167: Chapter 167 Ling Mountain in Crisis

Above Lingshan, darkness descended.

It was not an ordinary night, but a darkness condensed from Devilish Qi. Thick as ink, heavy as a mountain, and cold as ice. That darkness surged from all directions, veiling the sunset of the Western Heaven, the golden light of the Great Leiyin Temple, and the compassion of the various Buddhas.

The alarm bell rang atop the peak of Lingshan. It was not a bell cast of bronze, but the Buddhist supreme treasure, the "Great Compassion Bell." There was something within that tolling—the Power Of Will of the Buddhas, the golden bodies of the Arhats, and the compassion of the Bodhisattvas. The sound spread out from Lingshan, throughout the Western Heaven, and across the Three Realms. Yet, there was also something else in that tolling—the helplessness of "the tribulation has arrived."

Tathagata sat in the Mahavira Hall, eyes closed. His hand was counting prayer beads—one, two, three. There were one hundred and eight beads; when he reached the fifty-fourth, he stopped.

"It's here," Tathagata said. His voice was very soft, light as a breeze. But there was something in that breeze—the tranquility of "what must come will eventually come."

---

Outside the gates of Lingshan, the Ten Thousand Buddha Array had been activated.

That Formation was the most powerful defensive Formation since the founding of the Buddhist sect, suppressed by the golden bodies of ten thousand and eight hundred Buddhas. There was light within the Formation—a golden light, warm as the sun, bright as the stars, and soft as moonlight. Within that light was something—the Power Of Will of the Buddhas, the compassion of the Bodhisattvas, and the adamantine strength of the Arhats.

But that light was dimming. It was not being swallowed by the Devilish Qi, but suppressed by it. The Devilish Qi was too heavy, so heavy that the golden light could not pierce through. The Devilish Qi was too thick, so thick the golden light could not dissolve it. The Devilish Qi was too cold, so cold the golden light could not warm it.

"Hold the line!" the Chief Vajra shouted loudly. His voice was massive, like a Lion's Roar. But there was something in his voice—the anxiety of "we're almost unable to hold on."

The Demon Tide surged upward.

These were not ordinary demon soldiers, but elites specifically used by the Dark Heavenly Emperor to attack Lingshan. Each one had combat power at the Golden Immortal level, each carried Devilish Qi that countered Buddhist light, and each was unafraid of death. They rushed up like a flood, like a landslide, like the sky collapsing.

The first line of defense for the Ten Thousand Buddha Array was the Five Hundred Vajras. They stood outside the mountain gate, holding Vajra Pestles, clad in golden armor, with wrathful countenances. They were the Protectors of the Buddhist sect, the shield of Lingshan, and the wall of the Righteous Path.

"Kill!"

The Chief Vajra was the first to charge out, his Vajra Pestle smashing toward the first demon soldier. That demon soldier was smashed into a pulp, but ten more rushed up behind him. The Chief Vajra killed ten more, but a hundred more rushed up. He killed a hundred, but a thousand more rushed up.

They could not be finished. They could not be cut down completely. They could not be suppressed to the end.

The Chief Vajra fought for three days and three nights, killing until his hands grew weak, until his pestle broke, and until his golden armor shattered. There were seventeen wounds on his body; the deepest one split from his left shoulder to his right ribs, exposing bone. But he did not retreat, not a single step. Behind him was the Ten Thousand Buddha Array, Lingshan, and Tathagata. He could not retreat.

"Chief, retreat!" someone shouted from behind.

He shook his head. "No retreat. A Vajra does not retreat."

Another wave of demon soldiers rushed up. He raised his broken Vajra Pestle and smashed it down. The pestle crushed three demon soldiers, but the claws of a fourth pierced through his abdomen. He looked down at those claws, watched his own blood flow out, and smiled.

"A Vajra does not..."

Before he could finish, five more claws pierced his body. He stood there, eyes wide, the pestle in his hand still raised. But he was dead. A standing corpse, still gripping the broken pestle.

"Chief!" the Five Hundred Vajras were enraged. They charged forward, throwing their lives away. One fell, and ten took his place. Ten fell, and a hundred took their place. They killed ten thousand, twenty thousand, thirty thousand. But they also died. One hundred, two hundred, three hundred. Of the Five Hundred Vajras, four hundred and thirty-seven died in battle. The remaining sixty-three were covered in wounds, barely able to stand.

"Retreat! Retreat into the Formation!" someone shouted. Those sixty-three Vajras began to pull back, retreating into the Ten Thousand Buddha Array, behind that golden light. The golden light protected them, and the demon soldiers could not break in for the moment. But the golden light was also dimming, flickering like a candle flame about to go out.

