This is a fresh, complete English translation of Wu Cheng’en’s public-domain one-hundred-chapter novel, produced with GPT-5.3-Codex-Spark assistance. It is an AI-assisted first edition, not a reproduction of an existing translation.

Then his two brothers and he came into the hall and said to Tripitaka, “The meal is nearly ready—what are we to do?” Tripitaka replied, “My disciples, this is not about food. In this monastery there are some ginseng fruits, small as a child’s body. Which one of you stole and ate his fruit?” Zhu Bajie said, “I am honest; I do not know. I did not see it.” Qingfeng said, “The one who was smiling was him, the one who was smiling was him.” Wukong shouted, “Old Sun was born with this smile. Has my laughing face become forbidden just because you lost some fruit?” Tripitaka said, “My disciple, restrain your anger. We are ordained men; do not be deceitful or eat food taken in secret. If you truly ate it, then make proper amends. Why deny it so stubbornly?” Seeing that his master spoke reasonably, Wukong spoke frankly: “Master, it was none of my doing. It was that Zhu Bajie heard those two Dao boys eating some ginseng fruit. He wanted to taste one new fruit himself and sent me to fetch three. Each of us brothers ate one. We have already eaten them all. What now should we do?” Mingyue said, “He stole all four of mine, and the monk still says he is no thief.” Zhu Bajie said, “Amitabha Buddha! If four were stolen, why were only three brought out to divide, with one already set aside first?” That fool then blurted out nonsense in return.

The two Dao boys had asked truly, and their insults only increased. The Great Sage ground his iron teeth together, his fire-bright eyes wide, and he shook the Golden-Hooped Staff again and again; enduring and enduring, he said, “If that boy wished me to be beaten in person, let him at least vent some anger on me. I’ll give him a final stratagem—let him and all of them not get to eat a mouthful.” Sun Wukong then plucked one hair from the top of his head, breathed out divine breath, and cried, “Transform!” He became a false Wukong and stood beside Tripitaka with Wuneng and Wujing, enduring the Dao boys’ abuse. From his real body he sent out one spirit, shot upward like a cloud and leapt away, going straight to the ginseng grove. He tugged the Golden-Hooped Staff, struck the tree with a hard clack, and by the force used to move mountains and shift ridges, he pushed it down. Alas, the tree split, leaves flew, and its roots emerged from the ground; the Daoist’s ginseng-root stock was broken off. The Great Sage searched among the branches for fruit, but not even half a fruit could he find. The treasure answered to metal: his staff’s two ends were gilded, and the iron was of fivefold metal, so once it struck, the fruit came raining down; and when they came down, the earth swallowed them. Thus there was none left above. He said, “Good, good, good! Let everyone allay the uproar.” He took up the staff, headed straight forward again, shook the hair, and withdrew his body back in. Mortal naked eyes could not see clearly what had happened.

The two Dao boys had insulted enough. Qingfeng said, “Mingyue, these monks have borne enough cursing. We have been scolding them like a pair of chicks, scolding for half this interval, and there is no sign from them. He must not have stolen. If the tree is tall and the leaves dense, we may not have counted rightly. Do not have wrongfully blamed him; you and I will check again.” Mingyue agreed. The two returned to the orchard. They saw the tree fallen and split wide, with no fruit and no leaves on the ground. Qingfeng was so frightened his legs gave way and he fell backward to the roots; Mingyue’s waist went cold and his limbs failed him. Both were shaken to the core. There is a poem proving this:

Tripitaka came westward to Wanshou Mountain, Wukong cut down the elixir roots. The tree split open, leaves scattered, immortal roots laid bare; Mingyue and Qingfeng felt their hearts turn cold.

The two collapsed in the dust, their speech confused, crying only, “How is this? how is this? We have ruined the elixir foundation of Wuzhuang Monastery, cut off our immortal seed-line. When master comes home, how shall we answer him?” Mingyue said, “Brother, do not bellow. Let us first set our garments straight; do not frighten these monks. There is no other one here. It must be that loud-mouthed fellow with the shaggy face and thunder-mouth who came, made tricks with spirit and magic, and ruined our treasure. If we explain it to him, he will finally deny it and demand a quarrel. If we quarrel, we must come to blows. Think how we two can stand against his four? Better we deceive him first: say the fruits were many, we miscounted, and then make an apology to him. Their meal is already cooked; when he comes to eat, we can give him a little side dish.” One of the boys held a bowl, I stood on the right of the gate and he on the left. I would slam the gate shut, fix the lock, and lock all the gate layers together, not letting him out. When Tripitaka returns home, he can decide what to do. He is master’s old acquaintance, and sparing him would also be master’s kindness. If we do not spare him, we can hold a thief in custody and perhaps avoid our own blame.” Hearing this, Qingfeng said, “You are right, you are right.”

