bookbashuk Chapter 1075 Long-Abandoned Scrap Metal
Chapter 1075 Long-Abandoned Scrap Metal
"Let's go," he said. "It's still early; we can walk for another two hours."
Su Wanwan hummed in agreement and followed behind him. After walking for a while, she suddenly asked, "When is the 'next time' they're talking about?"
Chu Yang did not answer.
Sun Wukong walked at the front, twirling his golden cudgel in his hand. Hearing the question, he paused for a moment, then continued walking. He didn't turn around, but his voice drifted over from ahead, neither too loud nor too soft, just loud enough for everyone to hear.
"When it's time."
Su Wanwan waited a while, but when she didn't hear the next sentence, she couldn't help but ask, "That's it?"
"That's all," said Sun Wukong. "I'm not a fortune teller, how would I know when? Anyway, we'll deal with whatever comes our way. If they come, we'll fight; if we can't win, we'll run; if we can't run, we'll deal with that later."
This was incredibly irresponsible, but Su Wanwan actually found it to be reasonable.
She glanced back at the way she had come. She could see nothing in the direction of Qiyue Ridge anymore; only the gray sky and gray saline-alkali land blended together, making it impossible to distinguish where the sky ended and the ground began.
the other side.
The black-robed demon was called Cockroach, and the flat-faced demon was called Cricket. These names weren't particularly well-known in the demon realm, but in the Western Regions, mentioning them could still make many lesser demons tremble. Cockroach had cultivated for a full 1300 years, while Cricket had cultivated for 200 years less, but Cricket was far more ruthless. Cockroach was skilled in scheming, while Cricket was skilled in killing. The two of them had been operating in the Western Regions together for over 300 years, seizing territory, devouring lesser demons, and collecting protection money—living a more comfortable life than most demons.
They've failed today.
They weren't defeated by Sun Wukong. They'd heard of Sun Wukong—the monkey who wreaked havoc in the Heavenly Palace five hundred years ago, who hadn't heard of him? They never intended to confront Sun Wukong head-on; that monkey was notoriously difficult to deal with. The two of them combined wouldn't be enough to withstand a swing of that golden cudgel. They were going today specifically to see Tang Sanzang. It was said that eating Tang Sanzang's flesh could grant immortality. This rumor had circulated in the demon realm for hundreds of years, growing increasingly exaggerated. Some said eating a bite of Tang Sanzang's flesh could add a thousand years to one's life; others said eating a piece of Tang Sanzang's flesh could directly grant ascension to immortality. Fei Lian didn't believe in these things, but he felt that even without those exaggerated effects, a monk reincarnated from Jin Chanzi must possess some valuable items.
But they didn't even get to touch the hem of Tang Sanzang's cassock.
Cockroach walked through the desert, the hem of his black robe leaving a long trail in the sand like a black snake slithering across the surface. His pace was slow, but each step was long, the sand beneath his feet automatically parting to the sides, as if making way for some distinguished guest. The grub walked beside him, its steps hurried and fragmented, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, its entire being radiating a sense of frustration. It kept flexing its right wrist; the spot where Chu Yang had slapped it still felt numb and sore, which only fueled its anger.
"You're just leaving like that?" The grub finally snapped, its voice sharp as sandpaper. "Those guys, we could definitely beat them!"
The cockroach didn't stop or turn around. Its voice drifted from ahead, neither loud nor soft: "You can't beat those guys."
"I know I can't beat that monkey, but that—"
"You are no match for that person." The cockroach interrupted him, its tone as calm as if it were saying that there was no wind in the desert today. "That person, I have observed for a long time, but I cannot see through him. The aura emanating from him is neither demon, nor human, nor immortal, nor devil. He is nothing, yet he is everything. I have lived for thirteen hundred years and have never seen such a person."
The cockroach opened its mouth, wanting to refute, but couldn't find the words. It was common knowledge that the cockroach had better eyesight than him. If the cockroach said it couldn't see through something, then it truly couldn't. He shut his mouth, but the tingling in his wrist made him mutter again, "And that fox, the five-tailed one, its lunar energy wasn't pure but very thick. That lunar energy was wrong, it was like…" He thought for a moment, but couldn't find the right words.
