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.

Tripitaka sat in the dharma hall of Baolin Temple beneath the lamp, reciting for a while the Water-Attaining Repentance of the Liang Emperor and reading for a while the True Scripture of the Peacock. He sat on until the third watch of the night before at last bundling the scriptures in his satchel. Just as he was about to rise and go to sleep, he heard a rasping, clattering sound from beyond the gate and then the wind came in hard with scattered, hissing gusts. The elder feared the lamp might be blown out, and in haste covered it with his robe sleeve. Again the lamp wavered from bright to dim, and a little fear stirred in him. Yet sleep settled over him again, and he bent against the scripture stand and dozed. Though his eyes were closed in a hazy stupor, his mind remained clear. In his ears sounded a continuous ringing, while outside the window the cold wind whistled on. What a wind! Truly it was this:

Rustle-shedding, light and misty; drifting and drifting, wavering and swaying. Rustle-shedding, light and misty, fallen leaves drift down; drifting and swaying, they roll up floating clouds. All the stars in heaven were dimmed, and all over the ground the dust was flung about in disorder. One gust rough and fierce, one gust sudden and clear. In the clear gust the pine and bamboo chimed with pure tones; in the rough gust river and lake rolled into turbid waves. The wind made mountain birds unable to roost, their cries choked and broken; the sea fish leapt and splashed in frantic fitful bursts. Doors and windows of the eastern and western halls and pavilions came loose; the front and rear corridors of the building-house seemed to shudder with angry spirits and ghosts. In the Buddha hall, flower vases were blown down, and blue-glass vessels tumbled so the lights of wisdom flickered. The incense brazier tilted, incense ash burst apart; the candle stand was askew and the candle flames smoked. Canopies of banners and treasure parasols all shook apart; the bell-and-drum tower and platform quivered at the roots.

In that half-dreaming stupor, after the wind had raged past for a moment, he again heard a faint call from outside the dharma hall: “Master!” He lifted his head within the dream and looked out. At the doorway stood a man, all of him soaked through, tears in his eyes, crying only "Master!" The monk said, "Are you some fiend, monster, spirit-being, or evil demon, come at this late hour to mock me? I am not one of those creatures ruled by greed or lust. I am a monk, upright and open in daylight, sent by the Great Tang of the Eastern Capital to go to the Western Heaven to seek the Buddha’s scriptures. I have three disciples under me, all heroes who can subdue dragons and bind tigers, strong men who clear away monsters and demons. If he set eyes on you, he would shatter your limbs and reduce your bones to dust. That is only my great mercy and my expedient kindness. Leave at once and flee far; do not step onto my gate of cultivation." The man, leaning against the hall wall, said, "Master, I am no demon-child or wicked spirit, nor am I a monstrous deity." Tripitaka said, "If you are not of that sort, why do you come here in the dead of night?" The man said, "Master, look at me and see." The elder looked closely and fixed his sight. Ah! he saw:

He wore a crown that rose to pierce the sky, a belt of pale jade about his waist, and a robe of clay-yellow silk worked with leaping dragons and dancing phoenixes. On his feet were a pair of cloud-headed slippers, embroidered-mouthed, of the sorrowless pattern, and in his hand he held a white-jade tablet marked by the star of Leidouluo. His face resembled the Changsheng Emperor of Mount Tai, and his form resembled Lord Wenchang, opened to enlighten.

