a demon-subduing staff from his sleeve. As it swayed in the wind, it emitted a dazzling golden light.

Wukong recognized this precious staff—it was the very demon-subduing staff of the Curtain-Rolling General. How did it end up in this monk’s hands? After the Curtain-Rolling General was killed by Bajie’s rake, Mu Zha took care of the rest. It seemed that Guanyin had handed this staff over to the Buddha instead.

The monk in gray robes swung his staff, performing a whirlwind technique. A golden ball rolled toward Jumang. At first, it seemed motionless, but once it moved, it was astonishingly fast. If Jumang were struck by this staff, he would surely be injured.

Jumang shook his soft whip, and a giant dragon emerged from the green Everlasting Tree. The dragon opened its massive mouth and swallowed the golden ball. Neither side backed down, and they collided head-on.

The staff was extremely hard, while the Everlasting Tree was very soft. When these two weapons clashed, there was no sound at all. In an instant, the golden ball and the dragon vanished. The monk in gray robes reappeared, his robes torn to shreds, yet he showed no signs of injury. Jumang stepped back, his face showing surprise.

Wukong, watching from the side, saw clearly that the golden ball was just a decoy. Though eye-catching, its power lay only in that final strike.

The Everlasting Tree wielded by Jumang moved like a blade, yet the monk did not avoid it at all, relying solely on his indestructible body to withstand the attack. When the sacred staff was about to strike Jumang, he raised the whip handle, just in time to block the staff’s crescent-shaped tip. Though the crescent tip was extremely sharp, the Everlasting Tree was also an extraordinary artifact, allowing it to withstand this strike. Distraught by wielding the whip, Jumang stepped back two steps; in fact, in this exchange, the two were evenly matched.

Wukong thought to himself that it must be quite remarkable that the Western Heaven had summoned some Buddha capable of fighting on par with the God of Wood.

The monk in gray failed to land a single blow and stood motionless like a withered tree, eyes closed in deep thought. After a while, he opened his eyes, put away his demon-subduing staff, and took out a rice bowl from his sleeve. The bowl was already extremely old, having not been cleaned for countless years, its original color long lost. Wukong wondered if the monk, unable to defeat Jumang, planned to beg for alms.

The monk in gray threw the rice bowl into the air, then waved his arms while muttering words. Soon, a loud buzzing sound filled the air as a giant bowl, about seven or eight zhang in diameter, descended toward Jumang.

Jumang neither dodged nor avoided it, standing still as he looked up. When the bowl fell, it enclosed him completely, with its edges buried four or five feet deep in the ground. Wukong was shocked—was Jumang really captured this easily? Why didn’t he dodge?

As he pondered, he saw the giant bowl gradually rise from the ground, getting higher and higher, until Jumang’s feet and legs became visible. Once his entire body was exposed, it was revealed that the soft whip in his hand had transformed into a small tree, which was pushing up the giant bowl.

It turned out that Jumang had used a risky move, acting out of confidence. Wukong had worried needlessly. He wondered what would happen if ancient deities were placed inside treasures like the Vessel of Yin and Yang or the Purple Gold Red Gourd.

Seeing that the giant bowl still hadn’t worked, the monk in gray retrieved it and rummaged through his sleeve, as if it were a treasure chest. After searching for a long time, he took out a golden-colored large leaf, looking quite distressed.

Upon seeing the leaf, Jumang’s expression grew even more solemn. This leaf was made of wood but contained metallic properties—some kind of strange artifact. The monk held the leaf stem and used it as a blade, slashing at Jumang repeatedly.

Jumang had already transformed the Everlasting Tree into a soft whip to counterattack. With just one clash, a section of the whip’s tip was cut off. Jumang felt pain inwardly—although the Everlasting Tree seemed endless, it actually grew day and night, and its true size was only a few dozen zhang. It had taken tens of thousands of years to reach this size. Though the cut section seemed insignificant, it would still take at least a hundred years to regrow.

Seeing the sharpness of the golden leaf, he immediately changed his tactics. Jumang soared into the air, avoiding direct confrontation with the monk in gray. His soft whip flickered in the air, and countless green rings, as if tangible, swirled toward the monk.

The monk in gray raised the golden leaf and used it like a fan. With each swish of his leaf, the rings scattered in all directions, landing on the nearby cliffs and causing rocks to fly everywhere.

Meanwhile, Wu Ping had already put on his armor to protect Tang Seng behind him. Tang Seng’s face was pale as clay; he closed his eyes and murmured, seemingly reciting something unknown.

