Bajie had that dream again.
There was no stick shadow or golden light in the dream, only a monkey hair falling lightly on his huge ear. Then came the voice of the senior brother, not a scold, but a sigh, colder than the wind under the Nine Netherworld: "Idiot, my old grandson... It hurts so much."
He woke up suddenly, the crackle of the campfire reflected the thunderous face opposite him. The monkey was wiping the stick, and the golden cudgel was as docile as a dead snake in his hand. But Bajie clearly saw that the monkey's eyes reflected by the stick did not have the slightest trace of impatience and detachment from the past, but only two ancient wells with no bottom.
The monkey turned his head and grinned, showing his white teeth: "Are you dreaming?"
Bajie patted his belly, said "hey" twice, touched the water bag next to him and drank it fiercely to block the cold look in his eyes. This bully never asked him about his dreams. The senior brother would just kick him over and scold him for sleeping in and missing his schedule.
The monk who was twisting the Buddhist beads with his eyes closed had his knuckles turning slightly white. Even the white dragon horse snorted uneasily.
The moonlight was pure and clear, illuminating the surrounding fields in deathly silence. It turns out that the most difficult thing on the journey to seek enlightenment is not the monsters, but the most powerful senior brother around me, who suddenly becomes polite and considerate.
Because everyone knows well that the real Sun Wukong may have died on Lingshan Mountain. And they are accompanying the murderer, walking step by step towards the west.
Interesting.