They forced up their spirits and feigned cheer, then came from the rear garden straight to the hall and knelt with bowed backs before Tripitaka: “Master, earlier our words were crude and we spoke out of line in many ways. Do not blame us.” Tripitaka asked, “What is the matter?” Qingfeng said, “There were plenty of fruits. The leaves were high and thick, so we could not see clearly. We went and checked again, and the count is unchanged.” Zhu Bajie broke in, “You child! Being young you do not know things and have come to rant and curse, babbling with your mouth, falsely blaming us too, not fitting for a disciple.” Wukong understood clearly in his heart but said nothing, thinking inwardly, “It is a lie. It is a lie. The fruit is finished and fully settled. How can they speak this way? There must be some way to raise the dead and revive the living.” Tripitaka said, “If so, bring the meal; let us eat and then go.”

Then Zhu Bajie served the rice and Sha Wujing set the stools. The two boys hurriedly brought out the small side dishes, in all seven or eight plates: soy-sauced melon, soy eggplant, fermented radish, vinegar beans, pickled vegetables, and mustard greens. They also brought a good tea jar and two tea cups and stood ready on either side. The four disciples had only just lifted their bowls when the two boys, one on each side, slammed the doors shut and fixed two heavy bronze locks. Zhu Bajie laughed, “This child has gone too far. In this place your customs are poor indeed—why have you closed the doors while we are to eat?” Mingyue said, “Exactly so. At least eat your meal first, then open the gate.” Qingfeng shouted, “You greedy, nosing, bald thief! You stole my immortal fruit and are already guilty of one sin: feeding on a cultivator’s orchard fruit. And you also knocked over my immortal tree, breaking the roots of Wuzhuang Monastery’s sacred stock, and you still dare to speak back. If you can even reach the Western Buddha’s court, only by rolling backward in a cart and taking rebirth again might you survive.” Hearing this, Tripitaka dropped his meal bowl, setting the words in his heart as one would set a stone. The boys locked the front gate and both of the side gates. They returned once more to the central hall gate and hurled curses before and behind, abusing him until dusk darkened, then they ate. After the meal, they went back to their chambers.

Tripitaka rebuked Wukong: “You monkey-headed one, you keep running into disasters. You stole his fruit and only suffered a little of his anger; letting him curse us a few words would have been enough. Why did you topple his tree as well? If this came before an accusation, even if your own father were an official, he would not be able to defend it.” Wukong said, “Master, do not make a fuss. The Dao boys have gone to sleep. When they are truly asleep, we can leave in the middle of the night.” Sha Wujing said, “Elder Brother, many gates are locked. How can we possibly get out?” Wukong laughed, “No matter, no matter. Old Sun has his own way.” Zhu Bajie said, “It’s all your fault for having no methods. You can change form once and a leech-like creature can slip through a lattice slit and fly out. We suffer because we cannot change at all, and must stand here wearing this punishment.” Tripitaka said, “If he makes this kind of racket again, he will not let you and I go out. If I begin to chant the old-folk scripture, how will he bear it?” Hearing this, Zhu Bajie said with a worried laugh, “Master, what kind of words are you saying? In Buddhist scripture I have heard only the Śūraṅgama Sūtra, Lotus Sūtra, Peacock Sūtra, Guanyin Sūtra, and Diamond Sūtra. I have never heard anything called an ‘Old-folk Sūtra.’” Wukong said, “Brother, you do not know. The band on my head is what Guanyin bestowed on my master. Master deceived me into wearing it; it grew into my flesh like roots, and there is no way to remove it. It is called the Tightening Headband Spell, also called the Tightening Headband Canon. That ‘old-folk scripture’ is this. But if it is chanted, my head will ache; this is the method by which I am held in check. Master, do not chant it. I will not fail you; by our powers we will all leave together.”

