174: Chapter 174 Yang Jian Arrives

Sun Wukong's guerrilla warfare in the mortal Realm lasted for three days. In those three days, he had converted thirty-seven devil soldiers, supplemented nineteen devil generals, and saved over eight hundred commoners. His hands were still itching—to fight, to kill, to do battle. But he restrained himself. Because he knew that fighting was useless. Killing was useless. Battling was useless. Only conversion was useful. Only supplementation was useful. Only transformation was useful.

"Where's the three-eyed guy?" Sun Wukong asked.

"At Mount Hua," Lu Mingyuan said. "Yesterday, Bai Ze sent word. Yang Jian was fighting a guerrilla war there and got surrounded by three Taiyi devil generals."

"Surrounded? Then what are we waiting for!"

Sun Wukong somersaulted into the sky. Lu Mingyuan followed, treading upon his Wanxiang True Qi. The two of them, one after the other, flew towards Mount Hua.

---

At the foot of Mount Hua, Yang Jian was surrounded.

Three Taiyi devil generals: one wielding a blade, one a spear, one a hammer. They were all at the Taiyi Late Stage, one minor Realm higher than Yang Jian. Yang Jian was at Taiyi Perfection, but his Heavenly Eye was cracked, his body was wounded, and his three-pointed double-edged blade was chipped. He had fought for three days and three nights, slain over five thousand devil soldiers, and beheaded one Taiyi devil general. But he was tired. So tired his hands trembled, his legs shook, and he could barely keep his Heavenly Eye open.

"Yang Jian, surrender," the blade-wielding devil general said. "You can't beat us. Surrender, and you might live."

Yang Jian laughed. "Surrender? I, Yang Jian, never surrender."

He raised his three-pointed double-edged blade. The light on the blade was dim, dim as a candle about to gutter out. But he raised it anyway. He charged forward anyway. One slash aimed at the blade-wielding general. The general dodged, countering with a slash across Yang Jian's chest. Yang Jian was sent flying, crashing into the mountain wall, spitting blood.

"Yang Jian, stop fighting," the spear-wielding devil general said. "You can't beat us. Admit defeat."

"Admit defeat?" Yang Jian climbed to his feet, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. "I, Yang Jian, never admit defeat."

He charged again. Another slash aimed at the spear-wielding general. That general's spear pierced through his shoulder. Yang Jian grunted but did not retreat. He grabbed the spear shaft and, with his blade, severed the spearhead. The spear-wielding general froze in shock. Yang Jian's blade cleaved his head from his shoulders. A Taiyi Late Stage devil general, slain by Yang Jian.

"Two left," Yang Jian said. His shoulder bled, his Heavenly Eye cracked further, his body shook. But he did not retreat. Not a single step.

"You're insane!" the blade-wielding general roared. "You're wounded like this and still want to fight?"

"Fight. Even if I can't win, I must fight."

Yang Jian charged again. One slash at the blade-wielding general. The general dodged, slashing Yang Jian's leg. Yang Jian fell to his knees, but he stood up again. Another slash. The general dodged again, slashing Yang Jian's back. Yang Jian fell flat, but he crawled back up.

"Yang Jian!" The hammer-wielding general charged, his massive hammer smashing towards Yang Jian's head. That hammer was fast, too fast to see. That hammer was heavy, so heavy the air seemed to burn. Yang Jian did not dodge. He raised his three-pointed double-edged blade to block the blow. The blade shattered, crumbling to dust. He too was sent flying, crashing into the mountain wall. The wall collapsed. He was buried in the rubble, unable to move.

"Yang Jian, is he dead?" the blade-wielding general asked.

"Don't know. Let's check."

The two devil generals approached the rubble, wanting to see if Yang Jian was dead. In the rubble, Yang Jian still lived. His Heavenly Eye bled, his body shook, his blade was gone. But he wasn't dead. He was alive. He wanted to stand, but couldn't. His legs were broken, his arms were broken, who knew how many of his bones were shattered. He could only lie there, lying there waiting for death.

"So you're not dead yet," the blade-wielding general laughed. "Then let me send you on your way."

The devil blade rose, fell. The blade descended.

A staff caught that blade.

That staff was huge, big as a pillar. That staff was heavy, heavy as a mountain. That staff was bright, bright as the sun. On the staff were carved characters: 'As-you-wish golden cudgel, weight thirteen thousand five hundred catties.'

"Sun Wukong?" The blade-wielding general froze.

"It's your Grandpa Sun!" Sun Wukong brought the staff down. That general's head shattered, his body shattered, his Devilish Qi dispersed. One move. A Taiyi Late Stage devil general, slain in a single move.

"One more!" Lu Mingyuan charged from behind. Wanxiang True Qi surged into the hammer-wielding devil general's body. That general didn't die; he was transformed. Transformed into a wisp of green smoke, dissipating between heaven and earth. Not annihilation, but conversion. Not confrontation, but salvation.

Three Taiyi Late Stage devil generals. Resolved in less than ten breaths.

Sun Wukong rushed into the rubble and dug Yang Jian out. Yang Jian was covered in blood, his legs broken, his arms broken, his Heavenly Eye half-cracked. But he lived. He still lived.

"Three-eyes, you're not dead yet, are you?" Sun Wukong asked.

"Can't die," Yang Jian laughed. "How did you get here?"

"Bai Ze said you were surrounded, so we came."

"You're late. I was almost dead."

"But you're not. That's what matters."

