"Tang Monk: The Road to Jue Fei" is not the Journey to the West story you are familiar with.
The Tang monk here was once the most generous dandy in Jiangling City - he kicked over the altar table in the Buddhist hall, filled the eye sockets of the Buddha's head with honey cake dregs, and laughed at his father who meditated and chanted sutras as "Buddha grows meat every day." It wasn't until Gao Anliang's gold bracelet broke Zhou Ling's pipa string that he saw clearly: the so-called prosperous age was nothing more than the strong skinning the weak, using the guise of "the rule of Zhenguan" to cover up the mountains of corpses and seas of blood.
When he was twelve years old, his father drowned in a flood holding the severed Buddha's head. Half of a Buddhist bead was embedded in the Buddha's eyes, which was exactly the same as what he later saw in the palm of the skeleton in an ice cave in the snowy mountains.
During his seventeen years of traveling west, he saw more - King Gaochang pierced his left hand with an iron nail and forced him to copy apocryphal scriptures, Ayina stained the Gobi with blood to protect him; the deed of betrayal was hidden in the merit box of Jinshan Temple, and the grandmother of Kushui Village spent thirty years feeding a dry well. He once wielded a knife to kill a wolf, and also cried at the moldy osmanthus cake on Ruosu's grave - it was the sweetness she had been waiting for for seventeen years, and finally rolled into a crack in the bluestone slab and was dragged by ants into the word "hui".
When he finally arrived at Nalanda Temple, he found that the scriptures were not on the bay leaves: they were the bones of the baby hugged tightly by Liu's daughter in the well, the blood-stained glass lamp when the caravan Aluo Khan blocked the arrow, and the palms of everyone who had been crushed by fate but still wanted to hold others up.
Along the way, he smashed a golden body, broke his fingers, and scolded the Buddha, but he understood in the dirtiest mud: Buddha is not a clay body enshrined in a high place, but the temperature of a mortal's palm when he breaks off half a piece of cake; it is Ruosu's knuckles that held the cake before he died, turning as white as frost.
Now, he has returned with scars all over his body, and he just wants to ask: If compassion requires blood and tears, this Buddha,