By the time they had finished speaking, dusk had already fallen; they had not even noticed the moon rise in the east. Sun Wukong said, ‘At this hour all sounds are still, the moon is clear and bright; now is the moment to go.’ Zhu Bajie said, ‘Brother, no mischief now—every gate is bolted shut. Where could we go?’ Sun Wukong said, ‘Watch my way.’ Twirling the Golden-Hooped Staff in his hand, he performed an Unlocking Spell and pointed at the gate. There was a sharp clatter, and several layers of doors and their crossbars dropped together; the leaves of the gate flew open with a rasping sound. Zhu Bajie laughed, ‘Fine skill indeed. Even if a little forge-boy used a pry-tool, it would never be so quick and clean.’ Sun Wukong said, ‘This gate is no ordinary one. It is the Nántiān Gate, and I opened it with one finger.’ He invited the Master out, mounted him on the horse, had Zhu Bajie shoulder the pannier, and told Sha Wujing to gather up the horse. Then they rode straight toward the western road. Sun Wukong said, ‘Move slowly. Let me stay and care for those two boys until they sleep it off for a month.’ Tripitaka said, ‘Disciple, do not harm their lives. Otherwise it will be another crime of killing and injuring others for gain.’ Sun Wukong replied, ‘I know.’ He then returned once more and came to the door outside where the boys were sleeping. At his waist he had with him the drowsy insects he had won in a game of knucklebones against Zengzhang, the Heaven King, at the Dongtian Gate. He took out two of them, slid them through a slit of the window, and sent them straight to the boys’ faces. They snored heavily and no one could think to wake. He then set off, extending his Cloud-Walk, caught up with Tripitaka, and, once back on the main road, ran straight west.

That whole night they rode without rest, and came out as dawn broke. Tripitaka said, ‘That monkey of mine has nearly killed me. Because of your mouth, you kept me awake all night.’ Sun Wukong said, ‘Do not complain only. The sky is light; do as I say—find a bit of shelter by the trees along the road, catch a little rest to recover your spirit, and then continue.’ The elder could only dismount, leaning against the root of a pine to fashion a makeshift meditation bed. Sha Wujing set down the shoulder-pole and dozed. Zhu Bajie slept with a stone for a pillow. The Great Sage had a prankster’s bent; you could see him springing among the trees and playing with the branches. As for the four resting, there is nothing more to add.

Later, that Immortal dispersed the assembly in Yuanshi Palace, led his young immortals out of Doushuai, descended to Yao Heaven on auspicious clouds, and came early to the gate of Wanshou Mountain’s Wuzhuang Observatory. He saw that the hall gate stood open and the ground was clean. The Immortal said, ‘Qingfeng and Mingyue, still useful still. In ordinary times, even at this hour one cannot even stretch one’s waist for three zhang; since we are away today, he has gone so early to open the gate and sweep it.’ The young immortals all approved. They entered the hall: all incense and worship were gone, no one was to be seen, and no one else remained where Mingyue and Qingfeng had been. The immortals said, ‘Those two must have taken something away while we were out.’ The Immortal said, ‘Impossible! Can those who cultivate immortality have such wickedness? It is more likely that last night they forgot to close the gate, went to sleep, and have not yet woken this morning.’ The immortals came to the boys’ room door and saw it truly shut; they lay snoring so deep that no clamor at the door could wake them. The immortals pried open the panels and pulled out the bed, yet the boys still would not wake. The Immortal laughed, ‘Good young immortals. A true immortal, with spirit full and whole, should not be this drowsy. Could someone have tampered with them?’ He said, ‘Quick, fetch water.’ One boy hastily took half a cup and handed it to the Immortal. The Immortal spoke his incantation, spat a mouthful, sprayed it on their faces, and at once the sleep-miasma was lifted.

