Mythology

Chapter 430 The Golden Cicada from Hell
The further west you go, the more boundless the grasslands become.

Although it was still within the territory of the Grand Commander, it was sparsely populated and no government offices were established there, so people from the Central Plains rarely came and went.

A cold wind swept across the vast sea of ​​grass, and the withered yellow grass stalks undulated like waves, stretching all the way to the snow-capped mountain that never melts on the horizon.

The snow-capped peaks gleamed with a cold, eerie blue light, piercing the clouds like inverted swords.

In contrast to the snow-capped mountains, there is a low house on the grassland, built of stone, with a roof covered with yak wool felt, standing alone.

"Pujong!!"

A long, drawn-out call came, and Puqiong also has the meaning of a child.

The rumbling of horses' hooves grew louder as they approached. Dozens of horses were being driven by a middle-aged man wrapped in a tattered sheepskin coat, gradually arriving at a lush, grassy depression.

"Pujong!!"

The man, his hands covered in chilblains, curled up like trumpets as he called out towards the stone house, "Come out and drink some mare's milk! Your father just milked the mare for you!"

He spoke in a loud tone, but his expression remained a stiff smile at all times.

The old wooden door creaked open.

A boy in his early teens emerged, his back hunched, his thin neck barely able to support his head, and he had to lean on the doorframe to catch his breath after taking just a few steps.

The strangest thing was the slight wriggling of the spine, as if something was inside the body.

"Father, cough cough cough, letting the horses graze is more important, I'm not hungry."

“Tsering, stop fooling around, I’ll boil it for you right away.”

The boy was momentarily confused; Tsering was the name his mother gave him.

It also symbolizes longevity.

The middle-aged man took out a water bag containing mare's milk and poured it into an iron pot inside the house. Then he carefully helped the frail Tsering.

The two faced east, and a towering tree could be vaguely seen hanging in mid-air amidst the clouds.

"May the grassland be blessed by the Bipala, may my son be blessed by the Bipala."

The towering tree appeared suddenly four years ago, surrounded by a golden sea of ​​Buddha images. Tsering believes that this tree is the Bodhi tree under which Shakyamuni attained enlightenment, and he prays to it morning and night.

"Also, please bless my mother to come back to life soon."

A cold wind blew by, and Tsering's robe was lifted up by a corner.

The flesh on its back bulged and writhed with each breath, revealing the outline of a Buddha statue, which was quite horrifying.

It looked as if it would burst out of its body at any moment.

Tsering hurriedly covered his back, feeling the parasites inside his body constantly absorbing nutrients from his prolonged exposure to sunlight.

“Puqiong, your father’s cooking skills aren’t great. After we bring your mother back in a few days, whatever you want to eat, your mother can make it for you.”

"Thank you, Father."

Tsering watched the middle-aged man busily boiling milk, a smile appearing on his lips.

“Father has come back to life, and soon the family will be reunited.”

As he murmured, his gaze returned to the Buddha statue on his back.

Tsering recalled two years ago when a once-in-a-decade black sandstorm swept across the grasslands, causing him to lose his way amidst the swirling dust.

My parents ventured deep into the grasslands, only to be trapped and die there.

Tsering broke out in a cold sweat, his mind flashing back to the horrific images of his two loved ones' corpses, while he himself had miraculously escaped the black wind by hiding in a cave.

He thought he would never see his parents again.

However, he received a secret method from the Bodhisattva in his dream.

Tsering couldn't remember which Bodhisattva it was, but he still remembered everything the other person said in his dream. The secret recipe was called Cicada Molting, a reward bestowed upon him by the Pure Land for moving him.

"It takes 365 days for a cicada to molt, and there are only three days left."

What is 'cicada molting'? It is to imagine a dummy in one's mind, and then gradually improve the dummy through continuous imagination. The appearance and personality are all determined by the practitioner.

As the dummy becomes complete, it can be clearly seen and its odor can be smelled.

At first, only the user can come into contact with the dummy. Once the cicada molt is complete, the dummy will slowly develop its initial form inside the user's body.

Until the false becomes real, and the middle-aged man is the fake.

Tsering watched as his father stirred the mare's milk in the pot, the murky liquid boiling and filling the air with a rich milky aroma.

For some reason, he felt that his father was somewhat unfamiliar.

“Pujong, drink it while it’s still hot after it cools down a bit. Your father is going to the grasslands in the south tomorrow and may not be able to take care of you.”

"It's alright, Dad."

Tsering responded with a smile, then couldn't help coughing.

The Buddha statue protrudes as if trying to break free from the constraints of the skin.

"No...no, is Mother going to wake up early?"

The middle-aged man was oblivious to everyone around him, paying no attention to the unusual sight of the cicada's molting, even as Tsering collapsed to the ground in excruciating pain.

Tsering struggled to climb out of the low house; his immediate priority was to complete the final step of his spiritual practice, the molting of the cicada.

He felt a vague unease. Logically, the cicada molting process should take a year, and prematurely turning a false molt into a real one could lead to uncontrollable accidents.

"No, the Bodhisattva will protect our family."

Tsering knelt before the sacred tree in the clouds that radiated golden light.

He was curled up, but his back was strangely arched upwards, as if something inside him was struggling to break free.

With a little imagination, the imagery of a cicada shedding its skin and achieving perfection is amplified.

Click.

After a slight cracking sound, his skin opened up.

Tsering endured the pain while reciting the scriptures, closing his eyes and daring not to look directly at the dummy. According to the records of cicada molting, the dummy would have a period of adaptation when it first came to the world, so as to avoid endless troubles later.