When Tripitaka saw him, he was greatly startled and changed color; he bent quickly and called out in a stern loud voice, "What ruler are you? Please sit." He hurriedly reached out to assist, but only grasped empty space. Returning, he sat down again, and when he looked once more it was still the same man. The elder asked, "Your Majesty, what kingdom and what emperor are you? Your realm must be unsettled, slanderers and tyrants in the court, and you have fled for your life to this hour. What is it you wish to tell me?" The man, with tears at the corners of his face, spoke of old matters and sorrow knotted his brows. He said, "Master, my home is directly to the west. It is only about forty li away. Beyond lies a city, that is where Xingji (the city of foundation) was first raised." Tripitaka asked, "What is it called?" The man replied, "Since you ask, I shall not hide it: this was the realm I founded in my time, and I renamed it the Kingdom of Wuji." Tripitaka asked, "Why then are you so terrified, and for what reason have you come hither?" He said, "Master, five years ago, from one terrible year onward, drought gripped this place. Even grass did not grow; the people all starved to death. It was grievous beyond telling." At this Tripitaka nodded and said with a slight smile, "Your Majesty, anciently it was said, 'When the ruler is upright, heaven and earth are in accord.' If you did not show compassion to your people and thus suffered the calamity of barrenness, then why did you leave the city walls? Open the granaries. Relieve the common people. Repent of your past failures. Restore righteousness and revive good governance. Release those who have been wronged by unlawful judgment. Then heaven and earth will be at peace, rain and wind will be in harmony." The man said, "In my state, the storehouses are empty, grain and money are exhausted. Civil and military officials have been suspended from stipend and salary, and even my own food is without meat. I imitated Yu the Great, and together with my people endured bitter hardship in shared suffering, bathing and fasting, day and night burning incense and praying. For three years this brought only dry rivers and empty wells. When we were truly at the brink, a True Practitioner arrived from Zhongnan Mountain, one who could call wind and summon rain, who could turn stones to gold. He first appeared before my civil and military ministers in turn, and then before me. I immediately invited him to mount the altar and pray. The response was immediate: at the crackling of his talisman, in an instant the rain came down in torrents. I had only hoped to have enough to wet three chi, but he said three years of drought could not be sufficiently moistened, and he sent down an extra two cun of rain. When I saw that this man of devotion thus did what was right, I bowed and made him my companion in eight courtly prostrations, calling him brother." Tripitaka said, "This is a thousandfold joy for Your Majesty." The man asked, "What joy can there be?" Tripitaka said, "If this True Practitioner truly has such powers, whenever rain is needed he can command rain, and whenever gold is needed he can turn stone into it. What else is lacking that drove you from your capital?" The man replied, "I dined and dwelt in that companionship with him for only two years. Again came a spring day when wild apricots and red plums were in bloom. Across households, gentry and commoners alike went out to view flowers, and everywhere ladies and gentlemen went to frolic in spring. At that time the civil and military officials returned to their offices, and the consorts withdrew to their inner courts. I walked hand in hand with that True Practitioner through the imperial garden. All of a sudden we came to the edge of the octagonal glass-and-glaze well. I do not know what object he tossed there, for in the well there flashed forth ten thousand shafts of gold light. He lured me to the well to see some treasure, then his heart turned violent in an instant. With a sudden thud he shoved me into the well, covered the mouth with a stone slab, heaped soil atop it, and moved a banana plant over the top. Alas! I have been dead for three years now, a wronged ghost who perished by falling into a well."

On hearing him declare himself a ghost, Tripitaka was so frightened that his muscles melted and his hair stood in terror. Helpless, he pressed on with questions: "Your Majesty, what you have said makes no sense at all. If you died three years ago, where are all the civil and military officers, and the three royal chambers, the empresses and court ladies? When the three palaces saw his body and came to worship the throne, why did they not search for you?" The man said, "Master, with all the powers he possesses, his skill is truly rare in this world. From the moment he harmed me, he changed his form in the garden and took my appearance, without the slightest difference. He has now occupied my entire realm and has secretly seized my kingdom. He has taken my civil and military officials, four hundred court ministers, and all my three palace empresses and six inner consorts." Tripitaka said, "Your Majesty, you are exceedingly timid." The man asked, "Timid?" Tripitaka replied, "Your Majesty, that fiend does have some divine arts and has taken your form to occupy your state. The ministers cannot recognize the deceit, and the concubines cannot tell the difference. Only you know clearly you are dead. Why do you not go to Yanwang in the Court of the Netherworld and lodge your complaint, laying forth your grievance?" The man said, "His arts are wide and great. The officials are intimate with him: the City-god of the capital forever drinks wine with him; the Sea Dragon Kings are all in his closeness; Lord Chiyuan of Dongyue is his good friend; the tenth generation King Yama is his foster brother. So in this matter, there is no avenue for my appeal."