The two only just woke, then suddenly opened their eyes, rubbed their faces, raised their heads, and recognized their Immortal Master, Shitongjun and their brother-immortals. In panic, Qingfeng knelt flat and Mingyue bowed fully, saying, ‘Master, your old acquaintances were monks from the East, a band of brigands, all quite fierce.’ The Immortal laughed and said, ‘Do not fear. Tell it in order.’ Qingfeng said, ‘Master, shortly after we parted, a monk from Eastern-land Tang came. He had four monks in his party and a horse, five mouths in all. As disciples we dared not disobey your order, so we asked after their business and offered two Ren Shen fruits. That monk’s worldly eyes were ignorant and he did not understand our immortal treasure. He said the fruit was not yet fit for children of not even three dawns and refused to eat, again and again. So each disciple ate one. Then among his followers there were three disciples, one surnamed Sun, named Wukong the Walker. He first stole and ate four fruits. The disciples spoke plainly to him a few times. He would not allow it and, within himself, used a spirit-lulled technique. Alas…’ As the two boys spoke, tears kept falling from their cheeks. The immortals said, ‘Did that monk beat you?’ Mingyue said, ‘He did not beat us. He only knocked over our Ren Shen tree.’ Hearing this, the Immortal became no angrier, saying, ‘Do not weep. Do not weep. You do not know that the one surnamed Sun is also a Great Immortal of Taiyi, who once made great trouble in Heaven and whose powers are vast. Since he toppled the treasured tree, do you recognize those monks?’ Qingfeng said, ‘We recognize them all.’ The Immortal said, ‘Since you recognize them, follow me. All disciples, ready the punishments and restraints; wait until I return and strike him.’ The immortals obeyed.

The Immortal lifted up auspicious light with Mingyue and Qingfeng and flew to pursue Tripitaka. In a single instant they were a thousand li away. The Immortal looked westward among the clouds but could not see Tripitaka. When he turned and looked east, he had already overtaken him by more than nine hundred li. In truth, the elder had ridden all night without stopping and traveled only one hundred twenty li; the Immortal’s cloud-step, in one leaping bound, had passed over more than nine hundred li. One heavenly child said, ‘Master, that is Tang Sanzang, seated beneath the tree by the roadside.’ The Immortal said, ‘I see him. You two return and prepare the ropes. I will bring him back myself.’ Qingfeng and Mingyue returned first.

The Immortal landed from the cloud, then shifted his form into a wandering Quanzhen preacher. He looked just so:

Wearing a hundred-patched robe, with a Lu-gong cord tied at the waist. The whisk of peacock tail swung in his hand, and a fisher’s drum tapped softly. Three-eared straw shoes on his feet, a Jiuyang kerchief wrapped about his head. His sleeves were full of drifting wind; he sang in a high, ringing voice. He came straight to the tree and called up toward Tripitaka: ‘Elder, this poor Daoist has arrived.’ Tripitaka hurriedly returned the salutation: ‘My apologies, my apologies.’ The Immortal asked, ‘Elder, where do you come from, and why are you meditating in the middle of the road?’ Tripitaka said, ‘This humble monk is Tripitaka of Great Tang in the Eastern lands, dispatched to go to the Western Heaven for the Sutras. He pauses here only for a brief rest.’ The Immortal feigned surprise, ‘From the East, say you? Did you pass through strange barren mountains?’ Tripitaka said, ‘I do not know, honored immortal, what this precious mountain may be.’ The Immortal said, ‘Wanshou Mountain’s Wuzhuang Monastery is my place of dwelling.’

Hearing this, Sun Wukong, who knew his own mind, hastily answered, ‘No, no, no—we are just on our way onward.’ The Immortal snapped with a half-smile, ‘You rogue monkey! Whom are you trying to fool? You came into my observatory and felled my Ren Shen tree, then in the night you slipped away and passed through this place without owning it. Why hide it so? Do not run. Return and bring back my tree at once.’ Hearing this, Sun Wukong grew angry in his heart. He drew his iron staff and, without yielding room for words, advanced to strike at the Immortal. The Immortal sidestepped, stepped on the auspicious light, and rose into the air. Sun Wukong leapt with cloud-movement and hurried after him. In midair the Immortal showed his true form. Here is his appearance:

On his head a purple-gold crown; a worryless crane cloak draped about him. Shoes on his feet, silk sash fastened at his waist. His body was like that of a youth; his face, handsome as a beauty’s. Three whiskers floated under his chin, and black-neck plumes layered along his temples. He met Sun Wukong with no weapons, only twisting a jade fly-whisk in his hand.