---

The second line of defense for the Ten Thousand Buddha Array was the Eighteen Arhats.

They sat within the Formation, eyes closed, chanting scriptures. Those scriptures held power—the fundamental power of the Buddhist sect, the Foundation of the Righteous Path, and the hope of the Three Realms. The sound of the chanting spread outside the Formation; when the demon soldiers heard it, some began to tremble, some began to weep, and some began to kneel. It was not that they wanted to kneel, but that the scriptures were too compassionate—so compassionate that even the Devilish Qi dissolved.

But there were too many demon soldiers. One dissolved, and ten rushed forward. Ten dissolved, and a hundred rushed forward. A hundred dissolved, and a thousand rushed forward. The sound of the chanting grew weaker and weaker; it was not that the Arhats did not want to chant, but that they could no longer manage it. Their magic power was nearly exhausted, their Power Of Will was almost gone, and their compassion was barely holding on.

"Senior Brother, I can't hold on anymore," the Dragon-Taming Arhat said. His voice was very weak, light as a breeze.

"Even if you can't, you must," the Tiger-Taming Arhat said. His voice was also very weak, but there was something in that weakness—the determination of "holding on even unto death."

"But we can't hold on much longer."

"Then hold on until the very last moment."

The Eighteen Arhats continued to chant, continued to endure. But their bodies were shaking, blood flowing from the corners of their mouths, from their nostrils, and from their ears. It was a sign of overextended magic power, a precursor to physical collapse, and the beginning of their golden bodies shattering.

The first to fall was the Happy Arhat. As he chanted, his voice vanished, his head drooped, and his body collapsed. His golden body shattered, turning into powder that drifted in the wind.

"Junior Brother!" the Dragon-Taming Arhat cried out. But the Happy Arhat could no longer hear him. He had already departed, returning to the embrace of the Buddha.

The second to fall was the Raised Hand Arhat. The third was the Tower-Bearing Arhat. The fourth was the River-Crossing Arhat. One, two, three, four. The Eighteen Arhats fell one after another. Their golden bodies shattered, turning into powder that drifted in the wind. Within that powder was something—their Power Of Will, their compassion, and their Dao.

The Dragon-Taming Arhat watched his Junior Brothers fall one by one, his eyes turning red. It was not tears, but blood. Blood flowed from the corners of his eyes; it was not crying, but his golden body cracking. His golden body was also about to shatter.

"Senior Brother, it's time for you to go too," the Tiger-Taming Arhat said.

"I know."

"Are you afraid?"

"I am not."

"Why?"

"Because only by leaving can one return. Only by dying can one be reborn. Only by shattering can one reunite."

The Dragon-Taming Arhat smiled. That smile was very light, light as a breeze. Then his golden body shattered, turning into powder that drifted in the wind. The Tiger-Taming Arhat watched the powder he had become and smiled as well. Then he, too, shattered.

The Eighteen Arhats had all attained Nirvana. The powder from their shattered golden bodies did not drift away but gathered together, forming a single beam of light. That light was very weak, like a firefly's glow. But that light would not be extinguished—no matter how strong the wind, no matter how heavy the Devilish Qi, no matter how deep the despair. That light flew into the Ten Thousand Buddha Array, into the Mahavira Hall, and into Tathagata's hand.

Tathagata looked at that light and remained silent for a long time. Then he placed that light against his chest, at his Buddha-heart.

"Eighteen Arhats, return to your places," Tathagata said. His voice was very soft, but there was something in that softness—the reassurance of "you have left, yet you remain."

---

The third line of defense for the Ten Thousand Buddha Array was Guanyin Bodhisattva.

She stood at the eye of the Formation, holding the Pure Vase with a Willow Branch in her hand. Behind her was the Ten Thousand Buddha Array, Lingshan, and Tathagata. Before her was the boundless Demon Tide, the endless darkness, and the bottomless despair.

"Bodhisattva, retreat," the Sudhana beside her said. "The Formation is about to break; we can't hold it."

Guanyin shook her head. "I will not retreat."

"But you will die."

"I must hold, even if I die."

Guanyin looked at those demon soldiers, at those Souls eroded by Devilish Qi, and at those lives that were broken, shattered, or extinguished. There was no hatred in her eyes, no anger, no resentment. Only compassion. The kind of compassion that says, "If I do not enter Hell, who will?"

She manifested her Thousand Hands and Eyes form.

A thousand hands, a thousand eyes. In every hand was a Magical Artifact, and in every eye was compassion. Those Thousand Hands and Eyes were Guanyin's dharma appearance, her Power Of Will, and her Dao. Once the Thousand Hands and Eyes appeared, the golden light flourished, illuminating half the sky.