Lu Mingyuan walked over and crouched beside Yang Jian. Wanxiang True Qi flowed from his palm, surging into Yang Jian's body. That True Qi mended Yang Jian's wounds, reconnected his broken bones, healed his Heavenly Eye. Yang Jian felt his body recovering, his broken legs re-knitting, his broken arms re-knitting, his cracked Heavenly Eye healing.

"This is..." Yang Jian was stunned.

"Wanxiang True Qi," Lu Mingyuan said. "It can not only convert devils, but also heal people."

---

Atop Mount Hua, night.

Yang Jian sat on the mountaintop, looking at the stars in the sky. A few more stars had appeared, but there were still very few—only a few dozen. But they were there, shining in the darkness, flickering in the despair, living in the Dharma Ending Age.

"Lu Mingyuan says those stars are formed from supplemented Souls," Sun Wukong sat beside him, munching on a peach. "This old monkey converted a few, and a few more stars appeared in the sky. Three-eyes, do you want to try it too?"

"Try what?"

"Try converting. Not killing, but converting. Not annihilating, but supplementing. Not fighting, but transforming."

Yang Jian fell silent. He had fought his whole life, from the Investiture of the Gods Calamity to the Journey to the West Great Tribulation, from the Journey to the West Great Tribulation to the Dharma-Ending Kalpa. He had thought that fighting was the Dao. Killing was the path. War was the method. But today, he saw another possibility. Not fighting, but converting. Not killing, but supplementing. Not warring, but transforming.

"I'll try," Yang Jian said.

At the edge of The Rift, Yang Jian tried to convert a devil soldier. He closed his eyes and tried to open his heart. His heart was hard, hard as iron. His heart was cold, cold as ice. His heart was tight, tight as a clenched fist. He had fought his whole life; his heart had long been hardened, chilled, tightened by battle.

"It won't open," Yang Jian said. "My heart won't open."

"Don't rush," Lu Mingyuan said. "You are not fighting alone. You have brothers, friends, people willing to help you. Their love will help you open your heart."

Yang Jian thought of his brothers. He thought of Sun Wukong, of Nezha, of all those who had fought alongside him. They had never abandoned him, never hated him, never left him. Their love was still there. In his heart, in his Heavenly Eye, in his three-pointed double-edged blade.

His heart opened a crack. In that crack was light. That light was golden, warm as the sun. That light was Sun Wukong's, was Nezha's, was the light of all those who had loved him. That light shone from the crack, illuminating that devil soldier. That devil soldier did not die; he was transformed. Transformed into a wisp of green smoke, dissipating between heaven and earth. Not annihilation, but conversion. Not confrontation, but salvation.

"This old monkey... I've got it," Yang Jian said. His voice was soft, but in that softness was something—a sense of relief that said, 'I finally understand.'

---

At the Buzhou Mountain Ruins, night.

Three people sat on the mountaintop, looking at the stars in the sky. Lu Mingyuan, Sun Wukong, Yang Jian. One cultivated the heart, one cultivated battle, one cultivated killing. Yet they sat together, sitting between darkness and light, between despair and hope, between the Dharma Ending Age and supplementation.

"Do you remember Zixiao Palace?" Yang Jian asked.

"I remember," Lu Mingyuan said. "Back then, we were all listening to the Dao at Zixiao Palace. You were on the side of the Chan Sect, I was among the Loose Immortals, and Sun Wukong was with Buddhism."

"Back then, this old monkey wasn't convinced by you," Sun Wukong laughed. "You, a kid who wasn't even a Great Luo, what right did you have to discourse on the Dao at Zixiao Palace? But you won the debate. You debated and won against Guangchengzi, won against my Master, won against everyone."

"It wasn't that I won the debate," Lu Mingyuan said. "The principle was simply there from the beginning. All Dharmas share the same origin; the Dao knows no high or low. The Heart as the Mysterious Pivot, all Dharmas naturally return. It wasn't that my words won; the principle itself won."

Yang Jian looked at him, for a long time. "You've changed. Back at Zixiao Palace, you still had a bit of an edge. Now, you don't even have an edge. Only light. Very faint light, but unextinguishable light."

"I haven't changed," Lu Mingyuan smiled. "I am still that scholar who walked out of Heyin City. Still that youth who listened to the Dao at Zhongnan Mountain. Still that Loose Immortal who discoursed on the Dao at Zixiao Palace. It's just that I've walked more roads, stood in more places, guarded more things. Walk enough, and you know where the road is. Stand enough, and you know where you should stand. Guard enough, and you know what you should guard."

Sun Wukong stood up, raising his golden cudgel. "Good. Then we'll keep walking, keep standing, keep guarding. Walk until the day it's all supplemented, stand until the day stars outnumber the darkness, guard until the Dharma Ending Age has passed."

Yang Jian also stood up, raising his three-pointed double-edged blade. "Good. I'll accompany you."

Lu Mingyuan also stood up, standing between them. "Good. Together."

The three of them stood atop Mount Buzhou, standing. Like three trees, rooted there. Unmoved by wind, unmoved by rain, unmoved by thunder. Not because they were strong, but because they should. Not because they were unafraid, but because they were willing. Not because they could stand firm, but because standing itself was the path.

Above Mount Buzhou, the wind rose. That wind carried the scent of blood, of sweat, of tears. But that wind also carried something—the light emanating from those who stood. That light was faint, faint as fireflies. 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.

That light was called Lu Mingyuan. That light was called Sun Wukong. That light was called Yang Jian. That light was called the Three Heroes. That light was called hope.