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

The Pilgrim opens the encounter with a joke about trade. 燒窰, to fire a kiln, and 築煤, to work coal — the black armour reads to him as soot, and the fiend as a labourer. 一般 and 無二 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 the copular 為, wéi, "to be one's livelihood," not 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, a voice made sharp. 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 maternal grandsire," is one of the mock-kinship insults the Pilgrim favours: he claims the seniority of a relative he is not. 還 is the verb huán, to give 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 occurrences of 那 in one segment, two readings. 那寺裡 and 那裡失落 are interrogative nǎ, "which" and "where"; but the first 那怪 is demonstrative nà. They must be pinned by position.

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 maintained, the robe lying where it was put. 直北, straight to the north, fixes the geography of the chapter.

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. The Pilgrim omits, in his indictment, that the commotion was of his own making.

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 graph 不 is here cited as a graph, within single corner brackets, and its sandhi is nonetheless computed mechanically on the following 字 (fourth tone), giving bú. 牙迸: to have a word crack out 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 of minced pickle, the standard figure for utter pulverisation. 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: a rascally thing. The cold laugh is the fiend's first speech, and it turns the accusation round — the arsonist is accusing him of 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 pypinyin supplies háng, and it must be overridden. 招風, to summon 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 is interrogative nǎ; 那等, "of that sort, so," is demonstrative nà. 姓甚名誰 takes shén. 海口浪言, a mouth wide as the sea and words like waves.

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

認不得 is the negative potential, and 得 takes dé; contrast the plain 認得, which takes de. 哩 is the sentence-final particle, lī.

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.

The Pilgrim gives his full style, and it is a genealogy: the emperor, the imperial brother, the master, the disciple. He who has just claimed to be a grandsire places himself last 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 and the 魄 scatters, the two soul-classes of Chinese anthropology parting company. 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: I have never encountered you. The fiend asks to be told, and thereby licenses the four hundred and fifty graphs that follow.

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

站穩著 — the sentence-final modal 著, read zhe, neither continuous nor resultative. 我兒子, "my son," answers 老外公: the Pilgrim has now claimed two generations of seniority in as many minutes.