I transmigrated into a grim version of Journey to the West, where the Heavenly Court was torn open, Buddha's radiance had turned black, and half of Chang'an lay buried in the underworld.
People walked the streets by day, while ghost officials took attendance at night. The monks of the Thunderclap Monastery ate people as they chanted sutras, and only murderous corpses remained in Flower-Fruit Mountain, pounding on the gates.
I had no strength to fight even a chicken, and my life was worth less than a blade of grass. I had barely arrived when I saw the City God patrolling at night. I drew a talisman with incense ash and escaped with my life.
By chance, I acquired a golden finger: a shadowed blade with an ancient consciousness dwelling within it.
It said it had once slain an incarnation of the Tathagata, could sever the threads of karma, and see through a thousand layers of lies.
Others relied on incense offerings to stay alive. I raced onward on a single breath of resentment, and nothing survived when my blade came out.
Cultivators refined resentment, while demons clung to obsession. I could cut down every false Buddha and overturn this world that devoured people.
In the end, I would gather the Three Treasures, retrace the true scripture-seeking path, tear open the truth of Heaven and Earth, and awaken the sleeping source of Journey to the West.