Sun Wukong struck wildly, high and low, hacking with the staff. The Immortal used his sleeve to block left and right, and survived him for two or three exchanges. Then he employed a technique called Universe-in-the-Sleeve: up in the clouds he lightly flung open his robe sleeve into the wind, and with a swish it came forward, enclosing the four monks and the horse all in one sweep. Zhu Bajie said, ‘It is bad. We are caught inside his giant net-bag.’ Sun Wukong said, ‘Idiot, not a net-bag—we are caught inside a robe sleeve.’ Zhu Bajie said, ‘This is no matter; let me strike him with the spike-pedestal and dig him a hole to get us out. Say later he was careless, the net was not secure, and we managed to slip loose.’ The pig then drove his spade wildly at it, but no hole could be made. The hand-swept cloth, though soft, rose up as hard as iron.

The Immortal turned the auspicious cloud and descended to Wuzhuang Monastery, sat down, and ordered his disciples to bring ropes. The young immortals one by one attended. Watch how he drew them from his sleeve as if they were puppets, brought out Tripitaka, and bound him to a pillar under the eaves of the main hall. He brought out the other three as well, binding one to each pillar. He also took out the horse, tied it in the courtyard, and gave it some grass. Their baggage was tossed to the corridor. Then he said, ‘Disciples, this monk is a renunciant; no blades, no polearms, no battle-axes are to be used against him. So bring out the whip; give him a beating and let me vent my anger for my Ren Shen fruit.’ The immortals at once hurried and fetched a whip—not made of cowhide, sheephide, deerhide, or veal-hide, but a dragon-hide seven-star whip, lying soaked in water. He ordered one strong little immortal to hold it fast: ‘Master, whom should I strike first?’ The Immortal said, ‘Tripitaka is the foremost among these monks. Strike him first.’

The Great Sage heard this and thought to himself, “If my old monk does not refrain from striking, and one round of whipping breaks me apart, would that not be my own guilt?” He could not hold back and spoke: “Master, you have it wrong. I stole the fruit, I ate the fruit, and I knocked down the trees too. Why should you not beat me first instead of beating him?” The Immortal laughed. “This unruly monkey speaks in rough tones. Beat him first.” The young immortal asked, “How many lashes?” The Immortal said, “By the number of fruits—thirty.” The young immortal raised his whip and struck. Wukong, fearing the powers of the immortals, stared with wide eyes to see where he was aiming. He turned into two hard iron legs with a cry of “Transform!” and watched how he could strike them. The youth struck him, one stroke after another, all thirty. It was already near noon. The Immortal then said, “Also scold Tripitaka. His instruction has not been strict enough, and he lets wayward monks run wild.” The youth lifted his whip again. Wukong said, “Master, you are mistaken again. When the fruit was stolen, my Master did not know; he was upstairs in the hall speaking with your two boys. Even if there is guilt in insufficient discipline, as his disciple I should have the beating. Strike me again.” The Immortal said, “This bad monkey, though sly and obstinate, still shows some filial feeling. In that case, beat him too.” The young immortal struck thirty more. Wukong bowed his head and looked—both legs shone like polished mirrors from all the blows, and he felt not the slightest pain or itch. By then dusk was coming. The Immortal said, “Soak the whip in water and we will flog him again tomorrow.” The young immortal set aside the whip and went to soak it; each returned to his quarters. Evening food was finished, and all slept soundly; there is no need to add more.

The Patriarch let his eyes fill with tears and reproached the three disciples: “You three brought this disaster and brought me here to suffer. How has this come about?” Wukong said, “Do not complain so. If there must be beating, beat me first—so far you did not receive any blows, and yet you wail?” Tripitaka said, “Though I was not beaten, being tied still makes my body hurt.” Sha Wujing said, "Master, there is still one binding left here." Wukong said, “Do not shout. Wait a little, then we can walk.” Zhu Bajie said, “Elder brother is making grand claims again. This hemp rope here has been drenched and is tied tight; it is worse than being confined in the hall. Yet you used the unlocking spell and walked out through the door.” Wukong said, “I am not bragging. Even if the three-strand hemp rope is drenched, even if the rope is as thick as a bowl, it is still as good as an autumn wind.”