The demon soldiers rushed up, and Guanyin's thousand hands moved in unison. A hundred hands suppressed, a hundred hands converted, and a hundred hands performed rites for the deceased. Some of those demon soldiers were suppressed into powder, some were converted into blue smoke, and some were transcended into light. But there were too many demon soldiers to finish. Guanyin killed thirty thousand, and another three hundred thousand appeared. She killed three hundred thousand, and another three million appeared.

[part:gemini-2.5-flash]

Her thousand hands were breaking. One, ten, a hundred. Those hands weren't being severed; they shattered on their own after their magic power was exhausted. With each hand that shattered, her face grew paler. With every ten hands that shattered, her body trembled. With every hundred hands that shattered, a trace of blood flowed from the corner of her mouth.

“Bodhisattva!” Sudhana was crying.

“Don’t cry,” Guanyin said. Her voice was very soft, but there was something in that softness, a kind of “I’m fine” reassurance. “If you cry, you’ll weaken. If you weaken, you won’t be able to hold on.”

She continued to hold on, to guard, to fight. When five hundred of her thousand hands had shattered, her body began to crack. Her golden body was cracking, starting from her feet, inch by inch upwards. There was light in those cracks, and that light was her Power Of Will, her compassion, her Dao.

“Bodhisattva, your golden body…”

“I know.”

“You will shatter!”

“Even if I shatter, I must hold on.”

When eight hundred of her thousand hands had shattered, Guanyin’s golden body had already cracked up to her chest. Her face was very pale, as white as paper. Her body trembled, like a candle flame in the wind. But she did not retreat, not a single step. She stood there, at the core of the Formation, at the last line of defense of the Ten Thousand Buddha Array, standing firm.

“Who else?” The Demon General stood outside the Formation, smiling. “Bodhisattva, you can’t hold on anymore. Retreat. If you retreat, you can still live.”

Guanyin looked at him and smiled. “Retreat? Retreat to where? Behind me is Spirit Mountain, is Tathagata, is the last compassion of the Three Realms. I cannot retreat.”

“Then you shall die!”

The Demon General raised his demon blade and slashed down. The blade was swift, too fast to see. The blade was heavy, so heavy that the air itself burned. The blade was vicious, intending to cleave Guanyin’s golden body with one strike.

Guanyin did not dodge. She closed her eyes and uttered a Buddhist chant.

“namo amituofo.”

That Buddhist chant was very soft, as light as the wind. But there was something in that wind, a kind of “I am not afraid” serenity. A kind of “I have done all that I should” composure. A kind of “dying for a worthy cause” contentment.

The blade fell.

A hand caught the blade.

That hand was small, like a monkey’s hand. That hand was hairy, like a beast’s hand. But that hand caught the blade. It caught the full power strike of a Taiyi Golden Immortal Perfection Demon General.

Guanyin opened her eyes and saw a person standing before her. That person wore battle armor, a golden hoop, and held a rod in his hand. That rod was huge, like a pillar. That rod was heavy, like a mountain. That rod was bright, like the sun.

“Sun Wukong?” Guanyin was stunned.

“Bodhisattva, this Old Sun is late.” Sun Wukong turned his head, looked at Guanyin, and smiled. That smile was light, but there was something in that lightness, a kind of “with me here, no one can harm you” certainty.

He looked at the Demon General, at the boundless Demon Tide, at the sky full of darkness. There was no fear, no dread, no retreat in his eyes. Only one thing—Battle Intent.

“This Old Sun, has come to fight!”

The golden cudgel was raised and swept horizontally. One sweep sent three thousand demon soldiers flying. Two sweeps sent ten thousand flying. Three sweeps sent thirty thousand flying. The Demon General looked at Sun Wukong, at the hairy monkey with a smiling face and only Battle Intent in his eyes, and suddenly felt fear.

“You… who are you?”

“This Old Sun, Great Sage Equal to Heaven Sun Wukong. Victorious Fighting Buddha. Handsome Monkey King of Huaguo Mountain, Water Curtain Cave. Your Grandpa!”

The golden cudgel smashed down, hitting the Demon General’s head. The Demon General’s head shattered, turning into dust. His body also shattered, turning into green smoke. His Devilish Qi also dissipated, turning into nothingness.

One move. A Taiyi Golden Immortal Perfection Demon General, slain in one move.

Sun Wukong stood before Guanyin, before the Ten Thousand Buddha Array, before Spirit Mountain. Behind him was Spirit Mountain, the Buddhas, Tathagata. Before him was the boundless Demon Tide, endless darkness, bottomless despair. But he did not retreat, not a single step. He stood there, standing. Like a mountain, blocking the Demon Tide.

“Bodhisattva, step back,” Sun Wukong said. “Leave this to this Old Sun.”

