The monks of Jinshan Temple are still debating one thing to this day: whether or not that child was truly the reincarnation of the Golden Cicada.
The debate originated on a certain early morning the year he turned five.
Morning chants had ended, and everyone had gone to eat. Only he remained on the back mountain, facing an old scholar tree, performing a set of movements no one had ever seen before. It wasn't martial arts, and it wasn't meditation. It was something strange, rhythmic, and looked entirely like he was fighting against himself.
The guest-prefect monk watched from afar, not daring to disturb him.
He didn't know that the set of movements was called "core training." Nor did he know that the five-year-old child was silently reciting Chapter 12 of the seventh edition of *Exercise Physiology* in his head.
***
I set a ten-year plan for myself.
Year one: lay the foundation.
A five-year-old body has a five-year-old's limitations. Bone density is insufficient, muscle fibers haven't developed. Forcing high-intensity training would only cause injury. I had read enough sports medicine literature to know what can and cannot be done at this age.
What could be done: flexibility training, proprioception training, lightweight core stabilization.
What could not be done: weight-bearing exercises, high-impact activities, anaerobic limit testing.
Every day after morning chants, I trained on the back mountain for an hour. On the surface, it was "cultivation," but in reality, I was laying the physical groundwork for this body.
The temple's meals were entirely carbohydrates. There was a severe protein deficiency. I secretly had pilgrims bring me eggs, claiming they were "offerings to the Buddha."
The Buddha probably wouldn't mind me eating them on his behalf.
***
The year I turned eight, I started practicing combat.
I didn't start with martial arts; I started with mechanics.
In the Sutra Pavilion, there were a few manuscripts left by warrior monks, logging the training methods of Jinshan Temple's past martial artists. They were very detailed, containing movement descriptions, training volumes, and points of caution. I compared this content against the modern combat theory in my memory, searching for the overlaps. Those overlapping parts were the effective movements validated by the passage of time.
Then I merged the two systems, deleting the redundancies and keeping the core.
The result was a system even I couldn't put a name to, but it worked.
I sparred with a senior warrior monk from the temple. The first time, he went easy on me, and I lost. The second time, he got serious, and I still lost, but I made him break a sweat. The third time, he won, but something was off with his wrist, and he didn't show up for morning chants the next day.
I didn't challenge him again.
Not because I couldn't win, but because I didn't need to win.
What I needed was the persona of a "genius, but not a freak." Not a persona that made everyone feel in danger.
***
At age twelve, I measured my height.
One meter seventy-two.
Nearly a full head taller than my peers.
This wasn't an accident; it was part of the plan. The window for pre-pubescent skeletal development only lasts a few years. Once you miss it, you miss it. I did exactly what needed to be done within that window: sufficient protein, targeted stretching, adequate sleep, and rational weight-bearing training.
The old monks in the temple looked at me and said, "This child's physique is something only the reincarnation of the Golden Cicada could possess."
In my head, I thought: *No, it's because I read the relevant studies in 'Skeletal Development and Motor Intervention.'*
But I didn't say that out loud.
I simply lowered my head, pressed my palms together, and said, "Amitabha."
***
Munitions R&D began at age seven.
This sounds absurd, but it's the truth.
At seven, I found an abandoned meditation room on the back mountain. The lock had rusted shut, the windows were nailed down with wooden boards, and inside, there was the stale smell of age mixed with a scent I couldn't name. I spent three days cleaning it out, and then I turned it into my laboratory.
Sourcing materials was a problem.
Sulfur and saltpeter were used in the temple to make incense. I gained access to both under the guise of "assisting with incense making." Charcoal goes without saying; it was everywhere.
For my first experiment, I got the ratios wrong. The explosion startled the flocks of birds on the back mountain. I lay flat on the ground, my ears ringing for a full hour.
There were no rubber gloves.
That was the biggest difficulty in doing military-industrial R&D in the Tang Dynasty. Not the materials, but the protective gear.
I had already blown myself up three times.
After the third time, I cursed myself out internally, then re-simulated the safety operation protocols from scratch. I made a crude pair of protective gloves out of thick cloth and leather, replaced glass containers with ceramic pots, and used long bamboo poles instead of direct handling.
I didn't blow myself up again after that.
***
At age nine, I started researching pharmaceuticals.
The Sutra Pavilion of Jinshan Temple held a few classic botanical texts, recording the medicinal properties of hundreds of plants. I compared this content against the modern pharmacology knowledge in my memory and found that the ancients' understanding of the medicines' effects was correct, but their explanation of the mechanisms was wrong. They knew a certain herb could induce sleep, but they didn't know it was because a specific alkaloid within it acted on neural receptors.
If you know the mechanism, you can optimize the formula.
I spent two years creating three things: an anesthetic, an antidote, and something that could briefly elevate focus during extreme fatigue.
I tested the last one on myself once.
