Chapter 446: Master has awakened……his first words were a curse

The cracking sound hasn't stopped yet.

The light of the Dao Heart grew from the size of a grain of rice to that of a soybean.

The soybean became a walnut.

The walnut became a fist.

Each beat was stronger than the last.

Each pulse pushed out a ring of venerable qi, smelling of pine needles and old ink, just like the wind beneath the old pine tree in the back courtyard of Fangcun Mountain.

Sun Wukong stared at the ever‑brightening light ball, his nose sore and his eye sockets hot.

Soon.

Really soon.

Then the darkness exploded.

It wasn't from one direction.

It was from all directions.

Up, down, left, right, forward, backward—every inch of void surged, and the gray‑white power of Negation turned into a flood that rolled over heaven and earth.

It wasn't heading toward the Dao Heart.

It was coming for him.

The voice of the Original Mistake squeezed out from all sides, losing its former composure and lofty superiority, leaving only the madness of being backed into a corner.

"Kill you!"

"Kill you before it wakes!"

"Without your crutch to prop it up, even if it wakes it's just a wreck!"

Sun Wukong lifted his gaze and looked around.

The gray‑white torrent coalesced into a wall, pushing from afar at an absurd speed.

He lowered his head and glanced at the teacup in his hand.

Then he glanced at the Dao Heart glowing behind him.

He made a decision.

He stuffed the teacup into his bosom and tucked the staff under his armpit.

He ran.

He flung his legs wide, stuck out his butt, and ran.

He ran in circles around the Dao Heart.

Like a rascal chased by a dog, he ran in a pathetic, flailing manner—his arms waving like windmills, his soles tapping the void with a pat‑pat sound.

The power of Negation went mad, chasing after his rear.

Sun Wukong ran panting—not truly out of breath, but deliberately puffing for that thing to hear.

He turned his head and made a face at the gray‑white flood pursuing him from behind.

He stuck out his tongue and rolled his eyes upward.

It was hideous enough to die for.

"Come on!"

"Your short legs can't catch up?"

The gray‑white flood flew into a rage.

It surged even more fiercely, nearly pressing against his back.

Sun Wukong tilted his body and made a sharp turn; the flood couldn't stop, booming as it smashed into the void and exploding into a spray of gray‑white fragments.

It didn't touch the Dao Heart.

Not even a bit.

Sun Wukong looped back, leaping past the left side of the Dao Heart, and the flood followed his turn.

Again he leapt past the right side, and the flood turned with him.

He ran drenched in sweat, the staff tucked under his armpit creaking "creak‑creak".

Is it embarrassing?

It is embarrassing.

The Great Sage Equal to Heaven, with the Chaos Dao within him, ran about the world like a pursued stray dog.

If the Buddha Patriarchs and Saints out there saw this, they'd laugh their heads off.

But Sun Wukong didn't care.

Because the light ball behind him grew brighter with each beat.

Each extra lap he ran gave his master one more second of awakening time.

This trade was worth it.

He could run until heaven grows old and earth decays.

The tenth lap.

The twentieth lap.

The fiftieth lap.

At some unknown lap count, Sun Wukong's back suddenly broke out in gooseflesh.

It wasn't from cold.

It was from heat.

The aura coming from behind him changed.

Before, it was a feeble, breath-like glimmer.

Now it is like a volcano that has slept for ten thousand years, magma surging upward.

He stopped.

His feet were nailed to the spot.

The power of Negation also stopped.

It wasn't blocked.

It was its master who dared not move.

The breath that welled up from his Dao Heart was too ancient.

So ancient it seemed to have existed even before this universe was born.

So ancient that all Negation and Ending seemed like child's play before it.

Sun Wukong slowly turned around.

The light ball was changing.

It stretched out.

As if someone inside were standing up.

First came a pair of feet.

Wearing straw sandals.

One of the sandal straps had broken and was tied back together with a grass rope.

Then came the hem of a Daoist robe.