"It's like we inherited it from someone," the cockroach finished for him, "and the person who inherited it is much older and stronger than us."
The cicada fell silent. He recalled the silvery-white moonlight emanating from the fox's fingertips, and the white wolf that had inexplicably appeared—the wolf's aura wasn't wild either, carrying the scent of a very, very old wolf clan, sealed away for a very, very long time. These things, put together, made him feel uneasy. It wasn't that they shouldn't be here, but rather that their appearance was too coincidental. A monk traveling west, a monkey sprang from a stone, an unfathomable person, a five-tailed fox spirit inheriting the moonlight of some old fox, and a white wolf carrying the aura of an ancient wolf clan. This lineup wasn't randomly assembled; it was intentionally or unintentionally brought together by something.
After the cockroaches had been traveling for about an hour, the desert landscape began to change. The sand dunes no longer stretched endlessly to the horizon, but began to be arranged in a regular pattern—row after row, as if measured with a ruler, with equal distances between each row and equal height for each dune. This sense of regularity is extremely rare in nature, because it was not formed naturally, but rather a trace of magic.
In the very center of the array of sand dunes stands a sand mountain that rises above all the surrounding dunes. Shaped like a grand chair, the sand ridges on either side are armrests, and the central sand flat is the seat. The flat is devoid of sand, revealing hard, black rock beneath, polished smooth as a mirror by countless years of wind and sand.
A snake was lying on the rock.
No, it's not a snake. It's a dragon.
But it didn't resemble a dragon. Its body was black, its scales dull and lifeless, as if it hadn't been wet, dewy, or touched any liquid in a long time, as dry as pieces of bark about to peel off. Its limbs were curled up at its sides, its claws withered and thin, several nails broken, the remaining ones dull and lifeless. Its head rested on its front paws, its eyes closed, its breathing light and slow, the rise and fall of its chest barely perceptible.
It looked dead, but it wasn't. Its tail tip twitched slightly as the cockroaches and crickets reached the foot of the sand dune.
The cockroach stopped at the foot of the sand dune. He didn't walk onto the black rocks, but stood a foot away from the edge and lowered his head. The grub stood beside him and also lowered his head, but not as deeply as the cockroach, because he was still angry, and his anger hadn't subsided, so he couldn't lower his head.
"My king," the cockroach spoke, its voice much lower than on the salt flats, almost as if it were talking to thin air, "we're going."
The black dragon did not open its eyes. Its mouth did not move. But a sound came from its body, not from its throat, but from its chest, from beneath its withered scales, from between its nearly broken ribs. The sound was deep and muffled, like muffled thunder rolling on the horizon, carrying a low-frequency vibration that sent chills down one's spine.
"You saw him?"
"I saw them," the cockroach said. "A monk, a monkey, and someone I couldn't figure out, a five-tailed fox demon, and a white wolf."
The black dragon was silent for a moment, then the tip of its tail twitched again, this time with a larger movement, leaving a shallow mark on the rock. The rock was black, and the mark was black too, so it was invisible, but the cockroach heard the subtle scraping sound, like fingernails scratching a blackboard.
"A five-tailed fox demon." The black dragon repeated these words, its voice devoid of any emotion, but the cockroach, having followed it for so many years, noticed the pause. That pause meant: this fox demon was no ordinary creature.
"Her lunar energy isn't pure, but it's very thick," the cockroach added. "It's like it was inherited from somewhere else. The person she inherited it from has a cultivation level far above mine."
The black dragon finally opened its eyes.
Its eyes were vertical pupils, dark red in color, like two embers that had been burning for a long time but never quite burned through. Its eyelids were thick, covered with a fine layer of black down; when it opened its eyes, the down trembled slightly in the wind, like two rows of tiny brushes. Its eyes looked at the cockroach, then at the centipede, and as its gaze swept over them, both felt a chill—not cold, but a bone-deep, oppressive feeling that made them want to curl up in a ball.
"Far beyond your reach," said the black dragon. "In the Western Regions, is there anyone whose cultivation far surpasses yours?"
The cockroach didn't answer. He knew it wasn't a question, but a rhetorical one. The black dragon seemed to be saying: The Western Regions are my territory. Anything with a cultivation level higher than mine should be under my control. Now, someone outside my control has appeared. Where did it come from?
