*CRACK!*

Sun Wukong's staff collided with Number 7's barrier.

The impact didn't just create sound.

It rewrote local physics through sheer concentrated violence, shockwaves rippling outward in visible distortions that made dimensional fabric scream complaints about structural integrity violations.

Reality flinched.

Actually recoiled like it had touched something hot, space itself developing temporary cracks that bled golden light before hastily sealing with the kind of urgency that suggested the universe really didn't want to find out what happened if those breaks became permanent.

The Monkey King's grin stretched wider.

Impossibly wide, showing too many teeth in an expression that mixed battle-joy with the kind of confidence that came from knowing you'd won approximately three thousand fights before breakfast.

"Been a while since I fought someone wearing a mask!"

His voice boomed with infectious enthusiasm, tail lashing with excitement that made nearby volcanic rock develop stress fractures just from proximity.

"Let's see if you're worth the warm-up!"

He moved.

Not attacking in any conventional sense.

Just became a blur of golden fury that suggested he'd personally negotiated exemptions from standard physics, his staff creating afterimages that looked solid enough to be real until they dissipated into ambient light.

*CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!*

Each strike tested Number 7's defenses with calculations born from centuries of combat mastery, finding weak points in barrier construction that suggested he'd been analyzing the structure while simultaneously trash-talking and maintaining that manic grin.

Multitasking at a level that would make most brains file for stress leave.

Behind the Monkey King's assault, something fundamentally different filled the air.

*Om mani padme hum...*

Tang Sanzang's voice resonated with power that transcended simple volume.

Sanskrit syllables glowing mid-air like someone had weaponized calligraphy, each word forming patterns that pushed back corrupted miasma with the kind of authority usually reserved for cosmic forces telling reality to sit down and behave.

Golden light spread from the monk's position.

Not attacking. Not aggressive.

Just existing with such concentrated purity that darkness actively fled, corrupted energy hissing as it encountered barriers that felt less like walls and more like fundamental laws about what was and wasn't allowed near civilians.

The transformed victims stopped advancing.

Not through violence or force.

Simply froze as holy energy washed over their corrupted forms, buying precious seconds for survivors to scramble toward safety while Sanzang's chanting built protective zones that made the sanctuary actually feel sanctified again.

***

Number 1's hands rose in synchronized gestures.

Precise movements that made air itself scream protests about being forced into configurations it definitely didn't sign up for, and corrupted energy coalesced with disturbing efficiency.

*CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.*

Void-forged constructs materialized.

Dozens of them.

Skeletal warriors wreathed in black flames that burned cold instead of hot, each one radiating power that made B-tier threats look almost manageable by comparison.

They swarmed forward in coordinated assault patterns.

Professional. Disciplined.

Moving with tactical precision that suggested someone had spent significant time programming murder protocols into corrupted essence and gotten really good at it.

"HAH!"

Zhu Bajie's rake swept through the first wave.

The weapon moved with deceptive grace despite its size, holy metal burning through void constructs like they were made of particularly flammable tissue paper rather than concentrated dark energy.

Three dissolved instantly.

Five more collapsed with holes through vital points they didn't know they had.

And Bajie's booming laugh echoed across the battlefield with infectious confidence that made even terrified civilians feel hope rekindling against better judgment.

"These the legendary Grand Elders everyone's afraid of?"

His voice carried genuine amusement mixed with tactical assessment.

"Master, I've fought drunken bar brawls scarier than these masked cowards!"

He pivoted smoothly, rake intercepting attacks from three directions simultaneously while his footwork carried him through impossible angles that suggested physics were polite suggestions rather than actual rules.

Beside him, Sha Wujing moved with calculated precision.

His staff creating defensive barriers that redirected corrupted attacks back toward their sources, turning aggressive assault patterns into self-inflicted casualties through geometry that looked accidental but absolutely wasn't.

*CRACK!*

Number 7 materialized from Sha's blind spot.

Dark blade aimed at exposed spine with speed suggesting they'd been waiting specifically for this opening, calculating the exact moment when defensive coverage would be minimal.

