Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 3 2018 | Page 308

Zhizhou lost his temper. “I thought you were supposed to be a deity!” he yelled, face red
from shouting. “Instead, I see a pig that has no aim in life other than getting drunk! The
fate of our dynasty hangs in the balance, and all you can do is indulge yourself. Very well.
I will make the journey myself. You can stay here and wallow.”
Zhu Bajie watched in a stunned silence as Zhizhou strode away into the distance. He
stumbled back into his house, tripping and falling flat on his face. For the first time in
many years, he picked up his rake.
~
Zhizhou stood at the bank of a raging river, leaning back a little as the spray stung his skin.
He was deliberating on what to do next. The river was too deep to swim across, and in
any case, he would be washed away. It stretched for many kilometers, and there was no
bridge. He stamped his foot in frustration. He was starting to wonder if Sun Wukong was
actually right. After all, I am just a young monk, he told himself.
The murky water boiled suddenly, surging up the riverbanks. Zhizhou retreated to safety
as the river parted, revealing a monstrous demon. A grisly necklace of skulls circled his
neck, and a formidable-looking spade was clasped in the demon’s hand.
“What brings you here, young traveler?” the demon asked. He sounded kindly and
sympathetic, entirely out of phase with his appearance.
Somehow, Zhizhou mustered the courage to answer, recounting the events of the past
months. The demon laughed, shaking his head in amusement.
“What’s the matter?” Zhizhou asked out of curiosity, despite himself.
The demon grinned. “As luck would have it, I may be one of the most qualified people to
help you with your mission. I am Sha Wujing, the third disciple of Master Xuanzang.
Where do we start, young Master Zhizhou?”
Zhizhou was taken aback by Wujing’s generosity. He stuttered for a few seconds before
managing to reply. “You… you want to help?”
“Of course! Why wouldn’t I?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.
“It’s… it’s just that Wukong and Bajie both rejected my pleas for help,” Zhizhou said.
Hope flared in his heart. Here was someone who was willing to aid him.
Before he could continue, Wujing tensed. “Something’s wrong. The birds have stopped
singing.”
“That would be because of me,” a deep voice boomed. Standing on the other side of the
river was a gargantuan white bull, its eyes glowing like embers. Around its hooves, the
grass smoldered and shriveled.
“Run, Zhizhou!” Wujing yelled. “Run! It’s the Bull Demon King! I’ll hold him off!”
Zhizhou turned to flee, but the bull took a running jump, leaping over the river
effortlessly. It changed form in mid-air, landing in front of him as a horned warrior in
elaborate black armor, which was ragged and torn in several places. Zhizhou’s heart
skipped a beat. The demon sauntered over to him and gestured. Black cords whipped
around him, sending him crashing to the ground.
“It’s been a long time since we last met, Wujing!” the demon called, his jovial tone
contrasting with the murderous glint in his eyes. “I thought I’d start with the weakest link
in the chain.”
Wujing raised his spade and charged, but was knocked back with a sword thrust. The
demon left a deep wound in his shoulder and kicked him down.
“Once, I could have taken on the armies of heaven! Now, I’m reduced to attacking river
spirits, and my painful imprisonment in the Celestial Palace was all because of your little
team.”