Tripitaka said, "Your Majesty, since you have no power in the netherworld to accuse him, why have you come into my mortal world?" The man said, "Master, how could a ghost such as I dare to come to your gate? At this mountain gate stand the Dharma-protecting heavenly hosts, the Six Ding and Six Jia, the Jiedi of the Five Directions, the Four Duty Censors, and eighteen guardians of the teaching and the monasteries, all attending close with steeds and tack. Just now, one Breath-and-Walk-of-the-Night Spirit, by a single divine gust, brought me here. He told me that after three years of water calamity, your coming had ripened my plight, and so I should come to pay my respects to you. He said your foremost disciple is the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, foremost at beheading demons and subduing monsters. I have come here in earnest reverence, begging a thousand times that you send men into my kingdom to seize the demon and set right what is wrong. If I can in return return in full and offer recompense, I shall coil grass in my hair and carry a ring of humility in my arms to repay your grace." Tripitaka said, "Your Majesty, did you come to ask that my disciple go and remove that demon?" The man said, "Yes, exactly." Tripitaka said, "My disciples do not do every task well, but to quell monsters and capture demons is exactly what suits them. Yet, although you ask him to seize this monster, I fear that justice in law will be hard to carry through." The man said, "In what way is it hard?" Tripitaka said, "That monster has great and far-reaching powers; he can transform into your form exactly. Every civil and military minister speaks in accord and consents in their hearts; each concubine of the three palaces has sentiments in harmony and affection in accord. Even if my disciples have methods, they dare not lightly draw weapons. If they are seized by many officials and charged with violating a realm and destroying a kingdom, and if they are imprisoned as conspirators in a charge of treason on a grand scale, would that not be like bringing a tiger to paint and a crane to carve?" The man said, "There are still people in my court."

Tripitaka said, “Ah, ah—indeed. It must have been a crown prince of that generation, sent to garrison somewhere, is it not?” The man said, “Not so. In my own palace I have a crown prince, my own son, my rightful heir by birth.” Tripitaka said, “Then that heir must have been cast down by demons?” The man said, “No. He stays in the Hall of the Golden Luan, in the Five-Phenix Pavilion. At one time he debates books with scholars; at another he takes audience with the true practitioners. For three years he has been forbidden from entering the imperial city and is not allowed to meet the Empress Mother.” Tripitaka said, “Why is that?” The man said, “That is one device of the demons. They fear a mother and son meeting and speaking in idle conversation, whereupon some rumour might slip out. So he may never meet either. Then, they think, the prince will remain safe for all time.” Tripitaka said, “Your misfortune, as Heaven gave me mine, may indeed be akin. My father was once grievously wounded by a bandit on the water. My mother was taken by those water-bandits and after three months bore me. I fled and saved my life in the river, and by grace of the Golden Mountain Temple’s abbot was nurtured and made a man. In my youth I had neither father nor mother; this crown prince too has lost both parents. Truly, he is pitiable.”

Tripitaka asked, “Even if I have a crown prince in audience, how can I see him?” The man said, “How can you not see him?” Tripitaka said, “He is held in the grip of demons; even his birth mother cannot see him. I am only a monk—by what right could I seek him?” The man said, “Tomorrow at dawn he comes out.” Tripitaka asked, “For what purpose does he go out?” The man said, “On the morning audience, he will lead three thousand horse and men with hawks and hounds, leave the city, and hunt. Then you can certainly meet him. When he comes, tell him my words; he will believe.” Tripitaka said, “He is a flesh-and-blood prince, deceived by demons and kept in the hall. How would he ever call out his father-king as ‘Father’ and trust my words?” The man said, “If he still will not believe, I will leave him a token with you.” Tripitaka asked, “What token?” The man put down the golden-cased white jade gei he held and said, “This can be such a token.” Tripitaka said, “What is it?” The man said, “That true-follower who turned into my likeness earlier only lacked this treasure. He told the court at the palace that the reclusive Taoist who begged for rain had stolen this gei. From then on, for three years, this item has been missing. If the crown prince sees it, he will remember the person at once, and this old grudge must be avenged.” Tripitaka said, “Very well. Let me remain; have your disciples arrange things. Shall I wait here?” The man said, “I dare not wait. I will go and beg the Night-Walking God for one blast of divine wind, and have me sent into the inner court of the palace. In a dream I will tell my principal queen to reconcile mother and son, and ask that you and your disciples remain of one mind.” Tripitaka nodded in agreement: “Then go.”