Professional assassination technique.

Perfect execution.

Should have worked.

Sha sidestepped casually.

Like he'd known the attack was coming three seconds before it launched, body flowing around the strike with minimal wasted movement before his staff counter-attacked with enough force to send Number 7 skidding backward across volcanic rock.

The Grand Elder caught themselves.

Barely.

Boots carving trenches through stone as momentum bled off, and their posture carried new wariness that suggested tactical recalculation was happening very quickly behind that mask.

***

Sun Wukong's eyes blazed.

Not metaphorically.

Literally ignited with golden light that made looking directly at him uncomfortable, divine energy building with pressure that suggested something ridiculous was about to happen and physics should probably file complaints preemptively.

His grin widened impossibly further.

"Alright, you forced my hand!"

*CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.*

His body multiplied.

Not illusions. Not afterimages.

Perfect duplicates materializing with sounds like reality popping bubbles, each one identical down to that manic expression and wielding the same overwhelming power as the original.

Dozens of Sun Wukongs surrounded both Grand Elders.

Forming a circle that left exactly zero escape routes, golden fur bristling with barely contained violence while their staffs spun in synchronized patterns that made defensive planning look actively futile.

"Let's play a game!"

All the duplicates spoke simultaneously, creating harmonics that made volcanic rock tremble.

"Find the real one before he finds YOU!"

They attacked as one.

*CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!*

Golden staffs became a storm of devastating force, each duplicate striking from different angles with perfect coordination that suggested they shared tactical awareness despite being separate entities.

Number 1's void constructs tried intercepting.

Managed to destroy three clones in rapid succession, corrupted blades carving through golden forms with efficiency that would've been impressive against normal opponents.

Except the duplicates just reformed elsewhere.

Casually.

Like death was a minor inconvenience rather than actual setback, and each time they regenerated they landed devastating strikes that cracked the Grand Elders' defensive barriers with mathematical inevitability.

*CRACK!*

The true Sun Wukong appeared directly behind Number 7.

Not teleporting. Not moving fast.

Just suddenly existed where empty space had been a heartbeat ago, his staff aimed at the cultist's spine with enough concentrated divine energy to vaporize a small mountain.

His voice dropped an octave.

Losing the playful banter entirely, replaced by something colder that suggested the legendary trickster was done playing games.

"You picked the wrong sanctuary to defile, masked coward."

The golden energy built.

Compressed around his staff tip in patterns that made dimensional barriers develop sympathetic stress fractures, power condensing into a point small enough to thread needles but carrying enough destructive potential to reshape geography.

Number 7 froze.

Complete stillness that suggested their tactical assessment had reached a very simple conclusion about survival probability, and that number looked uncomfortably close to zero.

***

*CRACK!*

Number 1's hand moved in sharp gesture.

Not attacking. Not defending.

Just tearing reality open with emergency protocols that suggested they'd planned escape routes before engaging, corrupted energy bleeding through dimensional fabric as portals materialized with desperate urgency.

They grabbed Number 7.

Physically hauled their colleague toward the nearest rift while void constructs swarmed Sun Wukong's position in suicidal assault patterns designed to buy seconds rather than actually win.

The Monkey King's staff extended.

Golden metal stretching impossibly long across hundreds of meters, defying every structural engineering principle while moving fast enough to catch retreating cultists before portals sealed.

Should have worked.

Would have worked against most opponents.

But Number 1 sacrificed their remaining constructs.

Threw every void-forged warrior directly into the staff's path, corrupted essence detonating in sequence like disposable barriers that accomplished nothing except buying fractional seconds.

Enough.

Barely enough.

The Grand Elders slipped through closing portals, and Number 1's voice echoed with disturbing satisfaction that made victory taste like ash:

"The harvest is complete regardless, Monkey King... Enjoy your hollow victory."

*CRACK!*

The rifts sealed.

Space itself sighing with relief like it was glad to be rid of them, dimensional fabric hastily repairing while the Journey to the West team stood amid devastation that told a horrifying story even without enemy presence.

Sun Wukong's staff returned to normal size.

