The Pilgrim laughed to himself and said, "This creature is the very image of a kiln-stoker, no different from a digger of coal.

He opens the encounter with a joke about trade. 燒窰 is firing a kiln and 築煤 is working coal: the black armour reads to him as soot, and its wearer as a labourer. 一般 and 無二, just like and no different, are the two halves of one comparison.

He must scrape charcoal hereabouts for a living. How else should he be black from head to heel?"

為生 takes 為 as the plain copula, wéi — to be one's livelihood — rather than the fourth-tone wèi of purpose. 刷炭 is to brush or scrape charcoal.

The fiend shouted in a harsh voice, "What manner of monk are you, that you make so bold on my ground?"

厲聲 is a voice sharpened to an edge. 甚麼 reads shén.

The Pilgrim gripped his iron rod, rushed up before him, and roared out, "No idle talk! Give back your old grandsire's cassock, and be quick about it."

大咤 — 咤, zhà, is a shout of rage. 老外公, your old grandfather on your mother's side, is one of the Pilgrim's favourite mock-kinship insults: he claims the seniority of a relative he is not. 還 is the verb huán, give it back.

The fiend said, "Which temple's monk are you? And where did you lose this cassock of yours, that you dare come here to claim it?"

Three instances of 那 in one line and two different readings, which have to be sorted out by position. 那寺裡, which temple, and 那裡失落, where did you lose it, are both asking: nǎ. But the 那怪 that opens the line is pointing: nà.

The Pilgrim said, "My cassock lay in the rear abbot's lodge of the Guanyin Temple, due north of here. Because a fire broke out in that temple,

放著 takes zhe: a state kept up, the robe lying where it was left. 直北, straight north, fixes the chapter's geography.

you took advantage of the uproar to plunder, stole it away, and would hold a Buddha-Robe Feast in honour of your birthday. How dare you deny it?

趁鬨 writes 趁哄, to take advantage of a commotion. What the Pilgrim leaves out of his indictment is that the commotion was his own doing.

Give it back at once and I will spare your life. But if so much as half the graph 'no' should crack between your teeth,

The character 不 is being quoted here as a character, inside single corner brackets — if half a 'no' cracks between your teeth. Its tone is still computed mechanically from the fourth-tone 字 that follows, giving bú. 牙迸 is to have a word crack out from between the teeth.

I will push Black Wind Mountain over, trample Black Wind Cave flat, and grind every fiend of this cave of yours to powder."

屣, xǐ, is a sandal, and as a verb to tread flat. 齏粉 is the powder that minced pickle is reduced to — the standard image for pulverising something completely. 碾為 takes the copular wéi.

Hearing this, the fiend laughed a cold laugh. "You insolent thing! So it was you who set that fire last night.

潑物 is a rascally thing. This cold laugh is the fiend's first line in the chapter, and it turns the accusation round on the accuser: the arsonist is charging him with looting a fire.

You worked your violence on the roof of that abbot's lodge and called up the wind, and I carried off a single cassock. What of it?

行兇 reads xíng — this is the one place in the chapter where the tempting misreading is háng, and it has to be set aside. 招風, calling up the wind, is exactly what the Pilgrim did in the last chapter, and the fiend knows it.

Where have you come from? What is your surname and what your name? What powers have you, that you dare talk so wide-mouthed and wild?"

Two 那 again, two readings. 那裡來的, where from, is asking: nǎ. 那等, of that sort, so very, is pointing: nà. 姓甚名誰 takes shén. 海口浪言 — a mouth as wide as the sea and words that come in waves.

The Pilgrim said, "So you cannot even know your old grandsire.

認不得 is a negative potential — the form that reports whether somebody can or cannot manage a thing — so here, cannot place you. Its 得 takes the full verb reading dé; contrast plain 認得, to know somebody by sight, where the same character is the light linking de. 哩 is the final particle, li.

Your old grandsire is disciple to Sanzang, Master of the Law, the imperial brother who stands before the throne of the Great Tang. My surname is Sun, my name Wukong, and I am called the Pilgrim.

He gives his full style, and it turns out to be a genealogy: emperor, imperial brother, master, disciple. The creature who has just been calling himself everyone's grandfather places himself fourth in a chain of four.

If you would ask after old Sun's arts, the mere telling of them would scatter your souls and lay you dead where you stand."

魂飛魄散 — the 魂 flies off and the 魄 scatters. Chinese anthropology gives a person two classes of soul, and this idiom has them parting company; it is still the ordinary way of saying somebody was scared out of their wits. 散 reads sàn.

The fiend said, "I have never met with you. What arts have you? Say them out, and I will hear."

我不曾會 means I have never run into you. The fiend asks to be told — and by asking, licenses the four hundred and fifty characters that are about to arrive.

The Pilgrim laughed. "My son, stand steady and listen with care. As for me:

站穩著 ends with 著 in its modal use, zhe, neither the continuous nor the resultative reading — stand steady, will you. And 我兒子, my boy, answers 老外公 from a moment ago: the Pilgrim has now claimed two generations of seniority inside two minutes.