"The Central Plains," the cockroach said.
The black dragon closed its eyes. As its eyelids closed, the two rows of black downy hairs shut like two doors, sealing its dark red pupils inside. It fell silent again, this time for longer than before, long enough for the cicada to become uneasy—it had followed the black dragon for over two hundred years and knew that the longer it remained silent, the more serious its next words would be.
"That person we can't see through," the black dragon finally spoke again, "what is it?"
The cockroach hesitated for a moment, because he didn't know how to say it. He didn't know who the person was, but he knew what he was feeling. He felt that the person had a familiar yet indescribable aura, as if he had smelled it somewhere long, long ago, but the memory was too vague, so vague that he wasn't sure if it was his own memory or some fragment inherited from elsewhere.
"I don't know," the cockroach said, the words coming with difficulty. He disliked saying "I don't know," especially to a black dragon. He had lived for thirteen hundred years, relying on knowing more than others. Now, standing at the foot of the sand dune, head bowed, saying "I don't know" to a black dragon who had lived for who knows how many years, felt like an indelible mark being etched onto his resume.
The black dragon neither blamed him nor comforted him. It simply remained silent for a while, then spoke in a muffled, thunderous voice: "Then go again. This time, bring more people."
The cockroach looked up: "How many?"
"Bring enough," said the black dragon.
The cockroach knew what "bring enough" meant. It wasn't about bringing ten, or twenty; it meant bringing everything it could. The black dragon had been operating in the Western Regions for countless years, commanding hundreds of demons, both large and small, scattered across deserts, Gobi, oases, and mountain streams. Normally, they each occupied their own territories and lived their own lives, but at the black dragon's command, they would converge from all directions in the shortest possible time, sweeping everything away like a sandstorm.
It's about to get serious.
The cricket's eyes lit up. A grayish-yellow light suddenly burst forth from his narrow slits, like two lamps abruptly switched on. His mouth split open, his jaw clicked a few times, and his teeth protruded from his gums, densely packed like two rows of tiny saws. He was laughing, laughing heartily, because he had waited a long time for this day. He loved to fight, loved to kill, loved to tear his opponents to pieces and then chew and swallow them. Today on the saline-alkali land, he hadn't had his fill of fighting; his wrist had been slapped by that unfathomable person, and he was seething with anger. Now, he finally had the chance to vent it.
The cockroach didn't laugh. He turned around, the hem of his black robe drawing a semicircle on the sand, and then strode into the depths of the desert. The grub followed behind him, its steps much lighter than before, like a hunting dog released from its cage, its whole body trembling with excitement.
Behind them, the black dragon closed its eyes again. The winds and sand from the sand dunes slowly covered its body with a thin layer of yellow sand. Its scales, dull and lifeless beneath the sand, resembled a piece of scrap metal long abandoned.
But the tip of its tail was still moving, once, once, like a pendulum.
This is the third day since Chu Yang and his group entered the desert.
Deserts and saline-alkali lands are two different things. Saline-alkali lands are hard, making a crunching sound when you step on them; walking on them is strenuous, but at least you won't sink in. Deserts are soft; with each step, your foot sinks into the sand, and when you pull it out, there's a suction effect, as if something is pulling your foot down from beneath the sand, preventing you from moving. The white donkey had lost weight in those three days, not because it ate little, but because it was too exhausted from walking. Its four legs were already short, and with each step in the desert, its leg would sink in halfway down its calf. It would pull it out and take another step, in a never-ending cycle. By the third day, its gaze towards Chu Yang had evolved from the ordinary aggrieved look of a donkey to a philosophical level of doubt—why is life so difficult for a donkey?
The white wolf adapted quickly. A wolf's paws are naturally suited to walking on soft ground; its large paws and spread toes leave clear, plum blossom-like footprints with each step. It walked ahead of Su Wanwan, glancing back occasionally to make sure she was still there, that she hadn't sunburned into any sand pits, or that she hadn't been overwhelmed by the sun. Its pale blue eyes held a maturity beyond its years, like a little adult who, despite being a teenager, was already concerned for the safety of others. (End of Chapter)