Chapter 3: The Road Trip West

Five hundred years later, I found out Derek also had to go fetch scriptures from the West.

This guy always had the Mayor’s ear, God of Justice, carrying the title of nephew, always quick to plan and advise. He said the West wanted to spread its teachings, Heaven wanted merit, the journey west was important, there would be many struggles. Nate had ties to the West, was unruly, better to send him there than keep him in Heaven.

The Mayor frowned. "Letting Nate and Marcus together—won’t that cause trouble?"

Derek said, "Don’t worry, Uncle. Send me along. I can keep them in line and guard against the West plotting against Heaven."

The Mayor remembered Derek’s years of good behavior, decisiveness in burning mountains, nodded slightly.

Back then, Derek split Fruit Mountain for his mother, made havoc in Heaven, killed nine Golden Eagles—all still vivid. But the Mayor understood: Derek was young then. People make mistakes when they’re young.

Now, the Mayor was pleased, smiling at Derek. The Mayor’s smile was tight, all teeth, the kind you show at a family reunion when your cousin brings up politics. "You’ve grown up, willing to share my burdens. Excellent. As for your mother, I grieve too—she was my only sister. But she had an affair with a mortal, and the law is clear, so she was pressed under a mountain. You, regardless, split the mountain to save her... now you’re God of Justice, you should understand: Heaven’s dignity cannot be violated. Since you split the mountain, your mother couldn’t live. I could only have the Golden Eagles burn her..."

"Uncle, old matters need not be mentioned. I was young and rash, committed murder, protected by my sect. You showed mercy, that’s why I survived. I should serve Heaven."

"Good. But everyone going west has a crime. As God of Justice, what crime do you have?"

Derek thought, saluted: "Your Honor, forgive my offense."

Mayor: "..."

Derek’s third eye opened, instantly freezing the Mayor for a moment. The bells of Heaven rang out—the Mayor attacked, the array in the Grand Hall rose, ten thousand swords flying, aiming for Derek’s life.

Derek’s three-pointed, double-edged blade swept a glowing arc, walked through the sword array, black robe and white shirt all stained with blood.

He arrived before the Mayor.

The Mayor’s pupils widened, all his power surged, finally breaking Derek’s divine light.

With a thud, Derek knelt before the Mayor.

Blood splattered the Mayor, making his face twitch. You could almost hear the gasp from the bystanders—like folks witnessing a small-town scandal unfold at the town square.

Derek said, "Nephew offends Your Honor, please forgive me."

Outside, a clatter of footsteps, led by Mr. Jennings, all shouting to protect the throne. Under all the immortals’ gaze, the Mayor looked at Derek, feeling forced.

He had only two choices: really punish Derek, kill him, or send him on the road trip west.

After much thought, the Mayor decided not to lose an arm. His nephew had a calm madness, but in trouble, was indispensable against great demons and saints.

So with a wave, he sent Derek to Yuma Pass.

So when Pastor Tom was eating peaches, chanting scripture, passing Yuma Pass, he took his first disciple, Derek. Pastor Tom looked at Derek, Derek looked at Pastor Tom—one handsome as glass, spotless; one with sword brows and starry eyes, one pure as crystal. They looked like a strange new pair rolling up to a gas station in some dusty border town—both out of place, both unmistakably themselves.

Pastor Tom clicked his tongue, all his preacherly aura collapsing. "With your bearing, I won’t bother giving you a church nickname."

Derek smiled. "A church nickname is just a code, no need for another."

Pastor Tom gave a thumbs up. "I’ve noticed—these days, except for the bald monks of the West, everyone has wisdom roots."

Derek said, those who suffer most lack not wisdom roots.

Pastor Tom’s eyes lit up. "Your wisdom roots are seven or eight stories high."

Derek laughed. "Yeah, I’ve suffered so many years, grown my wisdom roots this high. Should be enough."

Later, at Five Elements Mountain, Pastor Tom rescued Marcus, who eyed Derek suspiciously, bouncing around, saying the title 'Eldest Brother' sounded familiar, should be his. Marcus couldn’t let it go—he wanted top billing, even in exile.

Meanwhile, I was in the River County jail for five hundred years, suffering swords through the heart every day, Mr. Jennings always watching, pretending to be a loving father, saying if you give in, the punishments stop.

I rolled my eyes, couldn’t be bothered.

Near the end of five hundred years, Sister Grace came to the river, reciting the script, going through the motions. I wasn’t playing along. As soon as Pastor Tom and company arrived, I burst out, covered in sword wounds, Red Ribbon flying wild. "Enough talk. Let’s just go."

Pastor Tom said, let’s at least have a fight, or we won’t have eighty-one tribulations.

I said, fine, I’ll fight you.

Pastor Tom snapped his copy of the Road Trip West shut. "As a preacher, I hate formalities most. Let’s go. Hurry to the West."

The four of us, all set.

Oh, and a horse—though I don’t know why, the horse shivers whenever it sees me. Poor thing, eyes rolling like it just saw a ghost in the barn.

Of course, on the way I noticed Marcus was different from us. Me and Derek had nothing on our heads, but Marcus still had a golden band.

I pointed at it. "What’s that?"

Marcus said, "Pastor Ray and Sister Grace made it. Carved with monkeys from Fruit Hill. When the preacher chants, it drills into my head, can’t be opened, can’t be removed, and comes with mental attacks—the cries of my monkeys ring again and again."

I understood. Isn’t this just a high-end version of dad’s heirloom?

I cackled. "Congrats. From now on, you’ve got your own band-dad."

Then the two of us looked at Derek.

Derek smiled too. "I don’t need a band or heirloom. I’m not like you. Your monkeys and mother are dead, nothing left. My brothers and dog are in Heaven—what need have I for a band or heirloom?"

I got it, laughed wickedly. "So these are the three ways to train a dog?"

Derek glanced at me, said nothing.

Marcus was sullen, nothing like the havoc-wreaker of old.

Hands in my pockets, walking between them, I felt something was off. "The three of us—there’s no one more rebellious in all Heaven and Earth. So why are we obediently fetching scripture? That’s not right. Why not have a fight? I’ve been locked up five hundred years. If I don’t fight, I feel awful."

"Fight and get locked up another five hundred years?"

"No. This time, fight to the death. Mr. Jennings and Reverend Burns must die, or I die."

"Then go."

I let out a long sigh, tilted my head at Marcus. "No choice. A real man repays kindness before revenge. I have to help this damn Marcus finish his business before I handle mine."

Marcus fell behind, didn’t answer, changed the subject. "Let the preacher carry the load and lead the horse himself—isn’t that improper?"

We three walked far ahead. Looking back, Pastor Tom was huffing and puffing, dragging the horse and bags. His suit was stained with dust, tie askew, the kind of sight that would get a kid grounded for a month in most households.

I blinked. "Such a big horse, why can’t it help the preacher?"

Marcus was silent for a moment. "That’s a dragon horse—a dragon. Doesn’t dare approach you. Walk a few more steps, preacher has to drag it."

I suddenly understood.

No problem. I turned and kept walking.