The golden duplicates dissolved like morning mist, and his expression shifted from battle-joy into something significantly grimmer as tactical assessment caught up with adrenaline.

Around them, the transformed civilians hadn't reverted.

Still grotesque mockeries of their former selves.

Still trapped between human consciousness and monstrous form in ways that made mercy killing look almost compassionate.

The corruption clung to sacred ground like spiritual poison that actively resisted purification.

And carved into volcanic rock, pulsing with accumulated dark energy...

Ritual circles.

Dozens of them.

Glowing with stolen essence that suggested something worse than simple combat had been accomplished while everyone focused on winning the fight.

"Dammit."

Sun Wukong's tail lashed with agitation that cracked nearby stone.

***

Tang Sanzang moved among survivors.

His healing prayers purified some corruption, golden light burning away infection wherever holy energy touched suffering flesh.

But even his legendary power couldn't reverse transformations completely.

The affected civilians remained changed.

Trapped in forms that shouldn't exist, human minds screaming behind monstrous features while their bodies refused to remember original configurations.

One victim reached toward the monk.

Clawed hand extending with desperate hope, and their voice emerged distorted but comprehensible through malformed vocal cords:

"Please... make it stop..."

Sanzang's expression cracked.

Just for a moment, centuries of compassionate detachment fragmenting under the weight of suffering he couldn't fully heal despite possessing power that had toppled demon kings and purified corrupted realms.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and the words tasted like failure. "The transformation runs deeper than body alone. Your souls have been... altered."

The victim collapsed.

Not from injury or exhaustion.

Just gave up, hope dying in their eyes as they processed that rescue didn't mean salvation, that being saved didn't automatically mean being fixed.

Across the sanctuary, similar scenes repeated.

Survivors processing that victory came with asterisks and footnotes that made celebrating feel obscene, that driving off enemies didn't undo what had been stolen.

Zhu Bajie stared at the ritual circles.

His usual jovial demeanor completely absent, replaced by grim understanding that made him look significantly older than his appearance suggested.

"They didn't come here to win a fight."

His voice emerged flat, stripped of characteristic humor.

"They came here to collect something, and those masked bastards didn't even pretend otherwise at the end."

He gestured at the pulsing circles with his rake.

"All this? The assault, the transformations, drawing our attention with combat... It was just noise. Cover for whatever they actually accomplished while we focused on winning."

Sha Wujing nodded slowly.

"A harvest, Number 1 called it. Not metaphorical. Literal collection of... something. Souls? Despair? Corrupted essence accumulated through suffering?"

"Does it matter?"

Sun Wukong's voice carried uncharacteristic bitterness.

"Whatever they took, we can't get it back. Whatever ritual this powered, it's already complete. We won the battle and lost the war in the same breath."

He slammed his staff into volcanic rock with enough force to crater stone.

"And they knew. Knew we'd show up eventually. Planned for it. Used our response as part of their timing."

The legendary trickster stared at ritual circles still pulsing with accumulated despair.

"We got played."

The admission tasted worse than any defeat.

Silence settled across the sanctuary.

Heavy. Oppressive.

The kind that came when victory revealed itself as strategic defeat, when winning fights meant nothing if enemies accomplished their actual objectives regardless.

Somewhere in the distance, more portals were probably opening.

More sanctuaries being harvested while defenders chased shadows and won hollow battles that accomplished nothing except making cultists' jobs easier through predictable responses.

Sun Wukong's expression hardened.

"We need to warn everyone. Now. Before these masked bastards finish whatever continent-wide ritual they're building with stolen souls."

But even as tactical planning kicked in, the haunting image remained:

Ritual circles pulsing with accumulated suffering.

Transformed civilians trapped between life and death.

"Those cultist bastards truly have no moral bounds."

***

A/N: Heads up! After this chapter, I'll be back to uploading 1 chapter per day since there's an upcoming agenda this week that I need to personaly attend to, and the 2 chapters per days is draining my creative brain juice so far... For those how are looking forward for more chapters, I'm really sorry! I'll update once everything has settled and stabilize! Thank you!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.