Journey to the West, Silent Storm

The water of Liusha River is still so turbid, with a familiar fishy smell. Zhu Bajie muttered that the water was cold, and Sun Wukong somersaulted to the other side to find food. Tang Monk sat cross-legged with his eyes closed and silently recited the Heart Sutra. Everything was the same as it had been when crossing the river thousands of times before. Only Sha Monk, when he was carrying Master across the river, the skull necklace that never left his chest suddenly became as hot as a soldering iron. A skull that once belonged to a Buddhist monk cracked open with a crack. A glimmer of light flashed, and something fell into the water, and he subconsciously picked it up. It was a jade slip covered with blood. The moment his spiritual thoughts touched the jade slip, the painful memory of the flying sword piercing his chest that had been forgotten for thousands of years washed away his embankment like a flood. Along with it came lines of words carved with pain and despair: "Today, the flying sword passed through my heart seven times again. I suddenly realized that the pain they gave me was not to punish me for accidentally breaking the glass cup..." "... This is to remove the last bit of 'self' stained by my job of 'rolling the curtain'." "The path of learning is a path of... Discipline." Sha Monk raised his head and looked at the master and senior brothers who were waiting on the other side. For the first time, his eyes were no longer respectful and numb, but filled with endless shock and a kind of... Anger that had been buried for five hundred years. He tightened his grip on the demon-subduing treasure staff in his hand, not to subdue demons, but to smash some invisible shackles.