The effect was excellent, but the side effect was a splitting headache that lasted a full day.
I made a mental note: *Do not use unless absolutely necessary.*
***
At age eleven, I started researching mechanics.
Without electricity, everything goes back to mechanics.
Fortunately, mechanics was my original profession.
The principle of a crossbow is the conversion of elastic potential energy into kinetic energy. Based on existing crossbow models, I improved the material of the string and the curvature of the bow arms. The range increased by roughly thirty percent, and the accuracy increased by even more.
Trap mechanisms rely on levers and triggers. I set up three layers at the entrance to my secret cave on the back mountain. Anyone who entered without knowing the disarm sequence would first trigger a noise alarm, then a tripwire, and finally a mechanism designed to knock them off their feet.
It wouldn't cause severe injury, but it would give me enough time to run.
I also made a simple timer using the hourglass principle. The margin of error was within fifteen minutes.
In an era without precision timekeeping tools, a fifteen-minute margin of error was a luxury item.
***
At age thirteen, I started making a monk's staff.
This was the most important project, and the one that took the most time.
I wanted a weapon that could be used in public without drawing suspicion, but could exert functions far beyond its appearance when needed.
A monk's staff was the most suitable choice.
An ordinary monk's staff, brass-capped, wooden body, about ten feet long — standard issue for the temple's warrior monks. No one would find it strange for a monk to carry one.
I spent two years modifying this staff into a multi-functional apparatus.
The shaft was hollow, the inner walls specially treated to withstand a certain amount of air pressure. There was a hidden latch in the middle of the shaft; once unscrewed, the staff split into two sections, revealing a metal chamber between them capable of housing specific calibers of ammunition.
The head of the staff had a detachable brass cap. Inside the brass cap was a firing mechanism driven by a spring.
The overall technological content of that structure was enough for the people of this era to study for three hundred years.
I thought to myself: *The Tang Seng in the original story was pale, clean, and frail, and could only yell 'Wukong, save me!' when caught by demons. Me? I choose to be able to run and fight for myself.*
Just in case my disciples were unreliable, I could at least run away on my own.
This is called risk hedging.
***
The year I turned six, I finished memorizing every single Buddhist sutra in Jinshan Temple's Sutra Pavilion.
Not because I believed in Buddhism, but because I needed the persona.
There was already a portion of sutra content in the original body's memory. Combined with my own mnemonic techniques, filling in the rest wasn't hard. I used the "Memory Palace" method, assigning every passage of scripture to a specific spatial location, and directly "walking in and taking it" when needed.
Jinshan Temple was in an uproar.
The abbot called me in and asked how I had memorized them.
I said, "This monk simply remembered."
The abbot looked at me, stayed silent for a long time, and then said, "The reincarnation of the Golden Cicada is extraordinary indeed."
I lowered my head, pressed my palms together, and said, "Amitabha."
Internal thought: *This persona is too damn useful.*
***
At age eight, I won my first dharma debate.
The opponent was an eminent monk from Yangzhou, quite renowned in Buddhist circles, who had come to Jinshan Temple to give a lecture. Hearing that the temple had an eight-year-old prodigy, he felt the urge to test me. After the lecture, he called me over and asked a few doctrinal questions.
The questions themselves weren't difficult, but there was a trap in the way he asked them. He was using a predetermined logical framework to guide me. If I answered according to his framework, I would fall into a self-contradictory position.
I used logic to deconstruct his framework, and then used his own arguments to refute him.
He stared blankly for a long time.
Then he smiled and said, "This child is extraordinary."
I thought to myself: *Debating scripture with ancient eminent monks is like playing chess with elementary schoolers. They take it very seriously, and I feel guilty.*
But I didn't say that out loud.
I simply lowered my head, pressed my palms together, and said, "The eminent monk overpraises. This monk merely understands a little logic."
He didn't understand the word "logic," but he didn't ask.
He probably thought it was some kind of Buddhist terminology.
***
The year I turned twelve, I foretold a flood.
It wasn't a real prophecy; it was meteorology.
That summer, I observed the changes in cloud formations, wind direction, temperature, and precipitation for three consecutive months. I calculated that a certain section of the upper riverbed would burst its banks during the rainy season due to water overload, impacting three counties downstream.
I told the abbot my judgment. The abbot was half-skeptical, but he still sent someone to notify the local magistrate.
The local magistrate was even more skeptical, but he still made some preparations.
The flood came. It arrived two days later than I predicted, and the scale was slightly smaller than I predicted, but it did come.
Because they were prepared, casualties were significantly lower than in previous years.
The news spread: "Master Xuanzang Prophesied the Flood."
I thought to myself: *This isn't prophecy; this is meteorology. But the word 'meteorology' has no meaning in this era. 'Prophecy' does.*
So, I accepted the narrative of the "prophecy."
***
At fourteen, I went to Chang'an.