Just then, all sound had ceased, and it was the quiet hour of Heaven’s streets. The Good One now made himself a little smaller, untied the bonds, and said, “Master, go ahead.” Sha Wujing was alarmed: “Brother, save us too.” Wukong said, “Softly, quietly.” He untied Tripitaka, then released Zhu Bajie and Sha Wujing, tightened his short shirt, fixed the horse’s harness on his back, took the travel bags from the corridor, and all three left the observatory gate. Then he told Zhu Bajie, “Go cut down four willow trees by the cliff.” Zhu Bajie said, “What will they be for?” Wukong said, “They will be useful. Bring them quickly.” That brutish one, with brute strength, took a bite-thing and quickly made off; he bit out four pieces, one at a time, and returned with them all in an armful. Wukong broke off the tips and ordered the two brothers to go back in and tie the original ropes to the pillar again as before. Then the Great Sage recited his spell, bit his tongue tip, spat blood onto the trees, and cried, “Transform!” One tree became Tripitaka, one became himself, and the two others became Sha Wujing and Zhu Bajie; all had the same appearance, with matching faces, and when asked their names they answered correctly. Only then did the two begin to walk and catch up with the Master. That night, as before, horse and riders did not pause and swiftly slipped away from Five-Altars Retreat.

Only when daybreak came, Tripitaka was swaying and dozing on horseback. Seeing this, Wukong said, “Master, you are no easy one; how can a monk work so hard? I, old Wukong, can keep awake for a thousand nights and still not know weariness. Get off the horse. Do not let people walking by see you and laugh at you. Let us rest for a moment in the place below the slope where wind and breath gather, then go on.”

There is no need to say that the disciples and their master stayed on the road for the night. Now in the morning the Immortal rose, ate his early meal, went out to the hall, and ordered, “Bring out the whip. Today we should flog Tripitaka.” The young immortal lifted his whip and said to Tripitaka, “I’ll beat you.” The willow trees answered, “Beat me.” With clashing sounds he struck thirty. He swept the whip toward Zhu Bajie and said, “I’ll beat you.” The willow tree answered, “Beat me.” When he struck Sha Wujing, it too answered to be beaten. When he came to Wukong, the monkey, now on the road, trembled once and cried out, “This is bad!” Tripitaka asked, “What do you mean?” Wukong said, “Yesterday I transformed four willows into our party of four. I only told him he had whipped me twice yesterday, and today he wanted not to whip again, but he has beaten my transformed forms. So my true body shivered. I need to gather in the spell.” The Great Sage hurriedly chanted and withdrew the magic.

See those Dao boys, frightened, throwing down the leather whip, reported: “Master, the one you beat first was the Tang monk. This time the ones being beaten are all merely willow roots.” The Immortal gave a cold laugh and praised without measure: “Sun Wukong is indeed a fine Monkey King. I have heard he once rampaged through Heaven, laid heavenly-net and earth-net, and no one could capture him—there is truth in this. You may go if you wish, but why did you tie these willow trees here as stand-ins in one’s place? Do not spare him. Go and catch him.”

The Immortal cried, “Go!” and rose through the clouds. Looking westward, he saw the monk with his bundle urging a horse along. He dropped from the clouds and shouted, “Wukong, where are you going? Bring back my ginseng tree.” Zhu Bajie heard and said, “Enough—his opponent is here again.” Wukong said, “Master, wrap up the ‘goodness’ talisman and let us release our ferocity; we can finish him in one strike and slip away.” Tripitaka heard this and trembled from fear, but gave no answer. Sha Wujing drew the Precious Staff, Zhu Bajie raised the nail-pick, and the Great Sage wielded the Golden-Hooped Staff. All moved forward together, surrounding the Immortal in the air and striking in a wild flurry. This fierce clash has verse as witness:

Sun Wukong did not know the Zhenyuan Immortal; his wonders were subtler than the age itself. Three divine weapons flared in savage force, while a whisk-like tail drifted of itself. Left blocks right, right blocks left, coming and going in tangled motion; rear blocks before, front meets, every turn and whirl permitted. From night to dawn he cannot yet break loose from this frame—how long can he linger before reaching the Western Heaven?

