Chan Tan Merit Buddha had that dream again.
It was not the blood color of the Nine-Nine Eighty-One Dilemma, nor the rebirth at Lingyun Ferry, but a long time ago... A pair of hairy, blood-stained hands handed a still-beating heart to him, with a hoarse voice: "Master, eat it to cross the Flame Mountain."
Tang Sanzang woke up suddenly, and his fingertips touched the cold and hard "Wordless Sutra" on his pillow. Outside the hall, the fairy music is ethereal, and the Antian Conference is in full swing. He clearly felt that a trace of original merit was quietly flowing from the spiritual platform and merged into the hustle and bustle.
He looked down at his jade-white palms, as if he could still smell the nightmare-like bloody smell from three hundred years ago.
"This time," he whispered to himself, a golden light flashed in his eyes, "it's our turn to eat people.