The wronged spirit knelt and thanked him with a farewell, then walked ahead to see him out. Somehow he kicked and stumbled, clattering down with a jindou strike, and Tripitaka woke in alarm: it was all a dream. Startled, he looked at the dim lamp and cried out, “Disciples, disciples!” Zhu Bajie woke and said, “What is this ‘earth-god, earth-god’? When I was a decent man before, I only ate flesh and lived from day to day, enjoying strong fishy-smelling food. Yet you took the robe, set us to guard you, and now we are your servants: in daytime carrying packs and leading horses, at night lifting urine jars and attending your feet! You do not sleep morning or night, and still you call for your disciples—why?” Tripitaka said, “Disciples, I had just dozed against the table and had a strange dream.” Sun Wukong sprang up and said, “Master, dreams rise from one’s own thoughts. You have never yet climbed the mountain and already fear all manner of demons; you worry the road to the Western Capital of the Buddha is too distant to reach; you miss Chang’an and do not know when we may return. So your mind is crowded with longing, and so are your dreams. For this old Wukong, my heart is sincere only one matter: to see Buddha in the West. Not one dream touches me.” Tripitaka said, “Disciples, this dream was no homesick dream. When I had just closed my eyes, I saw a fierce wind pass by. Outside the meditation hall’s door stood a king as if newly crowned, saying he was the King of Wuji. His whole body was soaked with water, and his eyes were full of tears.” To this and so on, he recounted every part of the dream to Sun Wukong. Sun Wukong laughed and said, “No need to repeat it. He comes to entrust you in a dream; it is plainly a fiend in that place seizing the throne and plotting the realm. I shall go and test his truth. Such a demon-imp can set up his power anywhere and soon prosper at it.” Tripitaka said, “Disciples, he says this demon has tremendous powers.” Sun Wukong said, “Why should we fear its extent? Once Wukong arrives, he will have nowhere to run.” Tripitaka said, “I also remember I left behind a treasured token.” Zhu Bajie said, “Master, do not vex yourself; it was only a dream, and then why take it as true?” Sha Wujing said, “‘Do not believe only what seems upright; you must guard against what is not truly benevolent.’ Light the fire, open the gate, and let us see what it is.”

As Sun Wukong had said, he opened the gate, and together they looked. In the moonlit starlight they truly saw on the stair-terrace a golden-cased white jade gei. Zhu Bajie came close, lifted it up and said, “Brother, what is this object?” Sun Wukong said, “This is the treasure held in the king’s own hand, called a white-jade gei. Master, since this has appeared, the matter is real. Tomorrow, seizing the demon is all on Wukong’s body. But you have three fated burdens.” Zhu Bajie said, “Well, well, well. It was just a dream, and yet he told him. Those people there are not the sort to toy with others. He only says you have these three lowly fates, yes?” Tripitaka went back in and asked, “What three?” Sun Wukong said, “Tomorrow you must shoulder the vat, endure abuse, and meet the plague.” Zhu Bajie laughed, “One matter is hard enough—how can three be borne?” Tripitaka, a clever elder, asked, “My disciples, how is each explained?” Sun Wukong said, “No need for words. Let me first give you two things.”

