Tô Mạc Tà led the way, with Kim Giác Tử and Ngân Giác Tử following close behind.
This time, stepping through the door on the right did not return them to the eerie courtyard. Instead, the trio emerged into an ancient garden, silent and still.
To their right: a shriveled, desolate vegetable patch.
To their left: three wooden huts, each sealed shut.
At the center stood a stone table, and behind it, an old monk.
His body was black as obsidian, polished and seamless. Only his eyes and his faded robes shimmered faintly in the gloom. The glint of metal ran beneath his skin, lending him an unnatural sheen.
He was no man of flesh and bone, but a construct of stone and steel, shaped in the image of a monk.
Tô Mạc Tà kept her eyes on the figure and warned the gold and silver brothers behind her:
"Don't even think about waiting for sunrise. Gold Horn, you saw it yourself. This Thunderclap Pagoda can twist space into a closed loop. Why wouldn't it twist time as well?"
"Time... is harder to bend," Kim Giác Tử murmured, frowning.
"Exactly. You're welcome to gamble on it. I'm not."
With that, Tô Mạc Tà stepped forward, toward the motionless monk.
"Eight Monastic Precepts, next trial: Honesty," she said aloud.
The monk stirred. His head lifted slowly. Around his neck hung nine black prayer beads, each large as a fist. His voice creaked out like a rusted hinge; dull, cold, and mechanical:
"Speak. Tell the truth, and you may pass. Speak a lie, and punishment will follow."
Tô Mạc Tà glanced to the side.
"I need time to think. Is that permitted?"
"You have the time of one incense stick," the monk replied without inflection.
"My thanks."
She gave a formal nod.
She knew full well that courtesy wouldn't spare her from the pagoda's judgment, but disrespect would guarantee her death.
Ngân Giác Tử sneered.
"Let me go next. You need time for something this simple?"
He strode up, sat cross-legged before the monk, and declared:
"Monk, I'm sixty-seven years old. Tell me. Truth or lie?"
"Lie."
The monk bared a grin. His toothless mouth yawned open like a void, darker even than his iron-black skin.
Silver Horn didn't get another word in. The monk's fist shot out like lightning. A sickening crunch. His skull burst like a melon under a sledgehammer.
"You cheated!" Kim Giác Tử roared, but didn't budge.
Tô Mạc Tà flinched. The violence was too abrupt, too final, too real.
Gold Horn sent a thought-voice to her directly:
"Don't overthink this. You're sharper than both of us. We're not getting out without you. Let me and Silver Horn test the ground ahead."
Cultivators who had reached the master realm could project thoughts using chi. It wasn't foolproof, eavesdropping was still possible, but it was far more discreet than spoken words.
Tô Mạc Tà gave a faint nod.
"I wondered if the monk had mastered the Mind Reading Art from the Pagoda of Inner Peace," she murmured. "But clearly, he hasn't."
Gold Horn frowned. "What are you getting at?"
"This pagoda doesn't care about truth or lies. It just wants us dead. Whatever we say, it'll call it a lie. The judgment is absolute, there's no arguing with it."
Just then, the Silver Horn Taoist emerged from Gold Horn's shadow, reborn, his Immortal Body fully intact. He darted over, retrieved the clothes from his old corpse, and threw them on with a grunt.
Tô Mạc Tà chuckled softly.
"Immortal Bodies. How convenient."
Gold Horn stepped forward.
"My turn."
He seated himself, eyes locked with the monk.
"You're going to say I'm lying."
What he had just said reminded Tô Mạc Tà of a tale from Aparagodānī:
"An adept once offended an omniscient sage. The sage gave him a cruel choice:
'Speak once. If you lie, I'll pierce your heart. If you tell the truth, I'll take your head.'
So the adept said: 'You will pierce my heart.'
The sage was caught in a paradox and had to let him go."
Clearly, Gold Horn hoped to repeat that trick.
"Lie," said the monk.
And with one blow, shattered Kim Giác Tử's skull.
Tô Mạc Tà shrugged.
If that old story were real, this would've been its proper ending.
When someone holds absolute power and wants you dead, no clever riddle can save you.
Soon after, Gold Horn crawled out from Silver Horn's shadow, scowling. He sat down, sulking, and drew circles in the dirt.
Clearly, his pride had taken a hit.
