Don't Make Me Use Buddhist Teachings to Invite You In

Donggua's face turned ashen. If they fell into the hands of the Tianyan Sect or the Taidao Sect, the situation likely wouldn’t be any better.

Yet, no matter how unwilling she was, she had no choice but to follow closely behind Wukong.

The two did not rush but flew low, moving at a moderate pace—perhaps Wukong intended to conceal their tracks.

As Donggua pondered how to broach the subject, a delicate snowflake drifted down before her. She lifted her gaze to see snowflakes gently descending.

Accompanying the light snowfall was the distant expanse of endless white.

Looking further, she realized the trees in the distance had withered long ago.

A sudden realization struck Donggua—had winter already arrived?

Time passed so swiftly, as if nothing could be accomplished before another year slipped away.

Wukong noticed Donggua’s distraction and glanced sideways at her.

Meeting his gaze, Donggua snapped back to reality. Perhaps chilled by the snow, her heart grew colder still. Abandoning any pretense of politeness or tact, she spoke bluntly:

"We’re already within the borders of the Central Continent. If you’re sending me to my death, shouldn’t you at least give me some clarity?"

"You always assume the worst of me," Wukong replied, his expression unreadable. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have intervened back then. You would have perished naturally."

"After a century of Buddhist teachings, I’ve no reason to send you to your doom."

Donggua scoffed. "Put on a kasaya, mutter a few chants of ‘Amitabha,’ and suddenly you think you’re a Buddha?"

Wukong turned to face her, his gaze solemn as a faint golden light emanated from his body.

A shiver ran down Donggua’s spine—was this monk about to strike her?

But instead, Wukong simply uttered:

"Amitabha."

With that, he accelerated, leaving Donggua momentarily stunned.

Her expression darkened, resentment burning in her eyes as she glared at Wukong’s retreating figure.

This damned monk was deliberately provoking her.

Hah…

Did this bald fool not understand? If you leave others no path to survival, don’t expect them to spare you either.

She wasn’t so magnanimous. If she couldn’t live, why should she care about the Demon Clan’s grand ambitions?

Donggua steeled herself—if death was inevitable, she’d drag this wretched monk down with her.

She fell silent, trailing behind Wukong without protest, letting him lead wherever he pleased.

Wukong’s path was erratic, frequently circling or pausing briefly before resuming. It almost seemed like he was stalling for time.

Donggua sneered inwardly. Normally, she might have pressed him further, but now she remained wordless.

Days passed. Despite the detours, their general direction became clear.

Donggua gradually realized Wukong’s destination—the Tianyan Sect.

Huaping Cloud Sea.

This marked the edge of the Tianyan Sect’s direct influence.

Shallow rivers, waist-deep at most, stretched endlessly, occasionally breaking into marsh-like patches but still interconnected.

Withered lotus leaves drooped over the water, their grayish-yellow hue barely visible beneath the falling snow. From afar, they resembled white lotus leaves awaiting blossoms yet to bloom.

The river hadn’t frozen, its currents carrying away each snowflake that touched its surface.

What should have been a scene of decay was now entirely veiled in white.

Wukong paid no heed to Donggua’s grim expression or her refusal to plead or reason further.

He pressed onward, heading toward a familiar location. Soon, a dilapidated little temple came into view.

The temple was bizarre.

It stood on the only patch of dry land amidst a vast marsh, isolated with no other structures nearby. A few tattered boats lay abandoned along the distant riverbanks.

The surrounding walls were unusually high—taller than the temple’s own pagoda—and meticulously maintained, their repairs glaringly obvious.

In stark contrast, the temple itself was in disrepair, its main hall even sporting an unrepaired hole in the roof.

A massive tree, still bearing green leaves, stood not far from the hall. Its sprawling branches had pierced through the roof, intruding into the sacred space.

Donggua took it all in with a single glance.

So the monks here cared more about mending walls than fixing their own dwelling or trimming intrusive branches.

Just as absurd as that damned Wukong.

Though peculiar, Donggua couldn’t care less about their reasoning.

At their core, monks were all the same—spouting impractical nonsense disguised as profound wisdom, when in truth, it was nothing but empty drivel.

Let go? Do nothing? As it should be?

To hell with that.

If that’s how it should be, then they should all die—preferably taking Wukong along.

Lost in her thoughts, Donggua was abruptly pulled back by Wukong’s voice:

"You’re usually so guarded, yet now your hatred is plain on your face."

Donggua met his gaze but didn’t respond, merely sneering.

Wukong approached the strange temple and added:

"Your heart is haunted by demons, making you see malice everywhere. Why not set aside your prejudice and trust me?"

"Ha!" Donggua laughed coldly. "If you wanted trust, you’d have explained earlier instead of leading me here blind. Now that we’ve arrived, you ask me to believe you as you send me to my death?"

"What do you take me for? A fool? An idiot?"

Wukong landed in the temple’s courtyard and turned to Donggua, who had followed:

"Some words can only be spoken at the right place."

With a sigh, he walked toward the tightly shut temple doors.

Donggua remained rooted, watching as Wukong knocked lightly. Without courtesy, she unleashed her divine sense, probing the temple’s interior.

Wukong raised a hand, golden light flaring as he severed her intrusive detection.

"The outside world is lively indeed. But this humble temple has nothing to hide. If the honored guest wishes to see, let them."

A hoarse, aged voice echoed from within before the doors creaked open.

An elderly monk, clad in faded but clean robes and an equally worn kasaya, greeted them with a serene smile. He nodded at Wukong first, then studied Donggua, his eyes narrowing briefly before inclining his head.

Wukong pressed his palms together in greeting, but the monk interrupted:

"Let us speak inside."

Turning, the old monk reentered the temple, Wukong following.

Donggua stood unmoving, her sneer unwavering.

Moments later, Wukong’s voice carried from within:

"Come in. Unless you’d prefer I invite you in with Buddhist arts."

Donggua scoffed—until golden light flickered inside.

Her mockery died as unpleasant memories resurfaced.

Fine. She’d humor the damned monk one last time.

Stepping into the courtyard, her eyes swept the surroundings… and a flicker of surprise crossed her mind.