“Good Sage,” he said, then pulled out one fine hair, exhaled a strip of immortal breath, and called, “Transform!” He became a red-gilt lacquer casket, placing the white-jade gei within it, and said, “Master, hold this object in your hands. At daybreak, put on the brocade kasaya and sit in the main hall reciting sutra. While I inspect his city. If it truly is a demon, kill him and win our merit here. If not, then do not court misfortune.” Tripitaka said, “Rightly said.” Sun Wukong said, “If the crown prince stays inside the city, all right. If, as the dream foretold, he comes out, I will surely bring him to meet you.” Tripitaka said, “If I meet him, how should I receive him?” Sun Wukong said, “When he comes, I will report first. Open the casket lid a little and let me become a two-inch monk inside it, and you hold me in your hand. When that prince enters this temple, he will surely bow to Buddha. Let him bow as much as he wishes and do not stir. Seeing you unmoving, he will certainly order you seized. Whether he beats you, binds you, or kills you, let him do so.” Tripitaka said, “Ah! His command is over the army. If he truly kills me, what then?” Sun Wukong said, “Do not fret. I am here. If it comes to that tight pass, I will naturally defend you. If he asks, tell him: I am an ordained monk from the Eastern Lands, sent by imperial decree to go west to worship Buddha and fetch the scriptures. He will ask, ‘What treasures have you?’ Then you say it once to him as you show the brocade kasaya: ‘This is a third-rank treasure; there are also first and second-rank fine things besides it.’ Then tell him this: inside this casket is one treasure that knows five hundred years of the past, five hundred of the present, and five hundred of the future; whatever happens in the past and coming past and future for fifteen hundred years, all is fully known. At that time release Wukong. I will convey the words from the dream to that prince. If he believes, he will take that demon, avenge his father-king, and secure our name and integrity. If he does not, show him the white-jade gei. He is still young and may not yet recognize it.” Tripitaka listened and was overjoyed: “Disciple, this plan is wonderful. I hear one treasure called the brocaded kasaya, another called the white-jade gei. What is the name of the treasure you have transformed into?” Sun Wukong said, “Call it Li Di Ho.” Tripitaka remembered it as told. The master and disciples did not sleep at all that night; they waited for dawn, eager to nod the world awake, to call forth the sun of Fusang, and blow away all the stars in the sky.

Soon the east had turned pale. Sun Wukong again instructed Zhu Bajie and Sha Wujing: “Do not disturb the monks or come out roaming about. When I have succeeded, then you two go with me.” After seeing them off, he whistled, gave a jindou shout, and leapt into the air. Through his blazing eyes he looked westward and indeed saw a city. How one can see it from there? He told them this city was only forty li from the temple, and therefore was visible from that height. Sun Wukong came nearer and examined it closely. He saw then a sinister mist, dim clouds of sorrow, and demon winds with angry vapour swirling. Looking in the sky he praised:

If a true king ascends the jeweled throne, auspicious five-coloured clouds arise. Only because a demon has invaded the dragon seat; black vapour roars and seals the Golden Gate.

The Great Sage was still sighing when he suddenly heard cannon shots ring out. At once he saw, at the opening of the eastern gate, a stream of riders pour forth. Truly it was a hunting army, and indeed they had mighty force. One could see:

At dawn they came out east of the Forbidden City, spreading through the shallow grass. Colorful banners unfurled, reflecting the sun; white horses dashed, caught by the wind. Tortoise drums boomed in great pounding, spears flashed and clashed in opposing rushes. Eagle troops charged fiercely, and hounds were led by men of ferocity. Cannon fire shook the sky in one long roll, with burning staves glowing red in the light. Every man shouldered a crossbow, every one carried a carved bow. Nets were spread down the mountain slope, corded narrow paths laid out. One thunderclap of alarm—then a thousand riders charged like giant bears. The trickster rabbit could not save his body; the clever stag-roe’s wit was exhausted. The fox met its destined end, the moose was undone in the midst. A mountain pheasant can scarcely fly away; how could a jungle fowl escape the danger? All of them picked hunting grounds across the hills, seizing wild beasts, ruining trees, and shooting at things that flew.

Those men came out of the city and strolled along the eastern outskirts. After not long, at roughly twenty li on high farmland, they reached the center camp, where they saw a small but unmistakable general: helmeted, armored, belly-bound, eighteen folds, wielding a treasured blue-edged sword, seated on a chestnut horse, with a full bow at his belt. Truly he was:

He faintly bore the air of a king, and his face was like that of an imperial lord. His bearing was no small frame; in his movements he truly showed the nature of a dragon.