The three brothers all raised their divine weapons and attacked together. That Immortal only swung a fly-whisk as if setting a stage. In less than half an hour, with one sweep of his robe sleeves he gathered the four disciples, horse, and baggage all at once and brought them off. He returned to the clouds and came back to the observatory, where the assembled immortals came forward. The Immortal sat in the hall and then, from his sleeves, drew each one out in turn: he bound Tripitaka to a low locust tree below the steps; Zhu Bajie and Sha Wujing were tied to trees on both sides; Wukong was bound and pinned. Wukong said, “This must be an inquest.” Before long the bindings were secure. He ordered, “Bring out ten bolts of head-cloth.” Wukong laughed, “Bajie, this elder has quite the nerve—bringing out cloth to make us a middle-wrap. Save a little; a single wrap is enough.” The young immortal brought out their household cloth. The Immortal said, “Wrap Tripitaka, Zhu Bajie, and Sha Wujing.” All the immortals moved in and wrapped them all. Wukong laughed, “Good, good, good. A burial wrap is now almost complete.” Soon the wrapping was finished. He then ordered them to bring out the lacquer. The immortals quickly fetched a little raw and cooked lacquer they had self-dried and dried by themselves, and coated all three body-wide, leaving head and face exposed. Zhu Bajie said, “Master, the top is not dangerous, but below there are still holes. We can still step out and make our obeisance.” The Immortal then ordered a great iron pot raised. Wukong laughed, “Bajie, lift out the pot. It must be for cooking our meal.” Zhu Bajie said, “Very well, let us eat some rice; it would look fine for us to become ghosts stuffed full.” The immortals indeed brought forth a large pot and set it beneath the steps. The Immortal ordered kindling piled and fierce fire lit, saying: “Pour clear oil into the pot and set it boiling. When it rolls, plunge Sun Wukong into the cauldron and deep-fry him once, as revenge for my ginseng tree.”

Hearing this, Wukong rejoiced inwardly: “This suits old Wukong’s mind exactly. I have not bathed for some time; my skin is dry and itchy. At least this will cure it, and I will be grateful for the heat.” In but a moment the oil in that pot was boiling. The Great Sage grew more alert, fearing that the Immortal’s spells were hard to match and that in the cauldron he might not have any chance to make handcraft. He turned back and looked around. Below was the east side of the platform, a sundial platform; west was a stone lion. Wukong leapt in one bound, rolled toward the west, bit his tongue tip, and spat on the lion, crying, “Transform!” It changed into his own form as a bound, knotted mass. He then let his original spirit emerge, rose into the clouds, and looked down upon the Taoist below.

One of the little immortals reported, “Master, the oil cauldron has come to a full boil.” The Great Immortal commanded, “Cast Sun Wukong into it.” Four little immortals could not lift him up; eight could not either; adding four more still could not lift him. The immortals said, “This monkey clings to the ground and is hard to move; though small, he is sturdy all the same.” So he ordered twenty young immortals to shoulder him and heave him into the pot. With a crash of cooking, they tossed him in at once. There was a loud frying sound, and a few droplets of boiling oil sprang up, scalding great blisters on the faces of those young Daoist lads. Then came the cry from the fire boy, “The pot is leaking, the pot is leaking.” There was no time to finish the cry: the oil had already leaked out completely, and the pot bottom had torn apart; all along, a stone lion had been placed inside it.

The Great Immortal grew furious: “That unruly monkey—no sign of propriety! You taught him tricks before my face. If he had already left, all right; how is he now smashing up my stove again? This impudent monkey cannot be held even when one tries to seize him; and if one does catch him, it is like shaping sand and trying to handle mercury, grabbing shadows and chasing the wind. Enough, enough, enough. Let him go. Untie Tang Sanzang, fetch another new cauldron, tie him up a bit, and settle the score with that ginseng-tree.” The young immortal then truly set to work and began untying the lacquered bindings.

Sun Wukong heard everything clearly in the open air and thought, “Master is in danger: if he is put into the oil cauldron, one boil and he dies, two boils and he is scorched, and after three or five boils he will be melted into a formless, pasty monk. I should go and save him.” The Great Sage stepped down from his cloud head and came forward, joining his hands as he spoke: “Do not tear apart the lacquered bindings and do not tie up my Master—let me go down into the oil cauldron instead.” The Great Immortal shouted in anger, “I will break you, you monkey! How dare you use tricks and make such a disturbance to my stove?” Sun Wukong laughed and said, “Since you met me, you should have overturned your stove already; what concern of yours is this? I too came to take some share of your hot-oil essence, but I had only been urgent for nature’s call. If I were to break wind in the pot, I might have soiled your prepared oil and you would not be able to season vegetables with it. Now that the matter is fully settled, it is fit for me to enter the pot. Do not tie my Master. Tie me instead.” Hearing this, the Great Immortal gave a cold, chuckling laugh, came out of the hall, and grabbed him by the arm.

In the end, it is still unknown what more was said, nor is it yet clear exactly how he got free. Listen to the next chapter for the resolution.