Guanyin looked at him, for a long time. Then she smiled. “Good. I’ll leave it to you.”

She retreated, back into the Ten Thousand Buddha Array, back into Spirit Mountain, back into the Mahavira Hall. Her golden body was still cracking, only two hundred of her thousand hands remained, and her magic power was almost exhausted. But she was not dead, she was still alive. Because Sun Wukong had come.

Sun Wukong stood before the Spirit Mountain gate, standing. The golden cudgel in hand, battle armor on his body, the golden hoop on his head. He looked at the demon soldiers and smiled.

“Come on! Your Grandpa Sun is waiting for you here!”

The Demon Tide surged forward. Sun Wukong charged. One strike, a hundred strikes, a thousand strikes. He killed ten thousand, a hundred thousand, a million. His body was covered in demon blood, his golden cudgel was covered in Devilish Qi, his battle armor was covered in shredded flesh. But he did not tire, did not stop, did not retreat. He was Sun Wukong, Great Sage Equal to Heaven. He would not tire, would not stop, would not retreat.

He fought for three days and three nights, until the Demon Tide retreated. The demon soldiers were afraid, not afraid of death, but afraid of that unkillable monkey. They retreated, into the darkness, into the Devilish Qi, into the embrace of the gloom.

Sun Wukong stood before the Spirit Mountain gate, standing. His body was covered in wounds, blood, and Devilish Qi. But he stood, smiling.

“Who else?”

No one answered. The Demon Tide retreated, the darkness retreated, despair retreated. Above Spirit Mountain, light reappeared. That light was weak, as weak as a firefly. But that light would not be extinguished; no matter how strong the wind, no matter how heavy the Devilish Qi, no matter how deep the despair, it would not be extinguished.

That light was called Sun Wukong. That light was called Victorious Fighting Buddha. That light was called hope.

---

Inside the Mahavira Hall, Tathagata opened his eyes. His hands counted prayer beads, one hundred and eight, finished. He looked at the Buddhas, the Bodhisattvas, the Arhats in the hall. Some had died, some were wounded, some were shattered. But they were there, still alive, still standing, still guarding.

“Spirit Mountain, held,” Tathagata said. His voice was very soft, but there was something in that lightness, a kind of “the calamity isn’t over, but we are still here” reassurance.

He stood up, walked out of the hall, and stood before Sun Wukong. He looked at Sun Wukong for a long time. Then he bowed. Tathagata bowed to Sun Wukong.

“Victorious Fighting Buddha, you’ve worked hard.”

Sun Wukong scratched his head and smiled. “It’s not hard. This Old Sun just fought a battle.”

“But you saved Spirit Mountain.”

“If I saved it, I saved it. It’s no big deal.”

Tathagata smiled. “You’ve changed.”

“Changed? How have I changed?”

“Before, you fought for yourself. Now, you fight for others.”

Sun Wukong was stunned. He thought for a moment, then smiled. “It seems I have changed. But this change is quite good.”

He turned around and looked at the sky outside Spirit Mountain. There was still darkness in the sky, still Devilish Qi, still gloom. But he was not afraid. Because he knew he wasn’t fighting alone. Beside him were Guanyin, Tathagata, and those Buddhas who were willing to stand. Behind him were Spirit Mountain, the Three Realms, and all sentient beings. In his heart were Battle Intent, compassion, and the Dao.

“Tathagata, this Old Sun wants to go see Heaven.” Sun Wukong said. “There’s also a war going on there, and they also need people.”

Tathagata nodded. “Go. Take the Power Of Will of Spirit Mountain, the compassion of Buddhism, and your Battle Intent. Go to Heaven, to the Human Realm, to anywhere that needs you.”

Sun Wukong smiled. “Alright. Then this Old Sun will go.”

With a somersault cloud, he soared into the sky. He flew past Spirit Mountain, past the Western Heaven, past the Three Realms. He was going to Heaven, to the South Heaven Gate, to be with those who stood. Because he knew that this calamity was not one person’s calamity, but the calamity of the Three Realms. This war was not one person’s war, but the war of all who were willing to stand.

He went. Carrying the golden cudgel, carrying Battle Intent, carrying compassion. Carrying the Power Of Will of Spirit Mountain, the hope of Buddhism, carrying the Soul of Sun Wukong.

Above Spirit Mountain, the wind rose. There was the smell of blood, sweat, and tears in the wind. But there was also something in that wind, a light emanating from those who stood. That light was weak, as weak as a firefly. But that light would not be extinguished; no matter how strong the wind, no matter how deep the darkness, no matter how heavy the despair, it would not be extinguished.

That light was called Spirit Mountain. That light was called Buddhism. That light was called hope. That light was called Sun Wukong.