The Great Sage, happy in secret, said, “There’s no need to ask further—that is the emperor’s own crown prince. I’ll put him through a little trick.” The Great Sage touched down from the cloud-head and dashed into the troop before the prince’s horse, then shifted in a blink into a white hare and ran in circles ahead of the prince’s horse. The prince saw him and was exactly delighted; he drew an arrow, pulled the bow full, and loosed. The arrow struck the hare.

It was indeed the Great Sage’s intention to make him hit. Yet with a quick eye and swift hand he caught the arrowhead, dropped the feathered vane in front, cast it off, and fled with his feet. Seeing that the arrow had struck the jade rabbit, the prince urged on his horse and alone came racing to catch up first. He did not know how: when the horse ran fast, the Great Sage moved like the wind; when the horse moved slowly, the Great Sage walked gently—as if only a short distance ahead the whole time. Watching for a while, he guided the prince along one stretch, one more li, to the gate beneath the mountain temple. The Great Sage showed his true form there. The hare was gone; only an arrow stood in the threshold. He charged straight in, saw Tang Sanzang and said, “Master, he has come, he has come.” Then he changed again, becoming a monk-child no more than two inches tall, and slipped inside the red casket.

The prince, having rushed to the mountain gate, found no jade rabbit; only an arrow with a carved feather head was thrust into the threshold. The prince was greatly startled and pale, saying, “Wondrous! Wondrous! My arrow surely hit the jade rabbit; how does the rabbit disappear when only the arrow remains here? I suppose in the passing of many years it has become a spirit-beast.” He pulled out the arrow, looked up and saw five large characters above the gate: “Imperially Built Bao Lin Monastery.” The prince said, “I see it now. In past years I remember my father king in Jinluan Hall sending officers bearing gold and silk to this monk to repair the Buddha hall and images; never did I imagine I would come here today. Indeed, as the saying goes: passing through the monastery and meeting a monk brings, in this floating life, even half a day’s ease. I shall go in and stroll about.”

The prince leapt from his horse and was about to enter when the escort official and three thousand men and horses caught up with him, crowding in close. The monks of that monastery, in confusion, all came to bow and receive him, leading him into the central hall to pay obeisance before the Buddha image. As he looked about and then meant to wander the corridors, he suddenly saw a monk seated in the center. The prince grew angry: “This monk is without propriety! Now that I, the crown prince, have come early this morning to the mountain, though there has been no summons, he need not avoid me. With my cavalry at the gate he ought to rise in respect. Why does he still sit still?” He barked, “Take him down!” At the single word “take,” both flank captains moved at once, pulled Tang Sanzang down and quickly tied him with rope. The Great Sage, silent in the casket, muttered a charm: “Guarding heavens and guardian deities, Six Ding and Six Jia—today I set out to subdue a demon. This prince does not know it; if he tries to bind my Master with rope, you all must protect him at once. If you truly bind him, all of you will be guilty.” In secret the Great Sage gave instructions; none dared disobey. He set his protection over the Master, and those men could not even touch his bald head—like a wall between them, they could not seize his body.

The prince asked, “Where are you from, and what kind of hidden-invisibility art is this to deceive me?” Tripitaka stepped forward and bowed: “I, your poor monk, possess no art of vanishing. I am Tripitaka, a monk of Tang, one from the Temple of Great Thunder Sound, journeying to worship Buddha and fetch scriptures.” The prince said, “Though your eastern land is in the Central Plains, its poverty is boundless—what treasures do you speak of?” Tripitaka said, “The cassock I wear is the third of the treasures. There are first-rate and second-rate ones even finer.” The prince said, “Your garment covers half your body and leaves half your arm bare; how much is it worth that you dare call it a treasure?” Tripitaka replied, “Though this cassock is not whole, it carries a few verses:

A Buddha-robe worn askew need not be argued over; within it hides true suchness and sheds worldly dust. A myriad threads and thousand stitches bring true attainment; nine jewels and eight treasures gather the primal spirit. Crafted in reverence by celestial maidens and sacred girls, it is bestowed on Chan monks to keep the body unstained. To fail to meet your horse is still bearable in itself; yet your father’s wrong left unredressed makes life itself futile.