Tô Mạc Tà thought to herself:
"They rely too much on those Immortal Bodies. Always charging in headfirst, never stopping to think. If they'd just remembered how I passed the Desire Precept… they might've seen the logic hidden beneath this madness."
The Pagoda of Inner Peace didn't reason. Didn't explain. Didn't operate by human logic.
It simply enforced the precepts.
When the village chief broke one, bronze monks had appeared in a blink. When those crimson skeletons violated the rules, the same brass executioners smashed them without hesitation.
Those monks weren't bound by any single precept. They enforced them all.
They crushed beings of bone and fire alike.
So...
Tô Mạc Tà stepped forward and calmly sat down across from the black-skinned monk.
"Master, my name is Tô Mạc Tà."
"Lie."
"LIE!" she shouted, slamming her finger toward the monk. "He broke the precepts! A monk must never lie!"
The monk stiffened.
Then, from the ground beneath him, a golden bell rose - clear as crystal - and sealed him inside. He struck its walls with fists of stone, but it was no use.
"Affirmed," intoned the voice of the Pagoda of Inner Peace.
The brass monks arrived.
Tô Mạc Tà had passed the trial of Honesty.
---the separator line visit a flower shop---
Village of Sickos
At the village gate, the chief sat cross-legged, half-asleep, gently releasing chi to keep the creeping darkness at bay.
Beside him stood the pubkeeper.
"Go to Phù Trúc. Bring the cripple back," the chief said evenly.
"You know that village's tainted all along?" the pubkeeper replied with a question of his own.
"I also know their bamboo came from the shrine at the heart of Star Fell Lake. We'll talk more when you return. Delay, and the cripple's finished, Nùng."
"You promised we'd leave the past buried, Brother Hồng Bàng. That includes the names."
Even so, the wine brewer rose to his feet.
Chi surged from his shoulders and hips, forming phantom limbs. Behind him bloomed a radiant wheel, shimmering with images of labor and harmony.
He stepped forward.
The darkness of the Dry Sea recoiled.
Monstrosities lurking within flinched, red eyes blazing, but none dared approach. Their gaze drifted to the drowsing village chief, and they withdrew even further.
The pubkeeper took one more step and arrived in Phù Trúc.
The village was already drowned in shadow.
In every alley, skeletons cloaked in night shambled to life. Darkness wove sinew onto bone, raising grotesque mockeries of the livings. Mindless, they repeated meaningless rituals:
One wove cloth on an invisible loom.
One flailed at a phantom buffalo.
One hacked at gravel with a rusted hoe.
Through it all, the cripple ran, clutching a charred piece of bamboo. Behind him loomed a towering shadow in his likeness: his younger self, straining to hold up the sky, as if bearing the full weight of the Dry Sea.
"Brother! Foster Father! Father-in-law! You actually came!"
He dropped to one knee, skidding through the dirt, and latched onto the brewer's waist.
"Dad, what took you so long? A minute in this wretched place felt like an hour you know!"
"Call me 'dad' again and I'll smack you."
"Aww, no need to be shy."
The cripple laughed, holding tight, showing no intention of letting go of the brewer. The owner of the village tavern sighed, took a step, and they reappeared at the Village of Sickos.
The chief was already waiting.
He led them to the edge of the village, where a vibrant bamboo grove flourished.
The cripple smacked his lips.
"Now that you mention it, Sick Boy collapsed right here about a month ago. Then the chief carried him to the village center."
He smirked:
"You wouldn't believe it. When I faked my death, the kid bawled his eyes out! Screamed 'cripple!' like his little heart was shattering. Good thing I'm a real pro. If it'd been Madame Mute, the one-armed guy, or the deaf one, they would've blown our cover."
He stroked his chin, proud.
"Clearly, I'm the one he's closest to. Tomorrow kid will learn that if he wants to survive, it's best to follow in my footsteps."
The chief chuckled.
"Enough bragging, cripple. Where's the bamboo from Phù Trúc?"
The cripple scoffed. "Chief, no offense, but why all this fuss over some bamboo? You could've just taken it yourself if it's that important."
The chief laughed.
"If we hadn't brought it back, how would our village have this beautiful grove?"
"No way! This grove's been here forever."
The cripple stared, wide-eyed.
Even the wine brewer was taken aback by the chief's mysterious smile.