The wound on his back was slowly healing, but he was now just skin and bones.

The figure stretched out its limbs, and heavy breathing could be heard. "Mother..."

Tsering called out to his mother, trembling, but received no response.

Only then did he realize that something was wrong; the dummy was too quiet, whereas his father had been muttering incoherently for a long time after coming back to life.

Tsering silently counted for a quarter of an hour, which helped him regain some strength.

"Mom and Dad!!"

He opened his eyes, trying to see the mannequin's appearance clearly, but in that instant, the mannequin had already looked away and walked into the low house.

"No...impossible!"

Tsering was not mistaken; the dummy was slender and upright, clearly a man.

One of the taboos of the cicada's molting is the deviation of consciousness. If the mind is unstable during cultivation, the dummy may deviate from the original imagination and even become a completely different thing.

"How could something go wrong, Father? Are you alright?"

Tsering frantically tried to get up, but blood seeped from his face.

The curtain was lifted from the inside out, and a mannequin stood at the door. The middle-aged man had disappeared, leaving only the clothes he had been wearing.

"Who are you!!"

Tsering's chest heaved violently as he watched the dummy walk out.

The dummy looked to be in his early twenties and was extremely handsome, but his skin was a pale, chalky white, like lime.

The white monk's smile was awkward, and then he raised his right arm and pointed at Tsering.

Tsering was at a loss. In the nearly one year he had imagined, he had never seen a monk who looked like him, let alone know whether the other person was a human or a ghost.

puff.

He spat out a mouthful of blood, which splattered on the ground like budding flower petals, and his face quickly turned ashen.

His already thin body shrank at a visible rate, as if all his vital energy was being drained away, the source of which was naturally the white monk.

"Amitabha Buddha, excellent, excellent! If I don't go to hell, who will?"

As Tsering grew weaker, the white monk became more solid, a hint of relief appearing on his face. He stood on the grassland, gazing at the sacred tree.

Tsering was trembling all over; he was on the verge of death.

Before long, I will be able to go to the Pure Land to be with my parents.

In a daze, he heard the white monk mutter to himself, "After years of planning, he has barely managed to descend to the mortal realm. He should be able to hold out for a while."

The sound was like a cold spring flowing over ice, clear and ethereal.

Tsering collapsed to the ground, his yang energy mostly extinguished.

He struggled to raise his hand, trying to grasp something, but could only let it fall limply. His vision began to blur, but in his remaining clarity, he heard the white monk chuckle softly.

"Tsk tsk tsk, I never thought there really was an ancient immortal who was reborn in the mortal world."

"The ancient immortals during the Investiture of the Gods were unscrupulous, daring to cultivate branches of the Heavenly Dao Tree and plant them within their own bodies and souls."

“No threat, but…”

The white monk's voice gradually grew old, like a burning candle, while Tsering's life force was like the oil in the lamp, which couldn't last much longer.

"Who exactly is this ancient immortal, and why is his foundation so strong?"

He was full of praise. The spiritual roots recorded in the classics could grow to nearly twenty meters. Only the Great Luo Golden Immortal could simultaneously manage a Dao field of eight or nine thousand feet, which showed that the foundation was already that of a saint.

The white monk opened his palm and grasped a few grains of pollen that had drifted away from the spiritual root.

"He bestowed upon a mortal immortal body on behalf of the Heavenly Dao, does he really think he is a saint?"

"There should be enough time; we can go and meet the ancient immortals."

"It is estimated that the ancient immortal's body and soul are no longer able to move, and may even have become nutrients for the Heavenly Dao Tree. Cultivation methods that do not conform to the Heavenly Dao will always have a price to pay, unlike us who are born holy."

The white monk took a step, and the moment his right foot touched the ground...

"who are you?"

The question came from Tsering, but his voice sounded completely unfamiliar.

A hint of surprise flashed in the white monk's eyes. He turned his head 180 degrees and noticed that the boy's physical body already possessed the characteristics of an immortal body, with a wisp of yin energy mixed with consciousness attached to his Niwan Palace.

"Ancient Immortal?"

Yang He did not respond, and a large amount of yin energy gushed from Ciren's mouth and nose.

Yin energy condenses to form the five senses.

Ghost True Lord can possess any mortal with a ghost body. His true body is still in the Myriad Transformations Heavenly Dao Field. It was only through the roots of the Heavenly Dao Tree that which are spread throughout the Great Commander's territory that he vaguely sensed the abnormality.

The white monk, unfazed, said calmly, "Just call me Jin Chanzi."

"Golden Cicada?"

Yang He's heart skipped a beat. Jin Chanzi was Tang Sanzang's Buddhist name in his previous life, but the strange man in front of him could not possibly be Tang Sanzang.

The white monk said calmly, "After I began my cultivation, I took the name Jin Chanzi. I can only change my Dharma name when I have achieved perfect merit. Hehe, there's no point in telling you too much."

“Ancient Immortal, if you had participated in the Investiture of the Gods, you wouldn’t have ended up like this. You probably don’t even know who Jin Chanzi is.”

Yang He glanced at Ciren, whose breath was almost gone, and said, "That's it."

The voice just fell.

The yin energy suddenly dispersed, and a giant eye ten meters in size opened in the center.

For the first time, the white monk lost his composure. An indescribable sense of oppression made him shudder. This immortal's Heavenly Dao Tree was still as easy to control as his own arm.

"you……"

With a snap of its giant eye, the white monk vanished into nothingness in an instant, hearing this just before his consciousness was extinguished.

"No matter where you come from, I will be waiting for you in the mortal realm."

(End of this chapter)