Hearing him, the prince burned with anger: “This ragged monk speaks nonsense! With only your tongue, you boast and brag over this half-robe, calling yourself able to trumpet wonders. Why has my father’s grievance not been repaid? Speak and tell me.” Tripitaka stepped forward and asked with joined palms: “Your Highness, for one born between heaven and earth, how many blessings are there?” The prince: “There are four.” Tripitaka: “What four?” The prince: “The favor of Heaven and Earth that bear me, the favor of the sun and moon that give light, the favor of the king’s water and soil, and the favor of my parents who raised and nurtured me.” Tripitaka laughed: “Your Highness has erred in words. A person has Heaven and Earth for cover, sun and moon for light, and the king’s water and soil. Where then is this favor of parents’ nurture?” The prince snapped back: “You monk are a vagabond living on alms, a shaven fool rebelling against one’s lord! A man cannot live without parents’ nurture—where did he come from?” Tripitaka: “Your Highness, your poor monk does not know. But inside this red casket is one treasure called Lidi Huo. It knows five hundred years above, five hundred in the middle, five hundred below—altogether one thousand five hundred years of past and future affairs. Thus it knows that there was no favor of being parented, and poor monk has waited here all this time.”

Hearing this, the prince said, “Bring it and let me see.” Tripitaka pulled open the casket lid, and the Great Sage sprang out with a sharp cry, scurrying and weaving to both sides. The prince said, “This tiny little man—what can he possibly know?” At this, the Great Sage, though slight in form, used his powers, stretching his waist until it became three chi four or five inches. The guardsmen, startled, said, “If he grows this quickly, in only a few days he will split the sky.” The Great Sage returned to his full height. The prince asked, “Lidi Huo—this old monk says you know prosperity and disaster in past and future. Do you use turtle-shell for divination? yarrow stalks for cleromancy? Can written passages alone decide a man’s fortune and misfortune?” The Great Sage said, “I do not use even a hair of it. It is all by one three-inch tongue; thus all things are known.” The prince said, “This knave again lies. Since ancient times, the Book of Changes is most mysterious and can see through all fortunes beneath heaven, letting people know what to pursue and what to avoid; therefore turtles are used to divine, yarrow for fortune-staff casting. On what principle do you speak thus, spreading lies of fortune and disaster and bewildering people’s hearts?”

The Great Sage said, “Your Highness, do not be hasty; let me tell you and you shall hear. You are the crown prince of the King of Wu-ji. Five years ago there was severe drought; in a season of endless suffering, all the people endured hardship, and your father king and his ministers prayed with one heart. When there was still no rain at all, a Daoist from Zhongnan Mountain came. He excelled at calling wind and summoning rain, and at turning stone into gold. My father king favored him so deeply he made him a brother. Is not this so?” The prince said, “It is so, yes—yes. Tell me more.” The Great Sage continued: “For the following three years the Daoist Quanzhen has not been seen. Who is the one you now say is missing?” The prince answered, “Indeed there was such a Quanzhen. My father king and he became brothers, ate from one table, slept under one roof. Three years ago, while roaming in the imperial garden, with a divine gust of wind he seized my father’s white-jade and gilded-sheathed bi, carried it back to Zhongnan Mountain. To this day my father still yearns for him. Not seeing him, he has no heart for pleasure now, and he has kept the garden tightly closed for three years. Who else but my father is the one to be emperor?”