Seeing that this tactic wasn’t working, Jumang swung his long whip as if driving a chariot. With a crisp sound, a green light arrow shot out from the whip and flew swiftly toward the monk. Realizing the arrow was coming too fast to deflect with his fan, the monk had no choice but to dodge to the side. The arrow struck the ground, cutting through it like a knife through tofu and disappearing instantly.

Jumang let out a loud cry and swung his whip three more times, each swing releasing nine light arrows. The monk in gray dodged left and right with incredible agility. Jumang then changed his move again, retracting the whip into his hand. When he released it once more, it transformed into a green dust broom. Threads of dust spread out endlessly, forming a green carpet on the ground that crept toward the monk.

If the monk had wanted to dodge, it might have been easy, but since Jumang had just deflected his sacred rice bowl weapon, retreating would have shown weakness. He stood still, slashing at the ground with his golden leaf. Yet the dust threads were insidious, like ripples in water—splitting when struck and reuniting when the blade was withdrawn. This was Jumang’s signature skill, bringing the essence of the Everlasting Tree to its ultimate expression.

As the dust threads wrapped around the monk’s body, threatening to envelop him, the two other monks in gray could no longer hold back. They rushed forward and swung at Jumang.

Jumang, still concentrating on controlling the dust threads, had no choice but to block their attacks. The moment his magic stopped, the dust threads fell, and one of the monks leaped to the side, remaining silent and seemingly dazed.

Rushou hadn’t expected Buddhists to fight in numbers. Furious at not seeing this coming, he shouted, “Come on, let me see what you two are capable of!”

The two monks didn’t intend to ambush Jumang; they just wanted to force him to defend himself so they could rescue the other monk. Seeing that the monk was unharmed, they stopped attacking and stepped back. One of them said, “Our apologies for the intrusion.”

Seeing that the monks knew their limits, Jumang stopped Rushou from intervening and turned to Wukong, saying, “You two, go over there.”

Rushou shouted, “How can we just let them go?”

Jumang said, “These three have cultivation levels no less than yours and mine. Even if Chisongzi came, he would be just an ordinary figure. Who else could stop them? Fighting in a chaotic battle won’t help either!”
Rushou agreed with this reasoning. Holding a short axe in one hand, he pointed at the three monks in gray and said, “Reveal your names!”
One of the monks replied, “I’m just a humble monk from the Sea of Buddha. I’m not worth mentioning.”
Rushou snorted and said, “Even if you don’t say it, I still remember your faces. I’ll definitely settle accounts with you guys someday!”
Hou Kong, hearing Jumang say to let them go, naturally showed joy. He went over to help Tang Seng up and said, “Master, let’s cross the mountain.”
Tang Seng didn’t respond either. He mounted his horse and headed west without even saying thank you to Anuo and Gyaye. Only Hou Kong bowed and said, “Thank you very much for your concern, venerable ones.” Anuo replied, “We dare not accept such praise.”
Jumang and Rushou returned to the southern peak of Jinpao Mountain, while the five from the Western Heaven set off on clouds. Hou Kong and his three companions barely overcame this difficulty and continued their journey westward.
Hou Kong asked Wuping, “Those three monks in gray seem extremely powerful. I wonder where they come from.”
Wuping replied, “I don’t know either. I’ve only heard from the Bodhisattva that those in gray are ordinary monks.”
Hou Kong laughed and said, “How could ordinary monks be this powerful? They must be some reclusive experts.” He wondered if these three monks might be among the Three Thousand Buddhas.
Although there were many Buddhas, Manifest Kings, and Bodhisattvas in the Western Heaven, Hou Kong already knew of the Medicine Buddha, the Buddha of Pure Joy, the Buddha of Infinite Life, and so on. Some of these even ranked above Tathagata, and their cultivation levels must have been astonishing. But why hadn’t they appeared at this moment? Instead, they sent three strange monks who didn’t even reveal their names. These three had considerable cultivation, yet their actions lacked the dignity befitting a Buddha, which seemed highly inappropriate. If they truly were among the Three Thousand Buddhas, did it mean that Tathagata’s visible strength in the Western Heaven was nothing more than this?
If that were the case, wouldn’t Tathagata be in great danger? But after some thought, Hou Kong realized that if the Three Thousand Buddhas could indeed be mobilized, even just twenty or thirty of them would pose a disaster for Qitianling. It was hard to tell whether this was a good thing or a bad one.
After traveling for several days and passing Jinpao Mountain, they continued westward, cleansing their minds and hearts, eating wind and sleeping by water.
As they went, the weather gradually warmed, and it soon became early spring again. Hou Kong thought to himself that Dayu in the west might have started taking action by now.