Not setting off officially, but to attend a Buddhist assembly.
The assembly was held in a royal temple. Eminent monks from all over the country came, roughly thirty or forty of them, every single one highly renowned in their respective regions.
I was the youngest, and the only one without any official temple endorsement.
I came under the name "Xuanzang of Jinshan Temple," but Jinshan Temple's standing in Buddhist circles wasn't high. No one took me seriously.
The assembly's main topic was debating the interpretation of a certain scripture. The eminent monks from all sides held their own views, arguing for half a day without reaching a conclusion.
I waited until the third day, after everyone had said just about everything they could, and then spoke up.
I spent about fifteen minutes breaking down everyone's arguments, finding the logical loopholes in each one, and then proposed a new interpretive framework that incorporated all their points and dissolved the contradictions.
The venue was quiet for a long time.
Then someone asked, "Little Master, from whom do you learn?"
"Jinshan Temple."
"Jinshan Temple..." The person thought for a moment. "I haven't heard of them having such an eminent monk."
"This monk's master is Abbot Huiyuan," I said. "But I thought of these things myself."
Another stretch of silence.
Then someone said, "This child is extraordinary."
***
At fifteen, Master passed away.
Master Huiyuan reached nirvana in the winter of the year I turned fifteen. He went very peacefully, in his sleep.
Before he died, he called me to his bedside and spoke at length. Most of it was about the dharma, about compassion, about all living beings.
Finally, he said, "Xuanzang, you must leave this place."
I held his hand and said nothing.
His hand was very cold, but it still had strength.
"You do not belong here," he said. "You belong in a wider world."
I didn't know what he meant by "a wider world." Did he mean the Western Heaven, the world at large, or something else?
But I knew he genuinely cared for me.
In these ten years, he was the only person who genuinely cared for me. Not because I was "the reincarnation of the Golden Cicada," not because I was useful, but because he saw me as a child.
I sat by his bed for a long time, until his hand turned entirely cold.
Then I stood up, walked out, and closed the door behind me.
***
The day I left Jinshan Temple, I packed up everything in the secret cave on the back mountain into an ordinary rucksack.
Gunpowder, distributed into ten ceramic pots, each labeled "Spices."
Medicines, distributed into twenty small porcelain bottles, each labeled "Herbs."
The monk's staff was just a monk's staff. No disguise, because it inherently *was* a monk's staff.
Plus some mechanical components, some tools, and some things I felt might be useful.
The rucksack was heavy, but I could carry it.
Ten years of training was all for this moment.
I stood at the temple gates for a while, looking back at Jinshan Temple one last time.
The bell for morning chants had just rung. The monks in the temple were beginning a new day.
They didn't know where I was going, nor did they know what I was going to do.
They only knew that Master Xuanzang was going to Chang'an to propagate the dharma.
I turned around and walked toward Chang'an.
Internal thought: *Ten years of preparation is enough. Now, it's time for this world to meet me.*
***
According to the original novel, I was about to be captured by demons roughly... eighty-one times?
And on average, every time I'm caught, I have to yell, "Wukong, save me!"?
I'm sorry, I've rewritten this script.
But rewriting the script requires a prerequisite — I first need to figure out exactly what tier of existence the gods and Buddhas in this world are.
Demons are real. I've already confirmed that.
What about the gods and Buddhas?
If the existence of demons is real, then the existence of gods and Buddhas is real.
If the existence of gods and Buddhas is real, then their abilities are also real.
Then why are they pushing for this scripture-seeking journey?
The answer the original novel gave was "to propagate the dharma and save all living beings."
But I am a physicist. I don't believe in any action devoid of a profit motive.
The gods and Buddhas pushing for the journey must have their reasons.
And that reason isn't necessarily the one written in the original book.
***
Three months later, I was already a famous master in Chang'an.
Not through connections, but through debating scripture, solving dilemmas, and curing illnesses.
Curing illnesses was a bit of a surprise to me. I used basic medical knowledge, which, in this era, produced effects bordering on miraculous.
A child from a powerful noble family had been diagnosed as "possessed by evil spirits." Several eminent monks had been invited to perform rituals, to no avail. I took one look and diagnosed lead poisoning, caused by the family's tableware. I had them swap the tableware and prescribed a detoxifying formula. The child recovered three months later.
"Master Xuanzang's medical skills are divine."
I thought to myself: *It's not medical skill; it's toxicology.*
But I didn't say that out loud.
***
Five years later, someone came from the palace.
"His Majesty invites Master Xuanzang to enter the palace for counsel."
I looked at the eunuch delivering the edict, running through the original novel's timeline in my head.
It was here.
According to the original story, this should be the scripture-seeking quest. Li Shimin was about to dangle a carrot in front of me.
I adjusted my kasaya robes and followed the eunuch into the palace.
Internal thought: *However, this time, I might not be the one eating the carrot.*