When Wukong heard the words, he laughed aloud without end. The prince asked again, and still he answered with nothing but that derisive laugh. The prince, angry, said, "You speak at length before and yet say nothing now—why laugh so much like this?" Wukong replied, "There is still much to tell, but with all these guards around, this is no place to speak." Seeing that the monk’s words had their reason, the prince extended his robe sleeve and ordered the officers to withdraw for a while. The commander of the mounted guard hurriedly passed the order on, and had the three thousand soldiers and horsemen step out to camp outside the gate. At this moment the hall was empty. The prince sat upon the throne, Tripitaka stood before him, and Wukong stood at his left. All the monks from the monastery withdrew. Wukong then stepped forward with a grave face and said, "Your Highness, the one who sent the wind was your own birth father. The one on the seat is that Quanzhen figure who prayed for rain." The prince said, "Nonsense, nonsense. Since my father left Quanzhen, wind and rain have been timely and the realm has flourished in peace. By your logic he would not be my king at all. I have tolerated you because I am still young; but if my father hears such treasonous words, he will have you torn to pieces." He shouted him down. Wukong said to Tripitaka, "How was it? I said he would not believe me. He did not. Now give him that treasure and exchange the pass document, and let us be off to the Western Regions." Tripitaka handed the vermilion casket to Wukong. Wukong took it, gave a slight shake, and the casket was gone at once. It had been made from one of his hairs and he had reabsorbed it into himself. Then he lifted the White-Jade Tablet in both hands and presented it to the prince.

The prince looked and said, "Good monk, good monk. Five years ago you were a Quanzhen priest and swindled away my family treasure; now you dress up as a monk and come again to present it." He shouted, "Take him!" The order went out, and Tripitaka, startled, pointed at Wukong and cried, "You, Bimawen, are always running into empty calamities and bringing trouble upon me." Wukong stepped up and blocked the way, saying, "No shouting—do not stir up the wind! I am no Li-di-huo; I still have a true name." The prince, enraged, said, "Come here. I will ask your true name and then have you delivered to legal authority for judgment!" Wukong said, "I am the Great Master’s chief disciple, named Sun Wukong. I followed my teacher to the Western Heaven to fetch scriptures, and came here last night to seek lodging. My Master read scriptures through the deep of night, and near the third watch he dreamed. He saw your father in a dream, saying that that Quanzhen had deceived and harmed him, pushing him into the octagonal glazed-jade well in the imperial flower garden, and that Quanzhen had taken his appearance. None of the ministers of the full court knew of it. You were young and could not understand; you were forbidden to enter the palace and the garden was shut up, all for fear the matter should leak out. Your father came tonight especially to summon me to subdue a demon. I doubted whether he was truly evil, so I watched from the air, and indeed he was a demon. As I was about to seize him, you unexpectedly rode out to hunt. The jade hare in your arrow was Old Sun. Old Sun led you here to the monastery, met my Master, and told him all this in his heart; every word was true. Since you have recognized the White-Jade Tablet, how can you not remember your debt and kindness and avenge your parent’s wrong?"

When the prince heard this, he was moved to pity and hurt within himself and thought in sorrow, "If he does not tell the truth, there is at least some truth in what he says. If he is telling the truth, how can I see my father on the throne before me?" Caught between what to do and what to think, his mind wavered, and he wrestled with himself with both mouth and heart. Seeing his uncertainty, Wukong stepped forward again and said, "Your Highness need not doubt any longer. Return to your capital at once and ask your queen mother; ask how deep the love between husband and wife remains compared with three years ago. From this one question, the truth will be known."

The prince straightened himself and thought, "So it is. Let me at once ask my mother and return." He leapt to his feet and grasped the White-Jade Tablet and set off. Wukong caught his sleeve and said, "Send all these men and horses back; if word leaks out, my task will fail. When you enter the city, go alone with only your horse, and do not show yourself or make a display. Do not enter by Zhengyang Gate; go in by the rear gate of Zai. When you meet your mother in the palace, do not raise your voice at all; speak in low whispers. That monster’s powers are vast. If she hears of this for even a moment, both mother and son will not keep their lives." The prince carefully obeyed all instruction. As he reached the mountain gate he told his commander, "Hold this camp as it is; do not move. I have one errand and will return with her, then we will enter the city together." He looked at him:

Give the command, line up the troops, and mount—ride as if on wings as we turn back toward the city.

With him gone on this errand, what words he might bring from the queen mother cannot yet be known. We shall hear them in the next section.