Made of faded, coarse cloth, with a few unpatched holes at the edges.

Further up.

A pair of hands.

Emaciated.

With knuckles thick and large.

Ink stains still lingered under the fingernails.

A gaunt frame.

Narrow shoulders, slightly hunched.

A head of white hair.

Hanging loose and disheveled, as if no one had tended it.

Finally came the face.

That face.

Wrinkles deep enough to trap a mosquito, high cheekbones, sunken cheeks.

His eyes were still closed.

Sun Wukong's breath stopped.

The whole world stopped.

Then his eyes opened.

Murky.

Dull gray.

Like a pair of old eyes worn by wind and sand, everything seen as if through a veil of mist.

His gaze moved slowly.

It swept over the surrounding darkness.

It swept over emptiness.

It swept over the trembling grayish-white remnants of power.

Finally it came to rest on Sun Wukong.

Sun Wukong stood ten zhang away.

He held a tea cup in his bosom.

He tucked a stick under his armpit.

His sweat was still not dry.

His posture was utterly disheveled.

He opened his mouth.

His throat was dry as if scraped by sandpaper.

It took three efforts to pull the sound from his throat.

Master...

It choked off.

Like a rusted iron door being forced open.

Master...

Two words.

As soon as he said them, his eye sockets reddened.

He held it back.

He didn't let them fall.

The Bodhi Patriarch looked at him.

Something was moving in those cloudy old eyes.

Couldn't say what it was.

He had been looking for a long time.

So long that Sun Wukong felt he could barely hold back his "no tears" stubbornness.

Then an expression appeared on that wrinkled old face.

First, the corners of his eyes softened for a moment.

It was heartache.

Then his brows furrowed.

It was helplessness.

Finally, the corner of his mouth turned down.

It froze.

Disdain.

Genuine, outright disdain.

Bodhi Patriarch spoke.

His voice sounded like the 'crack' of a century-old dry tree snapping in the wind—dry, hoarse, rusted from who knows how many millennia of silence.

"Pilfering monkey."

The two words hit the void.

Sun Wukong's tears almost fell.

"Who let you come?"

The second sentence followed, striking.

Carrying the fiery frustration of wishing iron would become steel.

Sun Wukong froze for a moment.

Then he laughed.

Grinning, baring his teeth, laughing like a fool.

Tears came out with his laughter.

He sniffed, pushing back the warmth in his eye sockets.

He hoisted the staff onto his shoulder.

He pulled the tea cup from his bosom and offered it with both hands.

"Master."

His voice was still hoarse.

But it was steady.

"The tea is warm now."

"Have a sip?"

Bodhi Patriarch lowered his head and glanced at the steaming cup of tea.

Something shattered in those cloudy old eyes.

And something lit up.

He did not take it.

He turned his head away and wiped his face with his sleeve.

The motion was quick.

So quick it seemed he feared being seen.

Then, when he turned back, his face was again that same age-old grimace.

"Who wants your tea."

"It's been cold for how many years, gone bad."

Sun Wukong laughed even more happily.

"It's hot. Just warmed."

"Don't believe me? Try it."

Bodhi Patriarch glared at him.

That gaze held too much, enough to make the void tremble.

He opened his mouth, still wanting to scold.

But couldn't get the words out.

Because from the depths of darkness, a shrill, distorted howl exploded, shattering the whole void.

"Im—pos—si—ble!"

The voice of the Original Mistake carried not anger.

It was fear.

It was the fear of an existence that had never lost control for a hundred million years, realizing for the first time that the game board might be overturned.

Bodhi Patriarch's gaze shifted away from Sun Wukong.

Slowly turning toward the depths of darkness.

In those cloudy old eyes, a point of light lit up.

Not gold.

Not red.

It is a color that cannot be named.

It seems to contain everything, yet it is nothing.

His lips moved.

His voice was still so dry, so hoarse.

But with each word that fell, the void trembled.

What's the noise?

Old man…… I just slept.